Personal Column
Wearing a cream colored suit that I thought made me look responsible yet carrying a shoelace keychain I was making, I approached the witness stand.
“Do you swear to tell the truth….”
As the bailiff swore me in, I kept thinking, “I’m only 13, just 13.”
“…so help you God?”
“Yes.”
“State your full name.”
“Sonya Renee Cole.”
I sat in the box. The judge to my left. The jury to my right. The court reporter in front of me.
I was trapped.
Clenching the keychain in my tiny hands, I listened to my attorney.
“Tell me what happened the day your mother was murdered.”
My heart leapt into my throat as I choked back the tears.
“Be strong…be strong.”
I told her the story, going through in my mind as I had a hundred times before. I poured out my heart and told the strangers before me about the deepest secrets in my life.
“Objection,” the defense attorney said.
Objection? What was he objecting for? I was merely telling the jurors about the phone call informing me of my mother’s death.
“It’s okay, Sonya, let’s go on,” my lawyer said.
“Do you recognize this shotgun?”
“Yes, it’s the 12-gauge that took her life.”
“Is the man that murdered your mother in the courtroom today?”
I looked down at my cream-colored shoes and played with the keychain. I turned it over in my hand.
“Yes, he is,” I whispered.
“Where is he?” she asked.
The 12 sets of eyes of the jurors burned my face. I looked up at the man who took my mommy away and pointed.
“Him.”
He didn’t look up. He couldn’t bear to look at me. He stared at his feet. My lawyer warned me that he wouldn’t look at anyone.
“And how has your mother’s death affected your life?”
“Death?” I asked. “It wasn’t a death, she was slaughtered. She was shot three times at close range with a 12-gauge shotgun, the type you hunt with. Her chest was blown open. Death is not the word I’d use to describe it.”
“Objection!”
“What the-“
“Calm down, Sonya, it’s okay. Just answer the questions.”
I pleaded with my eyes to the judge.
“It’s okay honey, go on,” she said.
I told of how I went from a spoiled little rich girl who owned every toy imaginable to living with my grandma and sharing an apartment with my little sister.
At age 13 I still played with Barbies. I didn’t wash clothes. I didn’t cook. I didn’t have chores. I didn’t even do my own hair. My mommy did it all.
How had my life changed?
At 14, I help run a household with my grandmother and look out for my little sister. I am forced to grow and mature over night. My childhood had been ripped from me by that man sitting 16 feet away.
My lawyer asked me to read a poem that I’d written after the incident. When I read it, the jurors wept.
I tried so hard not to cry. I wanted to be strong for Mommy.
I couldn’t.
Near the middle of the poem, I wept. Remembering my vow to be a big girl and be strong for Mommy, I held back the rest of the tears and finished the poem. I looked at the murder whose head was still down.
“Look at me,” I screamed.
“Objection, Sonya, please!”
“Look at me! I deserve at least that!”
“Sonya, do you need a minute?” the judge asked.
“No ma’am.”
“What would you like to see happen to the man who murdered your mother?” my lawyer asked.
“My mother can no longer laugh at any more jokes or sing her favorite songs. She can no longer feel a hug or a kiss from a loved one. Why should he?”
“So you’re okay with the death penalty?” she asked.
I glared at him, thinking for what seemed like an eternity.
Then he looked up. He stared at me right in my eyes. I froze. I looked down at my feet, then directly at him.
“Yes.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.” My lawyer sat down.
But I was not through. I had one question left.
“Why did you do it, Daddy?”