The Fifth Circle (26 page)

From the moment I chose to take my memories back, to empower myself with my past instead of letting my past take power away from me, I discovered I’d changed the pattern of my life. Like ripples in a pond, each memory started at one catastrophic place in time, then spread out over the course of my life, pushing and distorting everything in its path. I threw a new stone into the pond; I created new ripples, stronger ripples
that overpowered the others, thus changing the surface of the pond. Sometimes ripples run deeper than the surface and create patterns that go beyond what the eye can see.

With evaluation and the changing of patterns, came hope for the future. I agreed to take my finals because I felt like I owed it to my teachers, not to myself. I had every intention of
walking out of Saint Edmunds High School, never to return to the halls of academia again. With my old patterns in place, my apathy draped over me like a shroud obscuring the light of hope for the future, I planned to drop out of life altogether. I would give birth to my child—the child of my father’s killer. I would rely on a combination of dead-end jobs and public assistance for survival, lock my mind away, and perhaps meet an abusive man to take up where my father and Sean left off. Were these my actual plans? Of course not. I couldn’t have been bothered to make actual plans, but this would have happened nonetheless because when you wait for life to happen to you, life takes control. Well, I’m here to tell you, I’m taking control of my life.

Today, the day of my Senior English final, is the day I’m changing
the pattern for my life and my pattern for the future. It would be easy to write a generic paper, collect my B for the class, and forget everything I’ve learned today. It would be easy—and comfortable. There’s comfort in consistency, and if there’s one thing in my life that’s been consistent, it’s been my die-hard adherence to a pattern of avoidance. I’m making a promise to myself: I’ll never forget the question scrawled across the dry erase board on the day I planned to end my education. The day of my Senior English final—the moment I sat down to write this paper—was the single most significant event of my life.

P.S. Mr., Chalmers,

I know why Dante chose to put
the wrathful and the sullen together in the Fifth circle of Hell. It’s because they followed the same pattern. Wrath created the ripples and the sullen chose to sink instead of swim. Is that right?

My eyes were dry when I handed in my paper. Mr. Chalmers looked at me for a moment, and then said, “Why don’t you go down to Mrs. Steven’s room and see if she’s finished grading your Psychology final? I’ll grade this while you’re gone.”

With feather-light steps, I floated down the hallway, my head held high. Mrs. Steven’s room was upstairs, so I jogged up the steps with a ghost of a smile forming at the corner of my lips. For once, I didn’t care what my grade was—not because I’d given up, or because I’d lost my ambition, but because my grades no longer defined me. I was more than
a letter grade or a percentage in red ink at the top of a paper. I was more than an abuse victim or the girlfriend of a murderer. More than a teenage pregnancy statistic. Only one thing stood between me and being all these things: action.

Chapter 26- Sean

Then sorrowed I, and sorrow now again

When I direct my mind to what I saw

(Canto XXVI, lines 19 & 20)

My lawyer hissed at me to be silent. “Stop complaining. Now, when the judge comes in, she’ll call everyone to order and she’ll read the docket. I have about twenty clients in here, and not all of them are incarcerated, so this isn’t all about you today.”

Bullshit. The courtroom was packed to capacity and everyone strained their necks to get a look at me. People pointed, whispered, one lady even took a picture with her cell phone, causing the bailiff to reprimand her.

Where were the reporters? I figured this would have been televised. I tried to scope out the spectators’ area without being too obvious. I couldn’t see my mom. Maybe she couldn’t get in. If my lawyer would just listen to me for a second, he’d know what I was trying to tell him was important. I needed him to the hallway outside to see if my mom was out there. Then, I needed him to make the bailiff find her a seat.

“If my mom’s out there…”

“She’s coming. I talked to her last night. She’ll be here.” Mr. Olive looked rushed. He kept glancing around the courtroom. With his short, spiky hair and cheap suit, he looked like a kid playing dress-up. He looked too young to be defending me from life in prison, or worse—the death penalty.

“What are all these people doing here?
My mom won’t even be able to get a seat. They should have some consideration …”

“Shut up.
Some of those people out there are family members of defendants, but others are defendants out on Bond. The judge is probably hearing about fifty cases today—not just yours.” He spun away and went to confer with a bald man with a crapload of tattoos on his forearms. With a few frantic gestures, Mr. Olive finally made his point. Light dawned in the dude’s eyes, and he rolled down the long sleeves of his white dress shirt, thus covering his body art. He must have been one of the defendants Mr. Olive was talking about.

This court appearance was just like my last one, but this time I was on the other side of the wooden divider separating lawyers from the clients and spectators. I was in the bullpen with the incarcerated. The last time I’d been here, I looked upon the orange-jump-suited dudes with pity. Now I was one of them.

I thought it would be different. I knew all those crime and punishment shows on television weren’t real, but I figured my case would at least resemble other highly publicized cases like the murder trials for Chris Coleman or Casey Anthony. When I fell asleep the night before, I envisioned television crews, the flashing bulbs of cameras, reporters holding microphones, and police trying to organize crowd control.

I’d envisioned my mother weeping, Alex entering the courtroom wearing sunglasses and a ball cap in an attempt to hide her identity from the press,
or her crazy aunt screaming and accusing me of killing such a fine, upstanding man.

Where was Alex? She wasn’t in school
. Yesterday was the last day. Besides, she wouldn’t have gone back after what had happened. Maybe her mom wouldn’t let her go, or maybe she wasn’t feeling well. I hoped something wasn’t wrong with her or the baby. I made a mental note to tell my mom to check on her from time to time. Someone had to take care of Alex, and with me locked up, the task would have to fall to my mom.

