I sit primly, quietly, just as Mr. Fonsworth told me to do, showed me how to do. It is t*****e.
To hear me talked about so badly, each word is like the stab of a dagger. I want to jump up, I want to cry out, I want to turn around to my father and tell him not to listen. That he hears these things is the worst thing of all.
I keep my face as blank as I can; it is a great struggle. The other lawyer is finished, he tells the judge on the second day of the trial. It is our turn. It is my turn.
“Are you ready?” Mr. Fonsworth leans toward me, whispers to me.
My anger helps me. I nod repeatedly.
I take the stand. I swear on the Bible. I pray that my lies, that they are to protect another, will be forgiven.
Mr. Fonsworth is tender as he questions me, questions that give my side of the story,
