A Blue Four-Door Sedan

“The blue lights flash in my rearview and that was the last time I saw freedom,” I write. The pen I’m using is flexible and causes cramps in my fingers. It’s like trying to write with a Red Vine. Inmates can’t be trusted with sharp objects, but it is better than nothing. God, what I wouldn’t give for a Red Vine!

I’m writing slowly to avoid mistakes, but also ignoring the ones I make. I have to think carefully about every line. Crossing out words or sentences uses up more paper and it is a precious commodity. I write from edge to edge, front and back, and even use the margins.

Recalling those last few hours of freedom isn’t as easy as you might think. It’s a common misconception that major events stick out in our mind. People always say I remember it like it was yesterday, but yesterday isn’t as clear as they make it out to be. Memories fade, some quicker than others. The mind plays a trick on you and fills in the blanks with what you think happened, what others suggest happened, or what you want the truth to be instead of what it is. People are the only species on the planet capable of describing to others what they’ve seen, and still we lack judgement and the ability to recall even basic details.

“You fit the description,” the officer said.

"The description of what?" I asked. A blue four-door sedan.

I remember driving home that night, barely noticing any of the other vehicles on the road. How many of them must have been blue? Two? Five? Honestly, it could have been all of them and it wouldn’t have even seemed out of place. Everything looks blue in the dark anyway.

Another officer brought a witness to where I was being held in the back of a cruiser and she confirmed I was the one she saw running away from the scene of a burglary. She heard two shots and saw a man in a green hoodie run from the house, cross the street, get into a blue four-door sedan and drive off. A man and woman were shot and killed. