Chapter Text
Jughead Jones owed his entire future to his devoted, loving, unwaveringly passionate and furiously stubborn wife. His life, once clouded in a thunderstorm of hopelessness, despair, and numbing emotional pain that filled him to the core of his soul... was no longer dark. There were fractals of light beyond the storm clouds, and tiny fragments of joy that gave him hope.
But that didn't mean life was going to be easy now...
.......
Six Years Ago
“We find the Defendant.... Guilty.”
The foreman of the jury had no emotion in his voice when he read the verdict. Jughead swayed for a moment, his brain spinning and his heart racing faster than a steam engine. There was a distraught cry from the gallery; Jughead knew without even needing to see for himself, that the cry had come from Betty.
He turned around in time to see that she’d leapt from her seat and was moving towards him. He didn’t give a damn about the bailiff, he didn’t give a damn about his lawyer furiously whispering at him to stay seated. He didn’t give a flying fuck about the Judge slamming his gavel and calling for order in the court.
To hell with the consequences; he was already screwed.
Betty’s hands reached his face and his own gripped the back of her waist. There was a literal wall between them, though the wooden barrier that separated him from his wife was only three feet tall—shorter than their youngest child.
His face crumbled as he lost all composure. Their foreheads pressed together as Betty cried aloud. Nothing would comfort her, and nothing would calm down the raging devastation Jughead felt.
The bailiff in the gallery grabbed at Betty, but Jughead pulled her closer, desperate to hold onto the last tendril of her warmth. But then another aggressive set of hands roughly ripped him away from her.
“No!” Betty screamed as the bailiffs tore them apart. “He’s innocent! You can’t do this!”
“Order!” The Judge growled, and slammed his gavel down upon his desk. “Mrs Jones, you will sit down or I will hold you in contempt!”
Betty cried harder and struggled even more against the bailiff.
“Don’t hurt her, please.” Jughead begged as he was dragged down to the floor. His face hit the tiles, but the resulting pain he felt was on the inside of his chest...
……
The New York Times Online: Celebrity and Entertainment News
YA Author Forsythe Pendleton Jones III found guilty of murdering FBI Agent
By Sheridan Ashdown
21st March, 2038
In heart-breaking scenes at the New York State Supreme Court, the wife of esteemed writer Forsythe Pendleton Jones III was dragged from the courtroom after the jury's reading of the guilty verdict.
Supporters of the 34 year old author are adamant that the verdict should have been ‘not guilty’. However, the DA released a statement assuring the public that justice was served.
“We are pleased with the Guilty Verdict,” said District Attorney Gearson in a press statement shortly after the conclusion of the trial. “The evidence was clear, and the jury saw right through Mr Jones’ pathetic attempt at confusing them. The fact of the matter is, Mr Jones is nothing more than a controlling, abusive, and exceedingly jealous man who murdered his wife’s lover, and even now, still exerts his coercive control over her. I have complete faith that the judge will uphold a sentence that keeps him from continuing to be a threat to the public. A killer is off the streets, and we should be grateful to the jury.”
Elizabeth Jones refused to respond to questions, but Defense Attorney Lachlan Peters asserted that they intend to appeal the verdict.
“There is absolutely no credible evidence that proves Glen Scot is dead.” He said in an impassioned statement to the press. “I am disgusted by this miscarriage of justice, and the targeted attack on my client by the prosecution. There was plenty of exculpatory evidence that was thrown out of discovery that would have acquitted my client. I am optimistic that the Court of Appeals will overturn the verdict.”
But Expert Legal Analyst Melinda Jensen isn’t convinced.
“You can’t bring in new evidence to the appellate court.” She explained to her two million live viewers, most of whom tuned in daily to the live-streamed court proceedings on YouTube. “Even if Forsythe is innocent, he’s going to have a hell of a time proving it based on the trial we just saw [...] I didn’t see any legal errors, but maybe there were some sidebar decisions that might shed light on his Attorney’s belief that he’ll be acquitted on appeal.”
