Flawed (12 page)

I smile at Dad. This is me.

Judge Sanchez looks at Dad, with her bright red lipstick visible from the moon, and smiles, a sneaky look on her face. “Indeed, Mr. North, but I'd like to quote Kaplansky when he talked about mathematics: ‘The most interesting moments are not where something is proved but where a new concept is involved.' Mathematics takes basic concepts, but these varying applications have led to a number of abstract theories. Is this the kind of mind your daughter has, Mr. North? The mind that creates new theories, new concepts, takes risks, and goes against the grain?”

Dad thinks about this and looks at me. “No.” He pauses. “I would never have said that Celestine was the type of person to go against the grain. Never.”

I understand what he's saying. To go against the grain in this circumstance is to go against myself. I have never been the type of person not to do what I believe. He's telling me to follow my heart.

Judge Sanchez smiles and hears the same thing I heard. “And what about now, Mr. North?” she says in her honey, dulcet tones. “Our children have the ability to take us by surprise. They change when we haven't noticed.”

Dad looks at me and almost views me as if seeing me for the first time. I wonder what on earth he is going to say.

Bosco interrupts, annoyed. “What Judge Sanchez is asking, Mr. North, is it your belief that your daughter Celestine North's character is Flawed?”

Dad turns back to face him. “No, sir. Under no circumstances is my daughter Flawed,” he says, working hard to keep the anger out of his voice when I know he just wants to jump up and scream and shout and punch whoever is closest.

“Thank you, Mr. North.”

Then Margaret and Fiona have their moment in their glory. When I hear their testimony, it sounds like they're talking about somebody else. That's not me. I was never that brave. But then I also hear a group of clowns speaking completely illogically. What they are saying about the rules of the Flawed and us no longer makes sense to me. They only confirm to me that I was right to do what I did on the bus, if not doing it would mean I was one of them.

Mr. Berry's act is not like a performance as I thought it would be, like in the movies, bringing on the razzle-dazzle, sashaying around the floor as though he's dancing. He is perfectly normal and straightforward, and for that he is even more credible. But he is quick, and he is sharp, and he picks up on tones and nuances and pauses quicker than I believe even Juniper would. The women are dubious of him but can't help liking him. He is charming and interested in them; he is not—yet—calling them liars. He shares with them the theory that Bosco created, that I was trying to protect the people on the bus from the Flawed man.

They mull it over.

The first lady, Margaret, concedes that it's possible; the second, Fiona, with the crutches, is adamant that it was not so.

“I don't care what story the defense are trying to push,” Fiona says. “They can't brainwash me. I know what I saw. That girl”—she points her cane at me—“helped that Flawed man to his seat.”

The public erupts at her accusation, and a few members of the media rush out to make their reports.

Bosco announces that the CCTV in use on the bus at the time of the event, when seized by the Guild, was, unfortunately, deemed ineffective and cannot be considered as proof. I have no doubt this is Bosco managing to twist things in my favor and hold back the proof that could destroy me. Bosco announces that we must take into account it is merely the view of the people on the bus and not something we can witness ourselves. I suppose being able to witness my act themselves would be more damaging to me—at least they can make their own decision on whether to believe the witnesses or not. I'm thankful for his deception.

It occurs to me, as everyone speaks of the old man, that I don't even know his name. I never asked and it has never been mentioned, like it isn't important. The case revolves around him, and yet he is brushed aside as though he is nothing. I don't want to ask Mr. Berry. I don't want it to seem like I'm pitying the man, like I have sympathy for a Flawed. I need Mr. Berry to believe in me more than anyone ever has.

As the proceedings finally break for lunch, I quickly turn to my granddad before I'm taken away. “Can you get information to me about the old man?” I whisper in his ear. He nods, face intense, and I know he won't let me down.

Everyone goes back to their lives after my entertainment, and the reporters continue their reports outside. I'm thankful we can wait in a room near the court so that I don't have to cross the courtyard again.

