Justice Served

07 | I Looked Like Hell

Chapter Seven
Jayce Mirella

"You're making things much more harder on yourself than necessary, Ms. Mirella," the detective in front of me says as he leans back and adjusts his position in the chair he sits in.

I'm in an interrogation room, me—I'm in a fucking interrogation room. Never in my entire life did I imagine that I'd ever be in this room but especially not for two counts of murder. Everything felt like it was passing by in a blur. First I was in that large luxurious house gazing down at the scene of two people dead whom I've never seen in my life until that moment, then I was shoved roughly out of the house as the cop told me rights as his hands were firmly clasped onto the handcuffs that chained my hands behind my back.

Let's not forget how the people within the neighborhood all stood outside and watched the scene with looks of disgust and disapproval. I even saw that damned Leon step outside of his house with a woman who looked to be near his age, holding Blues daughter in her arms.

I saw the way Violet was balling her eyes out for whatever reason and that in itself ground my gears but seeing the smirk on that stupid, toe sucking Chucky look a like make me want to spit on that horrid face of his. That toe sucking insult was random but he just looked like the type of dude who sucked toes. 

The only thing that had kept me calm at the time despite the police lights that nearly blinded me and the amount of eyes that looked at me scornfully was the fact that Blue and her beat up car was no where in sight. The weight on my shoulders had lifted and I felt like I could breath again. I don't know where Blue is right now but I hope and pray to God—if he still fucks with me—that she did the smart thing and escaped when she had the chance.

She couldn't be associated with me, with any of this. The walk into the police car felt like forever and the feeling of blood on my hands continued to make me feel disgusting. The smell wafted up my nose, my brain engraved with the memory of their murdered forms. I would never forget the sight for as long as I lived but my trauma was the least of my worries, no sir, it was just the start.

Eventually, I was thrown into the police car like I was a sack of potatoes. These cops were already treating me like I was guilty so it isn't hard for me to imagine how tabloids and articles have already determined who's side they were on.

Me, a criminal who has already committed petty theft is suddenly the murderer of two wealthy individuals in a neighborhood where the crime rate is nearly zero to nothing. Let's forget that I am in fact a person of color. It doesn't get much better than that so what's the point of fighting the inevitable?

What's the point of voicing my opinion and telling these half wits the truth when my words will be twisted or thrown into the garbage like their expensive clothing after a simple months worth of wear? There is no point. Cases like mine were the same each and every single time so it's not hard nor is it difficult to assume that I will be convicted of a crime I didn't commit because of factors out of my own control.

A record number of people, at least 166, were exonerated in 2018 after being wrongly convicted of crimes, according to the most recent annual report from the National Registry of Exoneration'. Using information on exoneration's going back to 1989, the latest report also shows that black people continue to be more likely to be wrongly convicted in America than people of other races.

How do I know all of this? The real question is how don't you know about this. None of it is a shock, it isn't surprising, and it isn't unexpected. As depressing as it may appear, this is how the world works and it will work exactly like this for years to come because no matter how forward we're developing as a country, no matter how many years pass us by with micro changes, there will always be that misconception and presumption that will tie us—African Americans—in a leash that's wraps around our and drags us to the ground.