Melinda Jensen plans to break down the court transcripts when they become available.
More on page 18.
……
Present Day
Jughead didn’t spend a lot of time out of his prison cell these days.
For one instance, it was often too dangerous—plenty of prisoners at Shankshaw State Prison were on the inside because of his wife. Jughead would never blame Betty for the threats against him, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t blame herself if he was shivved again, and Jughead didn't want to cause her any more pain. All the prisoners knew he was married to an ex-FBI Agent; three of these prisoners were the most prolific serial killers of their times. Sure, they were usually in solitary, but their piercing eyes followed Jughead whenever they all found themselves in general population. Repeats of those instances were something Jughead was keen to avoid.
Secondly, being out of his cell meant he was always surrounded by New York State’s most dangerous criminals. He didn’t want to be friends with these people. He didn’t want to build a rapport, or develop any level of trust with his fellow inmates. He’d already made that mistake once…
But the main reason, if he wasn’t lying to himself, that Jughead preferred to stay in his cell… was that he had no energy to leave his bed most days. There was no joy in the suffocating cage he lived in, no hope for the future when he could expect to be staring at the cracks on the concrete ceilings for the rest of his miserable life. No chance that he’d ever see his children again. No reason to reminisce about the amazing life he’d created with his beautiful wife… the wife he’d pushed away, pushed over the edge, and given every reason to hate him.
Jughead was certain of one thing: he was in a dark, dark place, and it had nothing to do with crappy lighting in his cell.
Remorse ate at him. Stress had gnawed away at his subconscious mind to the point that he barely even felt it anymore. His thoughts, and the terrible actions he’d taken against himself as a result of those thoughts, had landed him in a straight jacket more than once. He had nothing to live for, but the jail guards wouldn’t let him end it all. They wanted him to suffer for crimes of which they believed he was guilty. The State of New York were apparently determined to keep him alive for the next seventy or so years, and veil it under the bullshit perception of keeping him ‘protected’ in custody.
The only thing Jughead was actually 'guilty' of was destroying his family.
When he’d first arrived at Shankshaw, he’d kept a photo of his wife and kids hidden under his pillow. Every night he pulled it out and stared at it, longing for the day they’d all be reunited. He stole discarded chewing gum from the bottom side of a cafeteria table once in order to tack that photo up on the wall of his cell; his kids kept him from giving up, and the sight of their little faces smiling at him, forced him to shake off the doom-and-gloom of his situation. He would get out of this place, he would be vindicated, and he would live to see his kids graduate high school, go to prom, get married, have kids of their own…
That was back when he still had hope.
He lost his second appeal three years into his prison stay, and by then Jughead knew he was never getting out of Shankshaw. Maybe it was because of his ‘clinical depression’ as the prison psychiatrist would say, but Jughead couldn’t assign an exact moment he gave up hoping. Maybe it was when Betty wrote to him, telling him she was so sorry, but the latest alleged sighting of Glen Scot turned out to be unfounded. Jughead could see the smudges in the ink from where her tears had littered the paper…
Maybe he gave up when his oldest daughter started high school. Or when his youngest daughter started ballet lessons… or when his son had finally received an ‘A’ in English—and he wasn’t there for any of it.
But Jughead thought, possibly, that it was the obvious suffering his imprisonment caused his wife that really made him give up…
Jughead was spiraling through these thoughts again, staring at the empty wall where a photo of his family had once hung, when he was startled out of the void. ‘Frightened’ may have been a better word to describe the abrupt way he sat up and stared at the prison guard who was rattling the bars on his cell and spitting “Get up,” out of his pudgy lips. But Jughead rarely felt enough to even consider himself to be feeling something as intense as frightened.
Still, he was wary as he watched the jail bars slide open. Jughead eyed the guard. “What did I do now?” He asked flatly.
The guard ignored him. “I don’t got all day, Jones.” He muttered.
