The Last Alibi

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Judge Judith Bialek, from her bench overlooking the court, peers down over her glasses at the defense and prosecution. Until now she has been businesslike, efficient, carefully instructing the twelve jurors and three alternates as to their duties in this case. But this particular case gives her pause, as she is familiar with the parties and tries to emit some kind of acknowledgment of this fact: a grim smile, lips tucked in, a brief nod in the direction of the defense table.

“Please remember, above all,” she says, “that the defendant has pleaded not guilty, and he is presumed not guilty unless proven otherwise beyond a reasonable doubt.”

Everybody knows that, of course. You’ve only made it as far as Judge Bialek’s courtroom if you’ve uttered those two words: Not guilty. Not guilty by reason of insanity. Self-defense, maybe. But always Not guilty!

How many times I’ve stood in a courtroom like this one, the grand, ornate walnut molding and finishes, the overdone lighting, the walls practically bleeding with the fears and horrors they’ve absorbed during the seven decades that this building has stood. Not guilty are the only words the exhausted and terrified defendants utter prior to trial, but so many more lie just beneath the surface, at the backs of their throats, yearning to gush forth: I didn’t do it. I was set up. This is all a misunderstanding. It’s not like it seems. I’m not a criminal. Please, please, before this goes any further, just please hear me out!

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