In Defense of Guilt Read online

  Although he had taken his prescribed sleep-aid medication hours earlier, Maze was not able to shut down his overactive imagination enough to become drowsy. No matter what he did or how hard he tried, sleep eluded him. So be it. Like every other inconvenience in his life, he simply dealt with it. Insomnia had been a constant, clinging companion for months, and although he felt that he should be used to it by now, he wasn’t. It drained him both physically and emotionally. Of all the distractions, inconveniences, and problems he faced, sleep deprivation was the one aggravation most difficult to overcome.

  Insomnia was debilitating, but he had no other recourse than to tolerate it, to endure it as one would a bothersome neighbor mowing their lawn at seven on a Saturday morning or a chronic, nagging ache from which there was no relief. However, Maze was far from a state of what one would call acceptance. It was his burden to bear. He bore it as he had on other nights. Tonight was not dissimilar to the night before or the night before that, or even the night before that. In fact, it was virtually a carbon copy of nearly every night since the event.

  Just thinking about his wife’s death increased his heart rate. It was elevated at that very moment. He could feel the rapid pounding within his chest cavity. Maze thought briefly about popping another anxiety pill; he even plucked the tiny vial off his nightstand but then ultimately decided against it. In his despair, he hoped the pressure on his most vital organ would, at some point before dawn, cause a vapor lock and put an end to his miserable existence.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead and then snaked its way down his creased brow and cheeks in mini-rivulets, soaking his pillow. Consumed with somber, despairing visions, Maze was a pathetic, tortured soul. Random thoughts and pictures of the past—mostly unpleasant ones—flashed before his mind’s eye in rapid succession.

  Intermittently, those hurtful images were then replaced with visions of the as-yet-undecided court proceedings a few hours from now. Closing arguments. The last day! Maze wasn’t at all confident. He glanced at the clock, the only piece decorating the nightstand, a scratched-up, water-stained relic from the 1960s. The digital timepiece was facing away from him. Maze picked it up and held it in front of him. 2:06. He set it on the bed next to him and deliberately pushed it to the floor.

  Since Amanda’s death, Maze had taken great pains to rid his life of practically every piece of furniture, clothing item, linen, cookware, and knickknack from their place. He had two reasons. First, he needed to liquidate nearly everything in his possession to retain his high-profile lawyer. Second and more importantly, it was what he needed to do for his own sanity. Everything reminded him of the past—his past—with Amanda. He had thought that after ridding his life of those mementos, things would get better. It was the furthest from the truth. His tortured mind always played back moments when his wife’s sophisticated presence graced the house. Without her, it was no longer a home, just a lonely house, a temporary place to crash until either his lease was up or he was found guilty and sent to prison to live out the remainder of his wretched days.

  Although Lauren tried to assure him he would be found innocent, nothing was certain. He saw how the jury looked at him; he knew what they thought about him. It wasn’t the way people looked at a poor fella having to endure such pain and humiliation on top of losing his beloved wife. In his mind, it was a “burn in hell, you murderer” kind of stare. The mere thought sent a shiver through him.

  Now, as he lay atop the bare mattress on the rickety old bed he had recently purchased from the thrift store on Tenth Street, he could not help but remember the beautiful, flower-print drapes that had once covered the window, keeping out the glow of the streetlight. He remembered how much that streetlight used to bother him. It no longer did. After sunset, it was the only light in his life. As he lay in bed locked in worrisome reflection, sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. It was then he realized the voices outside his window had mercifully ceased.

  It was quiet, chillingly quiet.

  The cooling unit inside the refrigerator in the small galley kitchen came on, startling him back to reality. The kitchen. The thought of what it looked like depressed him even further. It certainly wasn’t how Amanda had kept it. Untidy wasn’t the word he would have used to describe its state of uncleanliness. The sink was piled high to the simple light fixture mounted on the wall above it with several weeks’ worth of unwashed dishes. The plastic garbage can was filled beyond overflowing, and the countertops were splattered with the decaying, moldy remains of meager dinners past. If not for the underlying stench of decay that permeated the atmosphere, the colors would have reminded him of an artist’s studio. He didn’t even want to look at the disgusting, stuck-on goop inside the microwave. The door would barely open and close because of the sticky residue on it.