Jughead felt his muscles tightening and his jaw clenching, but he forced himself to stand up. His legs ached in protest of the movement, but he wouldn’t give the guard the satisfaction of seeing him as ‘weak’. It was never a good idea to let these guards see him that way…
Jughead was determined to remain silent as he followed the guard down the dimly lit hallway. Few prisoners were still in their cells; most were taking advantage of the sunlight he knew was beaming down on the prison yard. But there were still two men in their cells that sounded very much like they weren’t impressed with the fact they were still locked up for the brawl they had a week ago — if their shouts and jeers at the guard were anything to go by. And one other lost soul, who was possibly more depressed and hopeless than even Jughead, who only ever laid on the ground and hadn’t moved for a solid eight days. Jughead would believe the man was dead if it wasn’t for the deafening night terrors that rang throughout Block C…
An unusual feeling–perhaps curiosity–came over Jughead as he noted the guard was leading him to the interrogation rooms. “What’s going on?”
The guard shrugged. “Some lawyer wants to talk to you.”
An uneasy feeling settled into Jughead’s stomach. “Why?” He asked bluntly.
“Fucked if I know.” The guard grumbled. He stopped by the barred door and nodded to the guard on the other side, then turned and raised his eyebrows at Jughead. “I’m not gonna have any problems with you, am I?”
Jughead briefly looked down and caught sight of the cold steel of the shackles being passed through the bars. He felt nothing. “You’re good.” He muttered, then obediently raised his wrists...
Ten minutes later, Jughead was left alone in the interrogation room and felt anxiety looming inside him. He hoped that this ‘lawyer’ wasn’t someone from the Innocence Project again; he appreciated the work they’d done, and the brief comfort they’d clearly given Betty, but none of it had made a difference.
Jughead didn’t want to see the preppy, enthusiastic man who assured him there were legal errors, improper testimony, unfounded speculation, incompetent advice from counsel, and ‘irrefutable evidence’ that an appellate court couldn’t ignore. The last time Jughead had been in court with the Innocence Project, he’d watched that same man trying to console his wife as the Judge upheld Jughead’s conviction and Betty cried into her hands.
Jughead would rather die than watch Betty lose all hope and crumble into devastation like that again… not that the universe would let him.
But the lawyer who was escorted inside by the guard wasn’t one that Jughead recognised. She was younger than Jughead, maybe late twenties, with dreadlocks pulled into a ponytail and a shiny silver nose ring that stood out against her unblemished dark skin. She appeared friendly, but Jughead wasn’t in a friendly enough mood to return her kind smile.
The lawyer cleared her throat, sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the table, then turned her head back to stare down the guard. “You don’t need to stay. I’m in no fear for my safety.” She said it gently, but there was a spark, a ferocious bite to her voice that had Jughead raising his eyebrows.
The guard crossed his arms over his chest. “Can’t leave you alone with a convicted murderer, darl.” He gave Jughead a look that dared him to make a fuss. Jughead ignored it.
The woman looked annoyed, but quickly smoothed her expression and turned back to face Jughead. “Forsythe Jones, I hope?” She asked. Jughead stared at her, probably for too long, but she waited for him to nod before she clasped her hands together and leaned forward. “My name is Breonna Brown. I was retained as your attorney to represent you this afternoon.”
Jughead felt sick. And dizzy. And maybe a little dumbfounded. “Sorry?” Was all he could manage to force out.
Breonna pursed her lips, shook her head, and softened her voice. “Your wife hired me to represent you. I practise as a civil litigator, but I’m more than capable of handling a hearing like this, and it will benefit you in the long run if and when we move forward with lawsuits. And between you and me, I don’t think your wife trusts any other attorney to handle your case. Now, I’m well aware that you’re out of the loop here, but there’s been a major breakthrough in your case and you’re scheduled to appear before Judge Matherson…” she paused and looked down at her watch, “in, hmm, about three hours?” Her voice was still light as she smiled at him.
Jughead leaned back against the hard chair and stared at the wall behind his ‘attorney’ and sought out the sweet absence of feeling. “Heard that before.” He said curtly.
