Page 2 of Release Me

“Brynn, sit.” My attorney snaps. I stop fiddling with the hem of my t-shirt and look around. Everyone is seated but me.

“Oh,” I mutter, sitting quickly.

“Bailiff, what is today’s case?” the Judge asks.

“Your honor, today’s case is the State of Massachusetts versus Ms. Brynn Holliday.”

The judge looks down at the case file on his bench for a few minutes before addressing the court.

“Would the defendant please rise?”

I stand up once again and look the Judge in the eye.

“Are you the defendant in this case?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“And can you please tell the court your name and age?”

“Brynn Holliday. 23.”

“You are charged with voluntary manslaughter in the murder ofMyloContreras. How do you plead?”

“Guilty, but not criminally responsible.”

Gasps ring out fromMylo’sfamily on the other side of the courtroom at my plea. I glance sideways at their section of the courtroom, but I don’t dare turn my head. I feel for them, I do. ButMylowasn’t completely innocent in this.

“The police report says you don’t remember what happened. Is thereanythingyou can recall?”

“I—I don’t really know. The last thing I remember is engaging in sexual intercourse withMylo.Then, it’s like I woke up from a dream, or a daydream or something, and he was lying still beneath me.”

“¡Mataste a `mi hijo, puta!” a woman cries out from the audience.

Following the outcry, there is an uproar from the crowd so loud it muffles the pounding knock of the judge’s gavel on the surface of his bench.

“Order. I will have order in my courtroom!” He beats his gavel harder on his bench as the crowd grows quiet. “If you can’t keep your composure throughout the remainder of these proceedings, I invite you to leave my courtroom.”

The judge scans everyone in the audience with a severity to his expression that scares me a little.

Shit, I’m a goner.

“Now,” he looks back at my file, “in the police report, a neighbor said they could hear you screaming at Mr. Contreras. You don’t remember that?”

He looks up at me and waits for my answer, but I don’t have one.

“Ms. Holliday, the court requires a verbal response from you to all questions. Do you or do you not remember screaming at Mr. Contreras?”

“No,sir. I do not,” I reply.

His eyes return to the report in his hands, and he reads from it directly.

“I was sitting in my living room, and all of a sudden I heard a woman shouting from the apartment next door. I thought she was being attacked, but as I listened a little longer, I realized she was angry. She kept screaming, ‘Do it! Just do it!’ Then, I heard Mr. Contreras shout back that he wasn't comfortable doing ‘it,’ and he didn’t want to hurt her. There was a brief period of silence followed by a terrified scream, and then I heard him shout, ‘What are you doing? No!’Then there was a loud crash. That’s when I called 911. While I was on the phone, I went out into the hallway to see if I could get into the apartment to help. I could hear a little better outside of the door, and what I heard next will haunt me forever. ‘Please stop! I can’t breathe! You’re killing me!’ I banged my fists on the door, I tried to ram it with my shoulder, but nothing worked. The police didn't take long to get there, and they were able to force the door open with a battering ram. When I looked into the apartment, I saw the woman straddlingMr. Contreras with a rope hanging from her right hand.”

He stops reading and fixes his stare back on me.

“Does that sound familiar to you? Does it trigger any memories?” he presses.

“Not really,” I admit with a frown.

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