  Maze took no enjoyment out of life and had no motivation to do much of anything productive. If he were found guilty, he rationalized, someone else would have the unenviable job of scraping and disinfecting these things.

  Trying to shake the demons disrupting the normal transfer of electrical impulses in his brain, Maze rolled to his right and reached for the remote sitting on the other, matching nightstand. He wasn’t necessarily in the mood to watch TV, but he needed the distraction. Maybe, he thought, there will be something on that will put me to sleep.

  Maze clicked the on button. A single, blue dot formed in the center of the old box television, followed by a thin, bright, white line as it hummed and struggled to life. At least he had cable. Soon, ESPN’s Sport’s Center came into view. He watched as the two announcers discussed and summarized game four of the Eastern Conference finals between the Cleveland Cavaliers and Atlanta Hawks. After the decisive win, LeBron and company were in command with a three to one lead in the best-of-seven series. The fans behind them who had stayed to see the commentary and hopefully get a few seconds on camera were cheering and holding signs. Having King James back in a trade from Miami had helped the team immensely. The bitter taste left in the city’s mouth after LeBron’s shocking departure was formally forgotten.

  Normally, Maze would have been glued to the screen. He was a huge fan of basketball. But with his fate in the hands of twelve angry jurors, he had lost interest in just about everything. He figured, What’s the point? He began channel surfing. Basketball, a sitcom rerun, commercial, commercial . . .

  Suddenly, the screens stopped flipping. Maze’s finger had slipped off the remote control and what he saw made his eyes widen in amazement. It could not have been a coincidence. An evangelical minister was holding up a Bible in his right hand. He was preaching on guilt, conviction, and atonement of sins. It was exactly what he needed when he needed it. Maze lowered the remote to the bed. He sat bolt upright and listened intently to the preacher’s bold sermon, transfixed, even mesmerized, for hours.

  Mercifully, the sky began to lighten: the dawning of a new, cloudless day in Southern California. Although he hadn’t slept, Maze hopped out of bed refreshed and rejuvenated, Bible in hand. He washed, splashed on some Aqua Velva Musk, and dressed in a pair of gray sweats and a sleeveless undershirt. Wifebeater undershirt, he thought. He laughed nervously at the irony of it. It was the first time he had been able to produce a laugh in a very long time. It felt exhilarating. It felt like freedom! Maze knew it was inappropriate, but still, it felt good.

  Taking pen in hand, Maze wrote a short thank-you letter to Reverend Jason Evens and filled out a check in the minuscule amount of twenty-three dollars, all he had left to his embattled name. The chains had been loosed. He was free, liberated from the encumbrances of his thoughts, his self-loathing. Maze sealed the envelope, placed the second to last stamp in the corner, and placed it in the outgoing mailbox.

  Maze had much cleaning to do before court. He turned the fan on, placed it on the seat of a chair, and faced it toward the kitchen. The strong breeze only succeeded in blowing the stench around the apartment. He opened the three windows and cheerfully went to work. Grabbing a large, plastic pail from under th
e sink, he put a couple of capfuls of Lysol inside, thought about it a moment, then added a couple more. Whistling an old Santana tune, he placed the pail under the faucet in the bathroom, filled it with hot water, and tossed a new sponge into it. Then he carried it back to his filthy kitchen and immediately started.

  For the first time in months, Maze was at peace, content in the knowledge projected to him by God through the televangelist. His spirits were elevated to new heights. After hearing an enlightening sermon, he was confident things were going to be all right. What the preacher had conveyed to him could not have been mere coincidence. He was convinced the entire message was meant for him.