But Breonna was still nodding, seemingly undisturbed. Jughead saw it in his peripheral vision. “Yes, I’ve been informed that you lost both your appeals. But this hearing isn’t going to be like that.” She waited for a reaction from Jughead, but he was stiff and unwilling to meet her eyes. Breonna continued: “And yes, I’m sure you’ve heard that before too. I’ve had a chance to look over your criminal trial proceedings… When this is all over, you definitely have grounds to sue if you wish. But we can talk about that at a later date. For now I need to prep you for the Exoneration Hearing. Now, it’s important that you let me do the talking, because the State is going to ask you to sign a waiver that’ll prevent you from taking action against them for your wrongful conviction, so I don't want you to sign anything until I've read it first…”
Breonna’s words continued, but Jughead couldn’t make sense of them. He might’ve cut her off when he asked: “Did you say Exoneration Hearing?” because he’d stopped listening to her after that point.
She smiled, more genuinely this time. “You didn’t mishear me, sir. Glen Scot was located, very much alive, in Big Sur, California. He was arrested two days ago…”
At that, Jughead was frozen. Stunned.
Jughead was still stun-locked by the time he arrived in the courtroom. As always, he was being held in a courthouse jail cell, but for the first time in years, he didn’t feel completely dead on the inside.
But he was too afraid to hope, too afraid that somehow this would all be a misunderstanding. So he shutdown his emotions, and remained stoic as his cellmate assured him he ‘didn’t touch that bitch’ and prattled off on all the reasons why his estranged wife was going to regret taking him to court. Jughead gave him one word responses, but truthfully wasn’t paying much attention.
There was only one estranged wife Jughead held any concern about, and that was his own.
He was in a daze when the court bailiff opened the jail cell, ordered the mouthy ex-husband to get back against the wall, and then gestured to Jughead to follow him. The bailiff wasted no time in locking up the cell again, and Jughead prepared himself for the judgy looks he often got from guards.
But instead, the bailiff merely gave him a polite smile. “You ready for this?” He asked brightly.
Jughead swallowed and fell in step beside the bailiff. “Ahh…” he mumbled quietly, then cleared his throat. “I don’t know.”
The bailiff was obviously puzzled, but didn’t bother Jughead again. As they approached the courtroom, he paused and nodded to an older attorney that was lingering in the lobby, before pushing open the large wooden courtroom door. Jughead took note of the shaking woman standing beside the attorney, and felt a slither of pity for her. He certainly wouldn’t want to be facing off against her unhinged husband.
Jughead was surprised, when he made his way up through the rows of courtroom benches, to see how… full the courtroom was. There was no-one he recognised in attendance, but his heart couldn’t decide whether it was relieved or pained to note that fact. Irritatingly, he did notice the presence of reporters and journalists practically foaming at the mouth as they waited for him to join Attorney Brown at the Defendant’s bench.
She looked at ease when she greeted him, and happily informed him that the Judge was on her way. When Jughead took a look at the bench opposite him, he was unsurprised to see the angry look on whatever lawyer was there to protest his exoneration. But he held firm in his lack of feeling, even when the bailiff ordered them all to rise from their seats.
Judge Matherson was a woman who had to be no more than five years older than Jughead, with sleek black hair and a stern expression. “You can be seated.” She said curtly, then sat in unison with the rest of the courtroom. “Good afternoon everyone. The record should reflect that it is three fourth eight PM, twenty sixth of July, twenty forty four. The court so hears the matter of the State of New York vs Forsythe Jones. Attorney Lang, you may proceed.”
Jughead assumed correctly that Attorney Lang was the sour-faced lawyer sitting at the prosecution’s table. She stood up, cleared her throat, and read from a folder. “Your Honor, Attorney Wendy Lang with the New York District Attorney’s office. We hereby bring forth the motion for the Exoneration of the conviction of Murder in the First Degree against Forsythe Pendleton Jones the third.”
Jughead heard what he could only describe as excited scuffling from the reporters seated behind him, but that was drowned out by the sound of his own ears throbbing. He was in total disbelief, and found himself openly staring at the prosecutor.
