Keegan
I can’t stop staring at the families.
There are about twenty of them, sitting on the other side of the courtroom.
One woman keeps turning around to stare at me. I think I know who she is: Cunny’s mom.
She’s got reddish hair and the kind of freckled, satiny skin that ages early. She looks just like her son. Blue once showed me a picture of him.
I’m trying to keep my eyes forward, but they keep sliding over to study the family members, young and old. They must be parents, siblings, grandparents.
About as often as I’m glancing at them, they’re turning to look at us. At me. At Virginia, sitting on one side of me, and Blue’s mother, sitting on the other.
Maria’s even more uncomfortable being around the families of the men in Blue’s unit who died than I am.
“I just wish I could speak to them a moment,” she whispers to me. “I just want to tell them how sorry I am.”
“Probably not a good idea.” It’s Bryson responding to that from Maria’s other side.
Several family members are pointing at us, and Maria recoils against the chair.
Bryson puts his arm across her shoulder to comfort her. I’d noticed earlier, when we first entered the courtroom, he had his hand on her elbow, guiding her to her seat.
Blue and Holmlund are at the defense table, having a quiet, but apparently intense conversation.
Blue, his face strained, keeps glancing back, at me and his mom, at the families, and at the rows of uniformed personnel that fill most of the other seats.
Holmlund says something else to him, and Blue faces forward, spreading his hands flat on the table.
There are quite a few media people in the courtroom as well, all wearing these large plastic badges with PRESS printed on them in huge letters.
I’ve been so conflicted about the press since this whole thing with Blue started. I mean, it’s my chosen career and my passion—to cover the news, follow a story wherever it leads, seek the truth and then shine a bright light on it.
But being on the other side of that light has been eye-opening, to say the least.
The military judge enters the courtroom, and we all stand up.
* * *
I slam the stall door and lean against it, covering my mouth with my hand. I’m afraid I’m going to start vomiting.
There are two other women in here. They’d been washing their hands when I careened into the bathroom as soon as the judge called a break in the proceedings.
I can hear paper towels being yanked out of dispensers mixed in with the women’s conversation.
Every sound seems amplified in my brain.
My forehead’s still touching the stall door; my fingers are still pressed against my lips.
Hurry up and get the hell out of here.
The women finally leave, and my hand drops away from my mouth, but I still feel nauseous. I look up at the ceiling and take a few deep breaths.
I’m reeling from what I’ve seen and heard so far.
The government’s case started with pictures of the dead servicemen. First, pictures of them alive, in uniform, with wide smiles, brimming with youth and strength. And then, pictures of their mangled, burned bodies.
It was horrible.
The families had been warned ahead of time, and a few of them chose to leave the courtroom. But most stayed, and I watched them take hold of each other, sit up straighter, obviously girding themselves for what was to come.
I saw Blue’s body grow still, his hands curling into fists on the table, his jaw muscles rigidly standing out on the side of his face.
But he didn’t look away from the pictures.
Holmlund’s hand rested for a moment on Blue’s arm, and I made myself focus on the lawyer’s large knuckles. I didn’t want to see the pictures anymore. I didn’t want to have to carry those images in my mind.
But then, when I heard stifled sobs from the family members, when I felt Maria begin to tremble beside me, I couldn’t help myself.
My eyes slid up and over toward the posterboard-sized photos that had been placed on easels—one for each man—in a semi-circle at the front of the courtroom.
Now, in the stall, I can still see those pictures.
I can’t imagine what it’s been like for Blue to carry the terrible images from that day around with him all this time and to feel responsible for them. No wonder he has nightmares.
I hear the squeak and whoosh of the bathroom door opening.
“Keegan?” It’s Virginia’s voice. “You okay?”
I pull open the stall door and look right at my grandmother. She shoots me her Put-Your- Big-Girl-Panties-On-and-Deal-With-It look, and reflexively, a juvenile flash of irritation rushes through me.
But then I feel grateful for the tough love. It’s exactly what I need. Maybe I’m finally growing up enough to appreciate it.
“Yeah," I say half-heartedly. "I’m fine."
I stick my hands under the water and rub them vigorously, even though I didn’t actually use the toilet.
Virginia’s applying lipstick, staring coolly at herself in the mirror. She has a bottle of water with her; she’s already finished about half of it.
She pops a cough drop in her mouth. She’s been coughing a lot lately.
“A lot of gray areas in this trial,” she says, deadpan, after clearing her throat.
“Yeah,” I sigh, drying my hands. “There’s a lot of gray areas.”
She holds open the door for me. “Let’s get back in there.”
~~~
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