I Ain't Seen The Sunshine Since I Don't Know When
I had dreaded the day that I would have to go to court and testify against Nicky, but I had taken some solace that at least I would be out of the prison for awhile and would spend a few hours enjoying the spring scenery on the drive. But it was raining when I shuffled in my shackles across the sally port and into the back seat of a sheriff's car, and it continued to rain all day.
With nothing to occupy my mind except watching the trails of raindrops on the window, my thoughts kept going where I did not want them to go, to memories of the time I had spent with Nicky. I tried to put such thoughts out of my mine by concentrating on my testimony, going over what I thought they would ask me, and rehearsing answers in my head. But again and again, images of Nicky kept returning. One image in particular persisted, a memory of his sleeping face, a lock of his hair waving back and forth across his forehead in the breeze. He looked innocent, childlike, and I remembered gazing at him and wishing I could see him as a little boy, laughing and playing. I thought about that now, and felt regret that I had never told him that, and that it was not likely we would ever speak again.
We arrived at the courthouse and I was escorted into the same small security room from which I had left three months earlier. The deputy handed a clipboard to the bailiff, who signed the paperwork to take me into temporary custody of the court. I was struck by the irony that as a prisoner, so many more people were concerned about keeping track of me than had ever been the case in the outside world. The deputy removed my shackles and left. The bailiff looked at me for a moment, then reached into his pocket and handed me a comb.
"Maybe you ought to spruce up a little bit, dear." He led me down the hall to a small bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror and began to comb my damp hair. I stopped suddenly, when I realized that I had been thinking that I wanted to look nice for Nicky. I felt shame that he still had so much of an emotional hold on me, but at the same time, I understood that part of what I felt was sadness that this was probably going to be the last time we ever saw each other.
I finished up and the bailiff took me back to the security room. A short while later, there was a knock on the door, and he motioned for me to come with him. I had been called to the stand.
I entered the courtroom through the same door I had left it. The last thing I had seen then was my mother and my attorney, Sarah, watching me being taken away, and the first thing I saw upon entering was the two of them, sitting side by side in the spectators area. My mother smiled and gave me a quick wave. I tried to smile back, but couldn't. I was guided to the witness box and sworn in. When I sat down I raised my eyes to the defense table and saw Nicky.
I barely recognized him at first. His unruly tangle of dark hair had been cut short and neat. His denims and leathers were gone, replaced with a conservative suit coat and tie. His shining blue eyes had not changed though, and when they met mine, it was a struggle to break away from his gaze.
I had met with a deputy district attorney a week earlier to discuss my testimony, and Sarah had prepared me further. The prosecution would go easy on me, she explained, because they wanted to make Nicky look as bad as possible, and it served their purposes to portray me as his victim more than his accomplice. The defense, she warned me, would do whatever they could to make the jury see me as a slut, a junkie and a liar.
The prosecutor began with a series of routine questions to establish who I was and what my relationship had been with Nicky. I felt embarrassed when he asked my current residence and stumbled over the answer, but other than that, they were easy questions and I began to relax a little. I tried to avoid glancing over at Nicky, but could not help doing so now and then. Every time I did, he was looking not at me, but down at his hands on the table.
The questions turned to drugs. How long had I used them? How often? How did I get them? It became clear that Sarah was right, they wanted to create the impression that I was young and naive, befuddled by dope and easy prey for someone like Nicky.
They moved on to the events leading up to the murder. I couldn't look at Nicky now. At one point I looked to my mother and saw her weeping. She had never heard the whole story before. She hadn't wanted to listen when I tried to talk with her about what happened. I almost broke down myself seeing her cry, but I held it together and steeled myself for the increasingly painful questioning. But something was going on. Nicky and his attorney were having an animated whispered conversation. The judge rapped his gavel.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Burroughs?" he asked Nicky's attorney.
"If I may, your honor, I need just a moment to confer with my client."
The judge granted his request, and a minute or two later, the attorney addressed him again. "Your honor, may we approach the bench?"
I thought it was just some legal technicality and was a bit amused how much it all seemed just like an episode of Law and Order, but when the attorneys and the judge began conferring, I could tell from their bearings that the discussion was serious. After a few minutes the attorneys returned to their tables and the judge addressed the courtroom.
"We will recess for one hour." He looked at me. "Miss Bennett, you may step down, but you may be called back to the stand. The bailiff will escort you out."
As I stood up to leave the courtroom, I looked over to the defense table. The attorney was talking to Nicky while he gathered up his papers, but Nicky was looking straight at me. When our eyes met he placed his hand over his heart and then held out his open palm towards me. His blue eyes were filled with tears.
The bailiff took me back to the holding room. I asked him what was going on.
"Don't know," he replied, as he shut the door and left me alone. There was a stack of magazines on a side table. I looked through them, but as I had no plans to go fishing, plant a garden or redecorate my home anytime soon, I didn't pick one to read. I paced back and forth, replaying my testimony in my head. I shouldn't have said this, I wish I'd thought to add that. Finally the door opened, and the bailiff and the sheriff's deputy entered the room. The deputy was carrying the shackles.
"Alright, dear, time for you to head back," the bailiff said, as the deputy bent to cuff my ankles.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Change of plea," he replied.
"What does that mean?"
"Means he changed his plea, I reckon."
"He pled guilty?"
"Did he plead guilty before?"
"No."
"Well then?"
The deputy finished shackling me. He was rougher than he needed to be and seemed impatient.
