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Mark arrived at the Magistrate’s Court in the remand centre wagon and taken straight to the holding room outside Court Number Two. He had been late in getting brought there, and the sentencing hearing was to start at any moment. Stephen Burrows flew into the holding room, relieved at last to see Mark had finally arrived.
“It’s about time you got here,” Mr Burrows said, exasperated.
“It’s not my bloody fault. Something was going on at the remand centre and they put me in the van half and hour late.”
“I know, I know, sorry, I didn’t mean to take it out on you. It’s just that I’ve got to tell you something that …” but before Mr Burrows could say anything more, the court bailiff came into the room and told them that the session was about to begin. “Oh hell, I’ll have to tell you after this. Look Mark, I have to warn you that it probably won’t go well in there. We can’t use the statement that David Collins submitted. I’ll tell you why soon. Come on, we’d better get in there.”
The bailiff escorted them both to the courtroom, where the prosecution lawyer and Mark’s mother were waiting. Mr Burrows hurried them to their seats, just moments before the magistrate judge entered. Sentencing hearings are generally short, but to Mark these few moments would determine the rest of his life, and he strained to be as awake and lucid as possible. He turned around to look at his mother, who was alone and sitting with handkerchief at the ready. She was going to make a scene; he knew it. He wondered why David wasn’t here and why the statement couldn’t be used. He thought that was going to be the last thing to help him. He had no choice but to wait until sentencing was over and find out from his lawyer. Right now, the magistrate was setting out the terms for the rest of his life.
“I am not satisfied that Mr Kingsland, or the community at large, will benefit from him receiving therapy for his anger problem in a minimum security hospital or other institution. His actions were callous and vicious without provocation and as the forensic psychiatrist pointed out, there is no guarantee that a serious incident would not happen again. Indeed, it seems something already has, which of course I cannot mention as part of these particular proceedings as that incident will be subjected to it’s own hearing. However, I can bring it into account so far as to say that the forensic psychiatrist was correct in his assumption that Mr Kingsland is very much a danger to others at this point.
“In keeping this in mind, and the lack of provocation in the murder of Kirk Punton, I have decided to hand down a sentence of twenty years, to be undertaken in a maximum security facility.”
Mark closed his eyes and felt the room spin around him. His life was gone. Twenty years – almost all of his lifetime so far – he would be locked away from the world, for one stupid mistake. He just barely heard his mother begin sobbing behind him, all the sounds were becoming one big blur as his life slipped away from him with each second.
“Parole and any downgrading of security will depend on how Mr Kingsland responds to anger management counselling, of which I order that he undertakes at least once per week during his sentence,” the judge ended. The room was silent save for Mark’s mother crying into her handkerchief, and the rustling of papers as the prosecutor prepared to go.
When the judge left the courtroom, everyone slowly filed out. Mark’s mother had to be helped out by a court bailiff, but she managed to look at Mark and reach her hand out helplessly to him before breaking down again. Then at last, the room was empty save for Mark and his lawyer. Mr Burrows turned to him.
“The first court date for Vernon’s murder is coming up in a month,” he said in a quiet voice. He looked Mark up and down and wasn’t sure if he was ready for another shock, but the horrible truth had to be said, better now than later. “Mark, Vernon’s death … it’s not just any murder.”
Mark looked at him through dull eyes. His lips could barely move to form the words he wanted to say, so he kept his question simple. “What?”
“It’s patricide, Mark.”
Marks brows furrowed, not understanding what Mr Burrows meant. He tried to say the word, but his mouth failed him. “Pa … pa?”
“Patricide, Mark. It’s what they call it when … when you kill your father.”
“Fa … fa?”
“When we cross checked David Collins identification back, right back, to hospital records and the like, we found he wasn’t your father. Your mother just met him, and paid him to say he was your father to help ease your sentence. We found your real father, Mark. We found out yesterday,” Mr Burrows almost whispered, as the unthinkable was so hard to say, “Vernon Callan.”
“What?” Mark managed to say.
“Vernon Callan was your father.”
© Cynthia M. Piromalli
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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