  Maze realized he had lost track of time. He went into the bedroom and picked up his alarm clock. 7:47. Wrapped up in his chores, he had spent a great deal longer disinfecting the kitchen than he had planned. Washing the caked-on residue off the walls was just going to have to wait for a more opportune time. Maze had to fly. He had less than half an hour before Ryan would be knocking at his door to pick him up and take him to court. Maze wanted to be waiting for him when he did.

  Ryan Thompson was always prompt and pulled up to the curb at 8:15 sharp. Maze was sitting on the stoop of the apartment complex, reading from the Bible. Ryan pushed a button to lower the driver’s side window.

  “Good morning, Maze.”

  Maze stood but said nothing, a cheerful look on his face.

  Ryan noticed. “Ah, you too, huh? Reading the Bible.”

  “I had a vision,” Maze blurted.

  Ignoring Maze’s interruption, Ryan added, “Did you sleep better last night? Pills help you at all?”

  Maze got into the passenger seat. “I didn’t sleep,” he said, beaming. “I had a vision.”

  Ryan found Maze’s smile disconcerting. In fact, it creeped him out.

  Maze pressed on. “Did you hear what I said, Mr. Thompson? I had a vision. I had a profound, life-altering vision.”

  Ryan simply shifted into first gear and sped away, arriving at the courthouse without having said a word.

  Later, Maze was sitting on a wooden bench outside the courtroom, alone. He was skimming through his Bible when Lauren walked up to him. She asked Maze if he knew where Ryan had gone off to. Other than dropping Maze off at his apartment before heading to his own home, Ryan wasn’t supposed to let him out of his sight for five seconds, for Maze’s own protection as much as to guard against a flight risk. After all, Maze had shown nothing but erratic behavior all through the case, and there was no telling what he might do to himself if he were left on his own. Maze simply shrugged and went back to reading the passage of Scripture. Lauren did a shrug of her own, deciding she would address her colleague’s absence later.

  Ryan was disgusted with his charge and had already made his way inside, along with many spectators and news media. After all the nonsense Maze had been telling him about visions on the way to court, Ryan no longer cared what happened to him.

  Lauren focused on the task at hand. She turned to Maze and smiled.

  “Sun is up. Birds are singing. Gonna be a hell of a day for a nail-in-the-coffin closing argument.”

  Maze looked up. “Ms. Hill, I had a vision last night.”

  A queasy feeling came over Lauren. Dread immediately replaced her cheerful confidence. Cautiously looking around, she said, “Let’s keep the visions to a minimum today, shall we?”

  Maze didn’t understand exactly what his defense attorney meant by that. He hadn’t informed her of any other visions or even had any others. Why had she said today? Maybe the word had been inadvertently added. Still, the peculiar way in which she was looking around, as if expecting God to appear, was unsettling.

  Lauren started to head into the courtroom, expecting her client to follow obediently in her footsteps; however, he remained seated. As she was about to open the door, he said, “God spoke to me.”

  Lauren froze in her tracks and glanced down at her watch. 8:53. Court would be starting in a matter of minutes. She rushed to Maze and practically dragged him into an empty courtroom.

  As soon as the door closed, she asked, “What do you mean, God spoke to you?”

  “I had a vision.”

  “What did He look like?”

  “I don’t want to be found guilty.”

  “You won’t. Now, what did He look like?”

  “Deuteronomy 19:15.”

  Exasperated, Lauren practically screamed. “Tell me what you saw, damn it!”

  Maze paged through the Bible. “I must read this to you. ‘One witness is not enough to convict anyone accused of any crime or offense they may have committed. A matter must be established by the testimony of two or three witnesses.’” Maze looked up at Lauren. “There are no witnesses against me, just like you’ve been saying. No witnesses.”

  Lauren rolled her eyes. “Get to the point!”

  Maze lowered his gaze and continued reading. “‘You must purge the evil from among you. The rest of the people will hear of this and be afraid, and never again will such an evil thing be done among you. Show no pity: life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot.’”

  “Look, we don’t have time for this. Why are you reading this to me?”