The Judge responded clearly: “Do you have evidence you wish to bring forth?”
“We do, Your Honor. May I approach?” Attorney Lang asked curtly. She waited for the Judge’s permission, then Jughead’s eyes followed as she walked towards the Judge and handed over a sizable stack of paperwork. She practically stormed back to her place at the bench, then sat down and leaned towards the microphone. “If I could direct your attention to Exhibit A, the State presents a sworn affidavit from the District Attorney’s office in Big Sur, California. Lead prosecutor Mitchell Higgins has confirmed they have Glen Scot in custody. His mugshot is attached, as well as confirmation of his identification through fingerprint scanning.”
Jughead’s jaw dropped. He closed it slowly as the Judge asked a question he didn’t hear. When his mind cleared, Jughead held onto the Prosecutor’s every word.
“Glen Scot is being held without bail in Big Sur County Jail. Directing your attention to Exhibit B: records from the arraignment hearing of Glen Scot that took place yesterday afternoon. As of the eighth of June, twenty twenty four, Glen Scot is charged with eighteen counts of aggravated rape in the first degree, six counts of criminal obstruction of breathing, nine counts of aggravated sexual assault involving a minor, seven counts of felony torture, one count of felony identity fraud, three counts of felony kidnapping, eleven counts of menacing, one count of obstruction of justice, twelve counts of destruction of evidence, six counts of tax evasion, two counts of evading arrest, and two counts of felony murder in the first degree.”
Jughead slumped forward. All the breath left his lungs. He placed his shackled hands on the benchtop in an attempt to steady himself, but his mind was racing so fast he was sure he’d lost his grip on reality…
He didn’t get the chance to recover, however, because Attorney Lang kept talking. “Quite frankly, Your Honor, given the fact that Glen Scot is quite clearly not dead, the DA has lost confidence in Mr Jones’ murder conviction. We move to overturn the conviction and recommend his release from custody effective immediately.”
The Judge nodded and turned her raised eyebrows to Attorney Brown. “Any objection from the Defense?” She asked, a tinge of dark humor in her voice.
Before Breonna could respond, there was another voice that piped up in the courtroom.
“We have an objection, Your Honor.”
Jughead turned his head in a sharp motion that almost gave him whiplash. Jughead’s stomach sank further. Immediately, the slither of hope that he’d stupidly let himself feel shrivelled up. Despair washed over him, and he lost all pretense of remaining calm. He turned back towards the Judge and let his head drop into his shackled hands.
The voice had come from a stocky FBI Agent. Jughead recalled the man all too well. He’d been at every one of Jughead’s hearings, even the ones that weren’t even relevant to his desperate desire to be released.
This FBI Agent testified in Jughead’s murder trial, claiming that he was ‘well aware’ of Betty’s affair with Glen Scot and had cautioned the ‘couple’ numerous times for being inappropriate in the workplace. It was him who spearheaded the murder theory, him who’d kept Betty locked up for a whole week and ruined any chance she had of testifying on Jughead’s behalf. He had asserted Betty was likely to lie on her husband’s behalf and had her thrown off the witness list claiming she fabricated ‘wild’ accusations against Glen Scot and possibly conspired with Jughead to murder him.
The one saving grace was that a Grand Jury had refused to indict her, so this extremely hyper fixated FBI Agent couldn’t get Betty behind bars for life.
Unfortunately for Jughead, Special Agent Jennings merely fixated on him instead.
The FBI Agent took to the witness stand and made an assertion that while it was clear that Jughead was not guilty of ‘murder’, the Riverdale FBI Headquarters would be seeking his prosecution for attempted murder. “There is no good reason to release him today,” Jennings asserted, “because there will be new charges laid out within the week, and the FBI will be recommending that Forsythe Jones be held without bail pending trial.”
Jughead waited for the inevitable. The Judge would agree, and he’d be right back in Shankshaw before he could even say ‘justice’. The prosecutor was arguing with, or more accurately, questioning the FBI Agent, as was Breonna, but Jughead couldn’t bring himself to listen to it.