I sit with my parents, Juniper, and Mr. Berry in the waiting room, picking at charcuterie and crackers, feeling sick from the hunger and unable to eat at the same time. I appreciate everybody's company, but I don't speak. I am happy to be away from all the noise, away from the unwanted attention, without having to worry about every part of me being analyzed: my facial expressions, my reactions, how I sit, how I walk. I can just be.

Tina enters the room and hands me an envelope, and I know it's from Granddad. He hasn't let me down. Unaware of whom it's from, Mr. Berry and Mom eye it like it's a grenade. When I read its contents, I feel it might as well be.

 

TWENTY-THREE

WHAT I LEARN
from Granddad's note is this: Clayton Byrne, the old man on the bus, was the CEO of Beacon Publishing. With a degree from the prestigious Humming University, he studied English literature. He met his wife in college and married her when they were twenty-six. They have four children. He became CEO of Beacon Publishing when he was forty-two years old and at the time was praised for his leadership skills, his ingenuity, and his ability to take the company forward. He took risks, all of which paid off apart from one. Because of his failure, due to risk-taking, he was forced to resign from his position and, as a signal to all future employees in the company, was brought to the Guild and found to be Flawed. For making bad judgments in business, he received a brand on his temple, and because he lied about it to his colleagues and tried to cover his tracks, his tongue was also seared. His wife passed away two years ago, and he is suffering from emphysema. He had left the house that day without his oxygen.

Finally, I take the stand. The room is bursting with people. I see Carrick standing at the back, arms folded, beside the woman with the pixie cut who nodded at me in the courtyard. Juniper is in the front row beside Granddad. Granddad looks at me, and I nod, letting him know I received his envelope. There is still no sign of Art, though thinking he could be outside, in disguise, is better than nothing.

“We know the story of what happened on the bus,” Judge Sanchez says, beginning it all. “We've heard it repeated time and time again in this court over the past two days, and we could spend another two days listening to the testimonies of the other thirty people on the bus who witnessed the same thing. Your representative, Mr. Berry, has kindly told us that you have waived that and accepted what it is they saw, and the court appreciates your understanding and respect of our time, so we will not ask you to tell us again what happened. We also understand that the only difference between your story and theirs is that they say you were helping the old man, and you say you were trying to get rid of him. And where the majority saw you as helping the man to his seat, you say he sat himself? Is this true?”

I take a deep breath.

Suddenly there is an outbreak of noise and protest within the courtroom. Four people, two women and two men, are standing and shouting, punching their fists in the air, pointing their fingers at me. They shout a single word.

“Liar.”

They shout it over and over again.

“Liar. Liar. Liar.”

“Order.” Bosco bangs the gavel. “Order.”

“If you do not silence yourselves, you will be removed from the court,” Judge Sanchez says, raising her voice.

Three of them stop shouting and sit, but one woman continues. “Our dad did nothing wrong! Our dad followed all the rules! You are a liar, Celestine North! You should be ashamed, you should be disgusted with yourself!”

The guards make their way over to her; and as soon as they lay their hands on her, the other three jump up to defend her, their sister. I'm so close to calling out
I'm so sorry
to Clayton Byrne's children, but my mouth goes dry and my heart beats maniacally.

“It is not right what you are doing,” one son shouts, glaring at me.

“You will be reminded to stay quiet,” Judge Sanchez says. “If you have one more outburst, you will be removed from the court.”

The four of them go silent and sit down. One daughter starts crying and is comforted by the other.

My heart starts to palpitate; my breathing is irregular. All eyes are on me, judging me, thinking these things of me. All this to prove that I am not Flawed, and by doing so I feel less than perfect. It feels wrong.

“Okay, Celestine?” Mr. Berry watches me intently.

My eyes dart around the room as I tally the people I am letting down: Granddad; Juniper; Dad; even Carrick at the back, who must know by now I'm lying; and the woman with the pixie cut who nodded at me with respect both days. Art, who is waiting for me somewhere outside, who told me to do exactly what Mr. Berry said. Myself. The people I will actually let down if I admit to being Flawed is far fewer.