  “I see, now. I see clearly. Evil is trying to crucify me. I’m ready to win. I won’t be afraid anymore. I won’t squirm in guilt.”

  Lauren thought, Now? Now, on the last day, you’re going to behave like a good little defendant? But she kept those hurtful words to herself. Still, she could have cared less about what he read. What Lauren needed to know was what in heaven’s name Maze had seen and she wasn’t going anywhere until he told her, even though she knew by now they must be late for entry to the courtroom. She tried a different tactic.

  “Listen, all I care about is that you don’t stand up or speak out of turn, got it? I’ll run the show.”

  Maze nodded then carried on. “I want you to know, though, I truly loved my wife. Loved her. It wasn’t perfect between us, but it was love.”

  “I believe you.” Even if she didn’t, Lauren knew it was the prudent thing to say.

  After a reflective beat, Maze spoke. “It was her time, just her time. Ecclesiastes 3:1—’For everything, there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die.’”

  “Okay, so you’ve read the Bible. Is that supposed to impress me?”

  “I had a vision. He showed me,” Maze reiterated.

  “We’ve established that point, now.” Wait a minute, she thought. Something new had been added to his previous statement. Showed. “He did? What did He look like, his features?” She grabbed him by the lapels of his rumpled suit.

  “I’m not a stupid man, Ms. Hill.”

  Lauren released him from her grip.

  “It was all on TV,” he continued. “A televangelist. Just an evangelist, but I know he came with the Spirit of God.”

  Lauren rolled her eyes. She had jeopardized her career again for this? A laughable televangelist, a mortal of questionable character?

  Maze continued. “Everything lined up for me. It was like something calling me, telling me to turn on the television and see what I saw, hear what I heard, and then, read what I read. The guilt was too much to bear, the guilt that she was gone. I needed strength. I have it now. I have that strength. You’re right. Win. Let’s win this. That’s why I even sent them what little money I have left. Like a wishing well. I needed faith to ride out the storm. Thank God that there is a god.”

  The only thing Lauren fully understood was that she had wasted her time for nothing. Controlling her temper, she shook his shoulder and brusquely said, “C’mon, we have to go. It’s showtime!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Lauren Hill looked at her watch before entering the courtroom. Relief. Until that moment, she had been trying to come up with a half-baked excuse as to why she and her client were running behind. As it had turned out, she didn’t have to—

  Wait a minute, sh
e thought. That’s impossible! She knew more than just a few agonizing minutes had elapsed while Maze rambled incessantly about visions and televangelists in the adjacent courtroom. Much more. Lauren worked it in her head several times, coming up with the same answer each time. She and Maze had been conversing for upward of fifteen minutes.

  How the hell did we gain . . . ? her thought trailed off. Deep down, she knew the answer, but she didn’t want to admit it. She was trying to put the previous day behind her and forget it had even happened. It seemed God wasn’t going to allow that. Yep, there could be only one explanation for what had taken place. “This isn’t happening,” she said. Lauren placed a trembling hand upon her forehead, pressing down on the bridge of her nose as if she could press the truth down. She grew angry with herself, with circumstances, and most of all, with God. He, or some strange phenomenon, was messing with her head.

  Working the simple math, she and Maze should have been walking in ten minutes past the hour, more than enough reason to be chastened for her lack of punctuality. One or two minutes would not have mattered and would likely have been overlooked as a simple miscalculation on her part. But ten or more? Given what happened the previous day, no way would Judge Howell let it go unnoticed.

  He must still be here, she thought. But where? There was no time to think about it. She had to pull herself together. Judge Howell was not going to allow her to crack like yesterday.

  In a twisted way, Lauren wished her client had seen the same visions she had. Even from an emotionally fragile sap like him, any validation would help her believe she was not winding down the dark road to Insanity, USA. That, in and of itself, would have softened the blow and made the likely reprimand from Judge Howell well worth it. Maze couldn’t give her this help, however. Those visions were truly for her eyes only.