Chains rattled when I moved my feet. It was bad enough I had to be dragged into court in a jumpsuit—I was forced to endure the humiliation of being looped together with my criminal comrades in chain gang formation.

“This fucking sucks,” I muttered. The guy next to me snickered and I shot him a nasty look. He was just a simple assault case and the only reason he was even in court was because he didn’t have anyone to post Bond.

“Sean, dude, where’s your girl?”
Ty’Reese asked, craning his neck.

“I told my mom not to let her come,” I lied. If Alex didn’t come, I’d save face by telling everyone I’d forced her to stay home against her will. If she
did
come, I’d offer a few half-hearted complaints about disobedient girlfriends while basking in the secret joy of having her there.

“I thought you said you wanted to see her,” Ty pressed.

“Yeah, well, I changed my mind. A courthouse is no place for a pregnant woman.”

Where was she? Didn’t she care what happened to me? I did it all for her, and this was how she chose to repay me?

An eternity went by while I clanked my chains and glared at the clock. Nine-fifteen. Court was supposed to begin at nine. The judge must have thought she was hot shit just because she had a big, important job.

At last, she showed up and the bailiff called the session to order. Everyone stood up when he said, “All rise. The Honorable Judge
Castillo now presiding.”

Just like the last time
I’d been to court, all vestiges of formality flew away the moment she took her seat. The lawyers milled around, district attorneys mixing with the criminal defenders. Occasionally a lawyer would wander beyond the barrier to confer with a client or family member of a defendant. Attorneys on both sides approached the bench at will. When the bailiff began to read off the names of cases, the defendant was summoned to stand behind a podium. Rarely did the accused speak with the judge. All interaction occurred between high-priced, overpaid law school graduates and the woman who ran the whole show.

I sat ignored and unrecognized
—it was just like school. I looked up to see my mom enter the courtroom. She allowed the heavy door to ease shut behind her, then scampered to a row of seats and eased in quietly. Even from a distance I could tell her eyes were puffy and swollen.

Case after case was called before the judge. Petty theft, marijuana possession, hit-and-run drivers…I couldn’t believe I’d been lumped in with such insignificant defendants. On television, murderers had a trial of their own
. Under the big top of the courthouse, they were the stars of their own circus. Instead, I was stuck listening to meth-heads and crack-whores plead their pathetic cases.

Lunchtime came just two hours later and the judge, attorneys, and spectators drifted off to indulge their appetites while the incarcerated were
taken back to the tunnel that led from the courthouse to the jail.

“This is bullshit,” I said. “Seriously, the judge wasted so much fucking time, it was unbelievable. So, now what? We sit around and wait for her to quit stuffing her face?”

“Dude, what the fuck else you got to do?” Ty’Reese laughed. “Better get used to this, man. This is your life—waiting for nothing.”

I waited for nothing the whole rest of the day. Mine was one of the last cases called. My feet twitched when I heard my name, but all the chain-rattling in the world didn’t get me any closer to telling my side of the story to the judge. It was just like my assault case—the DA was still compiling evidence. They weren’t ready to plead their case. They asked for a continuance.

Mr. Olive spoke on my behalf. “Your Honor, the defendant is not a flight risk. He needs psychiatric care and access to medication. We asked that bond be set at ten-thousand dollars, ten percent.”

The bored-looking District Attorney smirked and asked the judge not to allow any bond at all.

“One-hundred thousand cash only,” Judge Castillo said, turning her attention to the next file in front of her.

J
ust like that, I was dismissed. My mom flashed me a watery smile of support right before I was led away. Back to my hole. Back to my life without Alex.

Where the hell
was
she?

Chapter 27
- Alex

That which before had pleased me then displeased me

And penitent and confessing I surrendered

(Canto XXVII, lines
82 & 83)

My steps slowed on my way back to Mr. Chalmers
’ classroom, my previous elation at changing my life already beginning to deflate. Making plans was easy. Following through was harder. I knew where I needed to go, but had no idea how to get there. Vague thoughts of college and independence drifted through my mind, but as always, everything seemed so hard.

Making the decision to go to college was simple, but all the steps leading up to actual enrollment were more difficult. By the time I turned down the hallway toward the Senior English classroom, I was already feeling overwhelmed. Empowerment was just a passing emotion, as it turned out.

Mr. Chalmers looked up when I walked in. His expression was guarded, unreadable. He looked old.

“You sat in my classroom every day for almost a year and I never knew what your life was like outside of this school,” he said, bending his head down to write something. “I
teach six classes a day. There are thirty students in each class. Over the course of my teaching career, I’ve taught hundreds of students. Over the past few years, I’ve barely noticed any of my students—they seem to blend together after a while.”

What should I say to that? I waited for him to continue.

“I think I’ll look at everyone a little differently next year. Maybe reading your essay will be one of the most significant moments of my teaching career,” he said. “I’ve given you an A.”

“Thank you, but I hope you didn’t grade me based on pity.”

“I would never do that. An A wouldn’t help fix your life—neither will writing an essay. Alex, you have to follow through. Don’t lose your momentum.”

It was too late. It had already
begun. I’d spent my entire life in the Fifth Circle of Hell, playing the part of the Sullen, pulled asunder by my own apathy, and held there by Wrath. Was seeing the truth enough of an incentive to make a change, or would it take more?