Cracks

At least one thing could be agreed on; the glittering sunlight and deathly silence were completely mismatched the morning the trial finally took place.  It was the quiet created by horror when no words could fully express the extent of the heaviness that blanketed the gallery. This silence belonged to death. It was not meant to occur in the light of day. It created a disturbing aura that matched the crime itself. All the lights were on, and they glimmered like little flames while shadows lurked where the sun didn’t quite reach. No, the sunlight definitely did not match the melancholy silence of the court.  The gallery sat, eyes trained to the front of the room where the judge was prepared to speak. Some thought this trial was necessary for justice’s sake, while others felt this proceeding was a waste of time.     “Prosecution may call their witness.” Judge Marianne Daniels put her documents down on the judge’s bench. She looked to the prosecution’s side with her beady, bird-like eyes. Her black robe made a slight ruffling noise, amplified by the cold silence of the brightly lit courtroom.  Mrs. Lockwood stood up from her place on the right of the room. “The people call Aron Bernstein, Your Honor.” There was some muttering as the bailiff got up and went into the waiting room. He came out a few seconds later and led the man he had just collared to the stand.  Aron, a Caucasian man with light brown hair, flinched, putting his hand up in front of his eyes when he entered the room, shielding them from the bright lights. He spoke to the bailiff, and after some discussion with the judge, he was allowed to put dark glasses over his eyes and proceeded. The bailiff helped him up, and the witness gave him a slight nod. Aron Bernstein took a seat, waiting for instructions. The clerk, a petite blonde woman, spoke up.  “Please stand and raise your right hand.” The witness did as he was told, stood up, and raised his hand. “Do you promise that the testimony you shall give in the case before this court shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”  “I do.” He spoke in a calm, matter-of-fact voice. The wispy clerk continued.  “Please state your first and last name.” She stated in a rehearsed manner. It was easy to get the impression that she spent countless workdays repeating these words.  “Aron Bernstein.” The clerk nodded her head.  “You may be seated.” The witness wore a serviceable black suit with a white dress shirt and a dark purple tie. Aron retook his seat. He sat straight, with his hands folded in his lap. His face was impassive, the glasses making his expression especially hard to read. As they examined him, the gallery noticed a collection of jagged scars sliced into his face. New wounds shone as well, freshly mixed in with the old ones.  There was something peaceful about his general disposition, but he had a similar manner to a student on exam day. He sat forward, ready for the questions, his shoulders tense with anticipation and with some invisible burden. The court reporter spoke up.  “Please spell your last name for the record.”  “B-E-R-N-S-T-E-I-N.” Mrs. Lockwood strode forward with purpose, and there was a fiery look in her eyes. She addressed Aron.  “Thank you for being here today, Mr. Bernstein.” He gave a slight polite nod of acknowledgment. “Where do you work?” Her voice rang all around the courtroom. Once it stopped echoing, silence settled once again. People were on the edge of their seats, curious about this unique case.  “I work as a social worker for the Faden Department of Children and Family Services in the County.” He spoke clearly. All his words were plain, and he remained incredibly composed.  “What type of social worker are you?”  “I’m a Child Welfare Social Worker.” He didn’t miss a beat.  “What are the responsibilities of a Child Welfare Social Worker?  “We are responsible for handling a variety of situations involving youth. We assist in abuse and neglect investigations, support families, and protect vulnerable individuals, such as children, from harm.”  “How long have you been a social worker?”  “A little over three years.” “And what qualifies you for this position?” “I have a master’s degree in Social Work.” “So you fully understand what social workers are required to do and have the expertise to speak about these responsibilities?” “Yes.” “What specifically do you do?”  “I provide psychotherapy for clients, stuff like that. Talk to the kids, their schools, and their parents. Handle the logistics of what type of support they may need.” “Clients like Reina Machado and Anthony Diggory?” For the first time, there was a slight hesitation before Aron spoke.  “Yes.” He finally said, shifting a bit. To some, the slight hesitation when discussing the kids was humanizing, while others thought it was performative. All of them were trying to figure him out. “When did you find out about the victim?” “The morning after it happened.” “It meaning...?” “The murder. Sorry. The morning after the murder occurred,” Aron clarified,  “Why did you get involved to the extent that you did?” “Because of my client. Reina.” “You are referring to Reina Machado?” “Yes...” “Let’s start with the events leading up to Anthony Diggory’s death. Do you mind taking the jury through the events that brought us here today?”  Silence blanketed the courtroom once more. Aron Bernstein had a faraway expression and ran his right hand over the palm of his left one absentmindedly. The silence hung there, clinging to the sunlit walls. The light illuminated the world, but it had come too late for a young child. The silence was finally broken when Aron began to speak. "The weather channel said it was supposed to rain."