1917

January 25, 1918

The courtroom was a circus of contradictions, Abel at its center like an arrogant ringmaster. His father, seated in the gallery, was the picture of oblivious pride, grinning like an imbecile throughout the proceedings. His sunny demeanor was a baffling contrast to the seriousness of his son’s actions. Did he not grasp the gravity of the situation? Abel could have burned down homes near the forest with his recklessness, yet his father waved and smiled at the attendees, including their lawyer as if this were a casual social gathering rather than a trial.

Then, Abel threw everyone a curveball. “I would like to represent myself, Your Honor,” he announced with an unexpected air of confidence.

The judge blinked in disbelief. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Abel replied, his tone for once devoid of smugness.

“Very well,” the judge said, though his skepticism was evident. “We shall begin with the accused. What is your side of the story, Abel Simmons Abrams Chesterfield?”

His full name struck me as absurdly pompous—a fitting match for his arrogance.

Abel began weaving a blatant fabrication. “I was wandering in the forest when I saw a man holding a gasoline can. Concerned, I wrestled it away from him, but some spilled on me in the process. That’s why my shirt smells of gasoline.”

The audacity of his lie made my blood boil. “Objection, Your Honor! I personally caught this boy setting fire to the trees!” I shot back, seething with frustration.

The judge turned to Abel. “Is this true?”

Abel adopted an air of mock offense, clutching his chest dramatically. “No, Your Honor, it is slander to my image. I will not stand for this!” He punctuated his outburst by pounding his fist on the podium.

“Please settle down, Mr. Chesterfield,” the judge ordered firmly.

“Apologies,” Abel said, though the smug smirk on his face betrayed his insincerity. His false humility was infuriating, more so because the judge seemed inclined to tolerate it.

The judge turned to me. “Jeremiah, please explain your experience.”

Taking a deep breath, I recounted the events of that fateful day. “I was walking through the forest, as I often do, when I saw him standing there with a gasoline can in one hand and a lighter in the other. I begged him not to burn the forest, but he ignored me and lit it anyway. He’s scum!” My voice rose with my anger, and I regretted it instantly.

“Indoor voice, Jeremiah!” the judge reprimanded, his tone sharp.

“I apologize, Your Honor,” I said, forcing myself to calm down. “But this isn’t just about the fire. Abel’s been a menace for years. He steals lunch money even though his family is loaded. His father makes ten thousand dollars a year, and yet—”

“What the hell does that prove?” Abel interrupted mockingly.

“It proves that you’re a fraud and a sadist!” I shot back, my anger bubbling over once more.

“Enough!” the judge’s voice boomed, silencing the courtroom. “This court is taking a recess. Everyone, take a moment to collect yourselves.”

As we filed out, I found myself sitting next to my father. My mother, unfortunately, couldn’t attend—she wasn’t feeling well, and I wished she could have been there for what I hoped would be a turning point. Though I had no concrete plan, I was determined to see this through. I didn’t know how I would win, but deep down, I knew that truth had a way of rising above even the most elaborate lies.

The courtroom drama continued, steeped in frustration and injustice. Abel’s lies became more elaborate, painting a picture so vivid it bordered on the absurd.

“What did the arsonist look like?” Judge Pinkerton asked, leaning forward with a note of curiosity.

Abel, ever the consummate actor, launched into his fabrication. “He had reddish curly hair and a goatee, like Lenin,” he declared with unwarranted confidence. “Quite hideous-looking, if I’m being honest.”

“Like Lenin, you said?” Judge Pinkerton raised a skeptical eyebrow, though his tone remained neutral.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Abel repeated, his lie unwavering.

Judge Pinkerton slammed his gavel onto the table, startling everyone in the room. “We must arrest that individual immediately!” he proclaimed, his voice echoing through the courtroom.

The ridiculousness of the situation finally overcame me. “I’m telling you, it was Abel!” I cried out, my frustration boiling over.

Judge Pinkerton fixed his gaze on me. “What evidence, other than the smell of gasoline on his clothes, do you have, Mr. South?”

“I have nothing, but—” I started, only to be abruptly cut off.

“Then this court is officially over,” he announced, shocking the room into silence. His abrupt decision felt like a slap in the face.

My father, usually composed, erupted in outrage. “My son is telling the truth!” he shouted, his anger reverberating through the tense room.

“Maybe so,” Judge Pinkerton replied nonchalantly, “but without evidence, there’s no case. Now, get out of my sight.”

Defeated, we had no choice but to comply. My father’s protests echoed in the hallway as the judge, now seated comfortably, lit up a corn pipe. His parting words lingered with bitter finality. “Life’s unfair, child. Better learn that lesson.”

The walk home was a somber one. When we arrived, the news of the court’s dismissal hit my mother like a thunderbolt. Her fury matched the storm brewing inside me.

“This is an outrage!” she exclaimed, pacing the room in frustration.

“Tell me about it…” my father and I muttered simultaneously, the shared sentiment doing little to lighten the mood.

“What do we do now?” I asked, my voice tinged with anxiety.

My mother stopped in her tracks, her face softening with an odd calmness. “Now, we wait for his actions to be punished by Heavenly Father,” she said with quiet conviction. Her words hung in the air, but their comfort was fleeting.

Even though I attended church regularly, in that moment, my faith wavered. The burning injustice gnawed at me, and I found myself questioning if a higher power could truly intervene. The world felt too cold, too unfair, for such reassurance to hold weight.

Eventually, it was time to sleep. As I lay in bed, my mind churned relentlessly, revisiting the events of the day and the bitter sting of our courtroom defeat. It was hard to accept that Abel’s lies had triumphed and justice had been denied.

The weight of helplessness pressed on me as I stared at the ceiling, my thoughts a chaotic whirlwind of frustration and disbelief. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw the smirk on Abel’s face and the dismissive expression of Judge Pinkerton. How could the truth be so easily buried? How could accountability be so easily escaped?

Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the dim outlines of my room. My heart ached for the lost battle, for the forest that might never fully recover, and for the fragile faith in justice that felt shattered beyond repair.

Finally, exhaustion took over. I closed my tear-filled eyes and called it a night, whispering a silent plea for tomorrow to bring clarity, relief, or even just a fleeting moment of peace to my chaotic life.