There was a long pause, and a frustrated noise of disgust from Breonna that Jughead barely heard.
And then the Judge said: “Thank you, Special Agent Jennings, you may step down.” There was more silence in the courtroom. And then the Judge asked: “Is the DA seeking to press charges against Mr Jones for attempted murder?”
“We are not, Your Honor.” Replied a frustrated Attorney Lang. It took several long moments for Jughead to find the courage to lift his head from his hands. “With all due respect, the FBI doesn’t have jurisdiction over this case. Given the mitigating circumstances, we won’t be proceeding with additional charges against Mr Jones.”
The Judge said: “Understood,” then shifted her attention to Jughead’s lawyer, “does the Defense have anything to add before I make my ruling?”
Breonna stood up, and with a defiant expression, addressed the Judge in an assertive voice. “Your Honor, we believe this conviction has been a significant injustice against Mr Jones. My client has been in prison for six years for a murder that not only did he not commit, but a murder that never took place. My client has never once changed his story. He has always asserted his innocence, has always maintained that Glen Scot left his house on the eve of November eighteen, twenty thirty seven, and has always asserted that he stabbed Mr Scot in order to prevent him from killing his wife and children.”
The silence in the courtroom was so deafening that Jughead’s ears buzzed with pressure.
“And instead of following up on leads," Breonna continued, "instead of putting a warrant out for Glen Scot’s arrest, the State of New York and the FBI chose to charge Mr Jones with first degree murder. There was no deceased body in this case, questionable crime scene evidence, and the State relied on an obviously fabricated recording of a 911 call from Glen Scot that was clearly intended to frame Mr Jones for murder in order to get revenge on Elizabeth Jones for reporting him for sexual harassment. And not only that, the court should note that certain members of the Riverdale FBI are currently under investigation for intimidating witnesses.” Jughead didn’t miss the look of pure hatred she shot towards Agent Jennings. “I would like to also note for the court, we will be pressing charges against Glen Scot, and I anticipate further charges will be laid on him by various other parties in New York. My client has been falsely convicted of murder, falsely accused of spousal abuse, falsely accused of sexual assault and battery, and his children have been deprived of their father for most of their lives. The Jones family has been torn apart because of the malicious actions of Glen Scot, and any attempt to further prosecute my client would not only be a grievous injustice, it would further victimize an already traumatized family. In fact, I have a victim impact statement from Mr Jones’ fifteen year old daughter that I would like to read for the record, if it so pleases the court.”
Jughead’s stomach, not for the first time that day, clenched hard. There was no movement from the reporters behind him, complete silence from the Prosecutor, and merely an expectant look from the Judge.
“I would be interested in hearing what Mr Jones’ daughter has to say about this.” The Judge said calmly.
Breonna lifted a handwritten letter from her folder, gave Jughead a brief look, then squared her shoulders… when she began to read, Jughead’s heart almost stopped:
“Your Honor,
I would like to begin my statement with a quote from To Kill a Mockingbird: “The one place where a man ought to get a square deal is in a courtroom, be he any color of the rainbow, but people have a way of carrying their resentments right into a jury box.”
These were words of warning from the late and great Harper Lee. As a child, my father explained this novel to me in great detail. He was an avid defender of this book against the belligerent parents and education officials that wanted it kept out of schools, and believed all children should learn of the despicable prejudices against African Americans that plagued our world. He spoke fondly of many authors, but there was a special interest in the theme of the justices and injustices described in this book that are still, despite years of warnings from the voices of artists and activists, present in our judicial system.
As a nine year old, my interest in To Kill a Mockingbird was limited only to the sentimental fact that my father named me after such literary greatness. I dreamed of the day that I could proudly tell my father that I had read one of his favorite books. I wondered what lessons I would learn from Harper Lee. I yearned to become closer to my father through sharing a love of reading and writing with him.
