But the judge isn’t finished.
“Nevertheless,” he continues, “the extent of Mr. Underwood’s injuries, combined with the defendant’s prior criminal history and his specialized training in hand-to-hand combat, presents a significant concern for this court.”
Here it comes… my fate.
“As such, I find the evidence does support the charge of aggravated assault to be valid, and the defendant shall be charged accordingly. The charges of intent to maim or cause bodily harm, have yet to be determined.”
The prosecutor straightens immediately.
“Your Honor, given the defendant’s record and the violent nature of the offence, the State will be seeking a significant custodial sentence.”
No surprise there.
“We believe a substantial period of incarceration is necessary.” He glances briefly in my direction. “The State will be recommending a term of imprisonment of five years, with Mr. Dover serving no less than three years before the possibility of parole. We respectfully request that the defendant be held without release pending sentencing. The State argues that the defendant’s prior record demonstrates a pattern of criminal activity that could make him an incredible flight risk.”
Five years? No bail?My chest constricts even more.I’m fucked.
Judge Mitchell nods in agreement. “We will take the State’s recommendation for sentencing into consideration. Mr. Dover, sentencing is hereby scheduled for three weeks from today. The defendant will remain in custody pending that hearing.”
Three weeks?
Three weeks to sit in a cell rotting away.
“This court will reconvene at that time.”
The gavel hits his podium with too much finality.
“Next case.”
Mr. Handler picks up his things before turning to me. “That could’ve gone a lot worse, Wesley. You’re lucky he dropped the attempted murder charge. You would’ve been looking at life for that one if Judge Mitchell wanted.”
He shakes my hand. “I’ll be seeing you in three weeks.”
The bailiff comes over to escort me back to Parr.
I take the opportunity to steal a glance over at where my dad was sitting, but he’s not there anymore; he’s gone, and yet his disappointment still lingers.
They tell me I’ve got visitors.
For a second, I think the guard’s screwing with me. My body aches too much for jokes; my ribs throbbing with every breath I take. I can barely see out of my right eye; it’s nearly swollen shut.
The guard awkwardly waits for me to follow him, but it’s hard to walk without the pain crippling me. As I pass by the other cells, I keep my posture straight, attempting to look stronger than I feel. I may be broken, but I refuse to let the others see it.
The walk to the visitation room seems to take eons. Years ago, people would be separated by Plexi-glass and talk on phones. Now we talk through computer screens.
The guard motions for me to sit in one of the chairs, and I wait for the screen to connect.
My anxiety eases when I see my two best friends sitting there, with a combination of concerned smiles and anger burning in their eyes.
A grin stretches across my face before I can stop it, splitting my lip open again. I taste the blood instantly but ignore it. Seeing them sitting on the other side of the screen hits me harder than any punch I took last night. Last time I was here, so were they. Now I have no one.
I sink even further into the chair, my bulky form filling the screen. The fluorescent lights reflect off the monitor, making everything feel colder and harsher.
I grab the phone and motion for them to do the same.
“Boys. Long time no see, not that I’m seeing much of anything right now.”
My laugh escapes too easily, and the second I move, pain stabs me through my ribcage. I wince, shifting my weight to favor my right side.