“Can my client have a drink of water?” Mr. Berry asks.

My mind races as I see him pouring a glass of water and bringing it to me. I take a sip, my mind still racing, and suddenly I notice that Mr. Berry is trying to get my attention. The judges are talking to me and I haven't been listening.

“I'm sorry, pardon?” I ask, coming back into the room.

“I said, what possessed you, Celestine? It's a simple question, isn't it?” Judge Sanchez is looking at me over the rim of her red-framed glasses, which match her lipstick.

It was the question my mom had asked, that countless others had asked. What possessed me? I never had an answer for them, but now I do. It's not the answer I rehearsed with Mr. Berry, but they are the only words my mouth will allow me to say.

“He reminded me of my granddad,” I say, and it's as though there is no air in the room. Not a sound. I see Carrick prick up at the back, stand more alert. I can now see his eyes, which were hidden beneath the cap. He's looking right at me. Something about having his eyes on me makes me feel stronger.

“The old man, his name is Clayton Byrne,” I say closely into the microphone, the first time his name has been said. “When Clayton got on the bus, I thought he was my granddad.” I think about how I felt then as he started coughing. “He was coughing, and I thought he was going to die. I didn't care if he was Flawed, I just saw a person, a human being, who reminded me of my granddad, who no one was helping. So to answer your question, of what possessed me … the answer is, compassion. And logic. He didn't take a seat; I helped him into it. At the time,” I address everybody now, willing them to understand, “it felt like the perfectly right thing to do.”

Outrage. Mania. Noise. Bang, bang of the gavel.

 

TWENTY-FOUR

I LOOK AROUND
the courtroom and see madness. The media are in a scuffle to get out the door to make their exclusive reports, members of the public are standing and throwing their arms at me in disgust. Those who supported me are feeling betrayed. I see my friend Marlena bury her face in her hands. She vouched for me, and I didn't back her up. The Flawed in the back row appear genuinely moved, some angry that I took it this far in the first place, that I even allowed a day to go by with Clayton Byrne's name being tainted. My mom is in tears and is being comforted by Dad, who has her head on his chest and is rocking back and forth at the same time as wrapping his arm around Juniper, who is staring at the ground in shock.

In the midst of all the madness, Granddad stands and claps with a proud smile on his face. I focus on that look, on that face, while inside my mind and body try to deal with what I have done.

The judges are banging their gavels, fighting to be heard over the public, fighting to be heard above one another.

The Flawed are emotional, as though it's a win for them. They embrace one another, careful not to gather together in more than twos. The old man's children fall into a huddle, weeping and rejoicing at their father's cleared name. I don't expect them to show any gratitude for something that should have been said from the beginning.

I see Carrick in the back row. His hat is off and his chin is high. He's standing still and solid in all the mania around us, nodding at me in support, his eyes on mine, not moving. I focus on him. For once not judging me, for the first time not laughing at me. I didn't realize it was his respect that I wanted so much, but I know now that it was, that without our ever speaking I knew his thoughts on me and I agreed with him. I know this because, despite the terror that's inside me over what is about to come, I am satisfied.

I focus on Carrick, even as Tina and Bark come to take me away. I watch him, still, strong, and silent, like the rock he was named for.

 

TWENTY-FIVE

TINA AND BARK
take me out of court and lead me back into the waiting room where I had lunch not long before. My head is still spinning from what has just happened. It's all a blur already, and I need someone to help bring it all back to me, to remind me of what has happened. What did I say?

I notice Tina's grip on my arm is tighter than usual, and so is her face.

“Tina?” I hear the terror in my voice. Gone is my earlier certainty and bravado, if that's what it is called. I've learned that to be courageous is to feel fear within, every step of the way. Courage does not take over, it fights and struggles through every word you say and every step you take. It's a battle or a dance as to whether to let it pervade. It takes courage to overcome, but it takes extreme fear to be courageous.