Criminal That I Am by Jennifer Ridha

Author:Jennifer Ridha
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner

With the proceedings over, I walk out of the courtroom and begin to breathe a sigh of relief. I suck it back in quickly when I see standing in front of me the same reporter from the New York Post who interrupted the impromptu meeting with Cameron Douglas’s father in the very same spot a year before.

For a brief moment my body seizes with fear that the reporter is here to ask about my case. But he does not look up from the conversation he is having with another gentleman. I tiptoe around the two men and then move to a strategic spot close to the clerk’s office. I motion to my attorney to join me and then position myself so I can keep my eye on the reporter’s movements without having to crane my head or otherwise make myself conspicuous. If he comes my way, it’s my plan to dart into the nearby ladies’ room.

Some Prosecutor follows us to discuss some housekeeping issues. He and my attorney chat for a bit, and then he enthusiastically takes my attorney’s hand and shakes it. I am only half paying attention because I am keeping my eye on the reporter.

I at first don’t notice that Some Prosecutor has extended his hand toward me. When I do, I realize that the time has come for the fake handshake. I don’t want it. I stare at his hand for a moment, until I see my attorney giving me a look. I begrudgingly take Some Prosecutor’s hand, and, as if on cue, he dramatically turns his eyes away.

Dammit, I think to myself. I was so close to getting through my case without it.

Some Prosecutor walks away, and shortly afterward my attorney leaves me to deal with the odds and ends. At Pretrial Services, I am told that my Pretrial Services Officer (PSO) is away conducting home visits, that I should call her later in the day to arrange for my reporting schedule.

I step back into the main hallway of the magistrate’s court and take a quick look around. The Post reporter is gone. I exit the courthouse undisturbed, not a camera in sight. I begin to run from the courthouse, my heels pressing the snow, running as though if I don’t move fast enough I will be apprehended and the whole thing will start all over again.

I don’t stop running until I am several blocks away. When I return to my building, I see that the blizzard is approaching—the sun has departed and the sky is gray. I have narrowly escaped the storm.

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