Page 78 of Hold Still

McKenna

I CROSS ANDre-cross my legs on the hard bench. Of their own volition, my fingers strum the beat to ‘Take Me.’ Air in the windowless room is stuffy and smells of stale cigarettes. The table on the dais has five chairs, each with a tag in front of it. The warden. The case worker. Other officials.

I close my eyes and try to still my rampant heartrate. This is the first parole hearing Matt’s been granted and the prosecutor told me it’s merely a formality. Inmates hardly ever get released the first time they’re eligible.

Considering Matt’s in for manslaughter, I can’t imagine he’ll be set free. But I came to be sure of it.

The prosecutor sitting at the table in front of me sets out his stuff—legal notepad, pens, a big folder with several files in it. This is going to be okay. All I have to do is tell my story and leave. I won’t have any interactions with Matt. If only he wasn’t going to be in here. I don’t want to see him ever again. The trial was enough.

A side door opens and Matt—wearing an orange jumpsuit but no handcuffs—shuffles into the room. I drop my head and refuse to look at him, even though his eyes burn into my skin. He doesn’t deserve to see me cower. Lifting my head, I focus on the table on the dais. In short order, people take their seats and the proceeding begins.

After a bit, I’m called to make my statement. Wishing Ozzy were here for moral support, I remind myself he’s not a part of this nightmare. I take a deep breath, stand and look at the prosecutor, who indicates I can speak from here since it’s not a courtroom.

Clearing my throat, I begin. “My name is McKenna James, and Harry James was my father. Matt—Mateo Lopez—killed him when he caught Matt beating me. Matt was mad because I refused to do what he wanted in order for him to score more drugs. Heroin, to be exact.”

My eyes drop to my feet. I can’t look at anyone as I dredge up the details of the worst day of my life.

Seeing as no one asks me any questions, I force myself to form words. I start with some background. “I met Matt when I was twenty-two. I had moved back here after graduating college, and we moved in together within a couple of months. At first, it was great. We went to parties and did things normal twenty-two-year-olds did. Soon, he started taking drugs and I”—I play with my hair—“I joined him. I worked for a graphic design firm at the time, so I’d go to work, come home, get stoned. Pot. That was my life. Matt worked as a handyman, so he worked odd hours and often was paid in cash.”

Wanting this to be over, I rush through the next part. “Unbeknownst to me, Matt started shooting heroin. He kept asking to ‘borrow’ money from me. When I didn’t have any to lend, he got upset. He hit me, but I kept it quiet, not wanting anyone to know things were going badly at home.” Besides, when he did that, he’d get me high and things evened out. Or so I thought.

I cross my arms. “It didn’t stop. After a really bad beating, I gave in and reached out for help. I called my father, who came over right away.”

Rubbing my arms, I will tears not to fall as I speak the last part. “When Daddy was helping me pack my things, Matt came home. He started yelling and throwing things, and he knocked me against the wall. I blacked out. When I came to, Matt was holding a knife to my father, telling him to stay out of our lives. My father stood up for me and Matt plunged the knife into him.” Turns out Daddy brought the knife from home as protection. While I was out cold, Matt must’ve gotten control of it from him.

I tell of screaming and rushing to his side, but omit my promise to take care of Mom. That’s no one else’s business. Tears flow.

Sucking in my breath, I continue. “Matt’s assertion of self-defense was rejected by the jury and he was sentenced to ten years for manslaughter. He’s only served five years of his sentence. He is a drug-addicted, cold-blooded murderer who never deserves to see the light of day. I do not believe jail has changed him at all. If anything, I can only imagine it’s made him worse. He’s never shown any remorse for killing my father, or for beating me.” I toss in the last part, even though what he did to me pales in comparison. “In fact, while my father lay dying, his only reaction was to tell me, ‘Look what you made me do.’ He’s a twisted, heartless monster, and he never deserves to be set free.”

One person on the panel, a woman, asks, “Have you visited Mr. Lopez while he’s been in jail?”

Is she fucking kidding? “No.”

She follows-up. “Have you communicated with him at all?”

“No.”

“Has he reached out to you since he’s been in here?”

“No.”

“Okay. Thank you for your testimony. You’re free to leave.”

I nod and collapse back onto the bench. I want to run far away from here, but need to hear what’s being said. I have to know he’ll stay behind bars for the entire length of his sentence. If not longer. Forever and a day wouldn’t be sufficient.

The prison guards testify about Matt’s time in jail. Apparently, he’s been a model inmate. So what? Doesn’t change what he did. The loss my heart feels every day only grows heavier.

The proceeding wraps up when the warden says they’ll take everything under advisement and render a decision soon. I wish they had said “denied,” but I guess I’ll have to wait for that bit of good news.

Together with a few others in the room, I stand and collect my things. Against my instincts, I lift my head and lock eyes with the man who changed my life forever.

Murderer.

The attorney for the prosecution touches my arm and brings me out of my head. He says, “Thanks for speaking up. I know how tough it was for you, but you did well. You were very brave.”

There’s that word again. I don’t feel very brave today. Ignoring Matt as he’s being escorted out of the room, I manage to utter, “Appreciate it.”

“I’ll be in touch with the decision when I receive it. Don’t worry, this was only his first time up for parole. I’d be surprised if they make any changes.”

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