My father was my hero. He called me his little bookworm, and I was enveloped in the love he had for me and my siblings. I had a happy childhood filled with stories, and hugs, and encouragement, and the safety one can only get from having parents that put me and my siblings first.
Instead, I learned a different lesson: that the judicial system is as unjust and prejudicial as it always has been. My father, who has a juvenile record, never stood a chance against the rogue FBI Special Agent who attacked my mother while I hid with my siblings in the attic.
My mother did everything in her power to protect us. To keep us innocent. Only now, with the benefit of understanding the evil that lurked inside of those who swore to defend our liberty, do I realize the truth of what happened on the 18th November, 2037. Only now do I know that when our mother told us we were playing hide and seek, what she was really doing was shielding us from what she knew was about to happen to her.
My memory of November 18th, 2037, the night my parents were arrested, the night my family was forever torn apart, is vivid, vile and bleak. I remember the shouting, the screaming, the fear that something was terribly wrong. I remember Alaska crying for our father. I remember Hinton asking me if ‘that man is really Mommy’s friend’. I remember the gun shots. The sound of screeching tyres. I remember hiding my little brother and sister in an old toy box because I knew that sorry excuse for a ‘man’ was doing something awful that I didn’t understand.
I remember the look of sheer terror on my father’s face when he found us. I remember the bloodstains on his shirt. I remember that he, too, tried to protect us from the truth. He told us the blood was from a nosebleed. He told us that Mommy was okay. That Mommy was just upset and needed us to stay calm. He told us not to worry, that everything would be okay. And I believed him, because I knew my father would always protect me.
I remember his calm voice when he put us all to bed. But I also remember that I didn’t go to sleep. I remember the sounds of my mother crying, and I remember my confusion because I didn’t know why.
I remember listening as my father begged my mother to call the police.
I remember my mother telling him she was too scared of ‘him’.
I remember when the FBI came and took our parents away from us.
I remember my mother crying for months because my father was gone.
I remember when I was twelve and my father stopped responding to my letters.
I remember when I was thirteen and told my mother that I hated him for leaving us.
I remember every single documentary that told the world my father was a murderer.
I remember when I graduated middle school, and my heart broke even more because my father wasn’t there.
I remember when my father's suicide note was broadcasted on the news. I remember the RIVW reporting that it was all part of his ‘narcissistic agenda’. I remember my mother crying herself to sleep until he was out of prison hospital and back in restraints.
I remember wishing I had been there to tell him that I still believed he was innocent.
I remember every single moment of my life that I wanted my Dad. I remember every time the pain of losing him got too much to bear.
And I will always remember the fear in my mother’s voice when she told me that Glen Scot was found. Because even now, with the truth finally out there, with the chance that my father might get his life back, we are both terrified that the court will continue to keep an innocent man from his family.
I beg you, Your Honor, not to repeat the mistakes that Harper Lee warned us about. Don’t keep my father behind bars because of the prejudicial, malicious lies of the people who almost made us bury him.
Sincerely,
Harper Jones.”
Jughead only realized that tears were streaming down his face when Breonna took her seat beside him. He had to wipe them away to get his blurred vision back in focus. To his complete shock, he caught the Judge discreetly dabbing her eyes. It was surreal. It was unbelievable.
Harper’s words had cut Jughead deep. Years worth of shame and regret pooled up inside him. He covered his eyes, unable to stop feeling it all again. He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and resisted the urge to shake Breonna off and tell her that he didn’t deserve her comfort, not after the way he’d made his daughter feel…
"Anything you would like to add, Mr Jones?" The Judge asked. Jughead couldn't find his voice, could find the energy to uncover his eyes, and could barely contain the sobs that were threatening to unleash right there in front of the world. "Mr Jones?" The Judge prompted again, louder this time.
Jughead couldn't answer. Instead, he lowered his head down further and slowly shook it from side to side.
“I’ve come to my decision.” Judge Matherson said, her voice thick with emotion.
........
Cheers erupted in the courtroom, but all Jughead heard was the sound of blood rushing through his ears.