I Took A Bent-Eared Rabbit To The Witness Chair

The rabbit rode to court in my coat pocket.

Its left ear had bent before the clay dried. I could have fixed it. My mother had always kept the animals with odd ears, so I had left it alone.

That morning, the ear fit beneath my thumb.

Nina met me near the elevators at the Marion County courthouse. Outside, wet leaves lay flat against the curb.

"You don't have to prove everything," she said.

"Only what I know."

"And it's fine to ask them to repeat a question."

Keene passed us with his lawyer. He looked at my coat pocket as if he knew I had brought something small to lean on.

I kept my hand there.

When the clerk called my name, I walked in without looking at him again.

The prosecutor asked what I did.

"I make ceramic urns."

"How long have you kept firing records?"

"Since my first kiln load."

He showed the invoice for K62, then my tile record, then the photographs.

I explained the code. Four urns shared it. The pale patch near one rim helped match the particular urn in Nora's office to my packing image.

"What was inside when you first photographed it?"

"Nothing."

"What happened next?"

"Perry Dace put an envelope and a route card inside. He asked for another picture."

"Did you see cash in the envelope?"

"No."

The answer sounded too small for the room. It was still the answer.

Then came the certificate.

"Did you sign it?"

"No."

Keene's lawyer stood for his questions.

"You accepted $7,680 from my client."

"For twenty-four urns."

"You were behind on rent."

"Yes."

"You owed thousands on your equipment."

"Yes."

My face grew hot. I let him see it.

"You've spent much of his money, haven't you?"

"I spent payment for work I delivered."

He asked about February fifth. He showed my paper calendar with the wrong pickup date.

I explained the slow cooling, the changed appointment, and the mistake I had failed to correct.

The prosecutor later showed the message moving pickup to February sixth. My original page remained beside the correction.

"Your records can be wrong," the defense lawyer said.

"Yes. That's why we checked more than one."

Nobody gasped. A juror moved a water cup. The clerk kept typing.

I had imagined standing up to Keene would feel larger. Mostly it felt like waiting until a question ended and choosing words I could stand behind.

When I stepped down, my shirt stuck between my shoulders.

The rabbit was still in my pocket.

I walked outside with Nina before going back in. Across the street, a bus lowered itself to the curb. People stepped off carrying lunch bags and wet umbrellas. An ordinary day was going on around the worst thing I had ever had to explain. I took three slow breaths and watched the bus pull away.

After I was released from further testimony, I was allowed to watch the rest of the trial.

Nora described the cash demands. Her sister confirmed bank visits and the fear of missed transport calls. The other owners had their own messages and payment photographs.

Perry testified under a plea agreement. The jury heard what he had admitted and what benefit he hoped to receive.

"I knew they weren't choosing to pay," he said. "I went back anyway."

His route book listed the collections. Dispatch messages put the crews at the stops. The owners' pictures showed the cash before the lids went on.

Dahlia explained where the money went after the vans returned.

She used a plain chart with dates and amounts. She separated deposits the audit could match from ones it could not.

The defense asked about the excluded entry.

"We couldn't confirm it," she said.

"So the book wasn't always reliable?"

"A book is something to check. We checked it."

Celia described copying my signature. The computer examiner showed the image she had used and Keene's instruction to use it.

Then the prosecutor displayed the portrait order, followed by the saved changes.

Nora sat very straight.

Keene watched the table.

The jury worked through one afternoon and most of the next day. I went back to the shop while they met. I trimmed a lid too thin and started over.

At 3:18, the coordinator called.

"They have a verdict."

I washed my hands. I put the rabbit back in my pocket and locked the door once.

The jury found Keene guilty on the theft, intimidation, and forgery counts before it. The judge ordered him held while he awaited sentencing.

Nora pressed her shoulder against mine. We stayed like that until people began leaving.

At the courtroom door, the coordinator gave me an envelope.

Inside was the sentencing date and a blank victim-impact form.

For the first time, someone was asking me to put down what the fear had cost.