I’ve always thought of myself as a patient individual. One who allows nature to take its course. Who trusts divine intervention when it comes to karma.
Well, I was wrong.
The wait in this courtroom is excruciatingly long, testing every ounce of patience I have. Which clearly is none. And, I’ve completely justified my boyfriend—I guess that’s what I’m calling him now—to take matters into his own hands, condoning it. In fact, I encouraged it.
But that acceptance is easy when I witness first-hand what the justice system is like.
It’s the assistant district attorney and defendant being directly related to each other. Seeing that attorney shake hands with every member of law enforcement that passes by, knowing all their names and everyone in their family.
The same attorney who plays golf with the sheriff on Saturdays and drinks with the judge on Fridays.
The justice system that allows a rapist who attempted murder an undeserved appeal, attempting to go under the radar and let him free without telling the families he’s affected.
So, at this moment, I don’t believe in the justice of divine intervention. But, I do believe in protecting myself, and other innocent women, and that’s exactly what Seamus is doing for me.
The minutes tick by and I find myself glancing down at my watch, checking my phone while my knee bounces uncontrollably.
“Stop fidgeting,” Rocco whispers without moving his mouth.
He’s right, but I’m losing my mind.
“How are you not worried right now?” I whisper back.
“I am,” he says calmly, although his body is a lot more tense than when we walked in and the tip of his finger is tapping on his thigh.
I look down at my watch again, forgetting what time we even walked in. I can’t even tell you how long they’ve been gone, because I don’t even know when they really started. I just know we went our separate ways, at some point an hour ago, maybe two.
Suddenly, the sound of heels on the ground and a synchronized whoosh fills the air as the entire room stands up.
“All rise. Judge Morrow presiding,” the bailiff’s deep voice announces throughout the room.
Everyone stays standing until the judge sits and says, “You may be seated,” as he puts his glasses over the bridge of his nose.
He skims the room and pauses abruptly when he sees me. There is a squint in his eye as he peers over to Nathan’s attorney, back to me, then down at the file on his desk.
He’s still and quiet for what feels like a lifetime. Lifting his eyes above the top of his glasses, looking at the courtroom, me, then back down. Repeating that numerous times.
“We’re here today, in the presence of the parole board on behalf of the State of Texas, to discuss the provisional release of Nathan Simmons. Before we bring in the prisoner, does anyonehave anything they would like to say?” He looks up and around the room.
Pressing into my feet, I stand. The wooden bench creaks behind me and everyone’s neck swivels toward me in matched movement.
“I would like a moment to address the parole board, your honor,” I announce, my voice strong, confident.
Rocco, still looking forward, gives away a proud, lopsided smirk, but it drops quickly when the judge replies.
“And you are?” His condescending voice echoes through the room.
I stand to my full height, lifting my chin even higher.
“I am Naomi Masumi, rape victim of Nathan Simmons.” The words I’ve never been able to admit, say, or claim verbally, come out as a proud statement. Because I’m a survivor and I will no longer live in fear of hiding my voice or being ashamed of that title.
Whispered voices rise in the courtroom as the parole board members glance at each other.
Nathan’s mother sits forward, tapping the attorney on the shoulder. She whispers something to him as she glares at me.
“All quiet down!” the judge booms through the courtroom.
Taking his glasses off and giving me a once over, he places the spectacles back on his face and nods at the bailiff.
