Of trials and other testing grounds

It's been almost a year since I was attacked near South Street. Though the attack itself lasted no more than five minutes, the incident as a whole has dragged on in a seemingly never-ending series of courtroom visits and line-ups. But today, it has finally ended. The bad guy, Zaki Salahuddin, has been convicted of simple assault, and - except for the sentencing (which I won't attend) - the case is closed. It's a relief, I guess. Although the outcome has no real effect on my life, save for "justifying" that abstract principle of Justice we all assume is rewarding the good and punishing the bad.

What I feel most is drained. Sitting on the witness stand is an emotionally wracking experience, even if you're not the defendant. Not only do you not always have a clear idea of how the law works, but you're not allowed to speak unless spoken to. The cross-examining feels like you've gone to war with your hands tied behind your back. When the defendant's lawyer questioned me, I tried as best as I could (however pointlessly it might have been) to fight back: I poked holes in his language, answered literally what he meant figuratively, and forced him to define the terms he was using. A silly show, apparently. Mr. Salahuddin likely would have been convicted had I sat there and pliantly responded to each query.

He has a record: theft and assualt 12 years ago and a more recent assault on his wife. But I don't think he's been to jail yet as an adult. From a reasoned sociological view, it's probably better for everyone if he doesn't go for long; but the vicitim in me (the one who couldn't read or write for months after being knocked out) hopes he gets the maximum time. What did the judge say to Mr. Salahuddin in the form of a prequel? "It'd be in your best interest to have enrolled in an anger management program by the time of your sentencing." Who knew that court would be so much like it is on TV?

After the trial, I walked to the park and sat on a bench alone. I longed to be with someone - not to rehearse what had happened, but to be reminded of what had been threatened. Jeehyun was on campus, Sara at work, Erica busy. The park was full, but anonymous. Later, in Whole Foods, I spotted a man (blonde, blue t-shirt, my age, handsome) who likewise spotted me. And then, a few streets later, we saw each other again as his car passed me on the walk home. To say what I longed for from him would be difficult (and would violate an edict I made earlier here). But I stopped at that corner, sat on a small, concrete wall surrounding a parking lot, and waited, in the slim chance he would return.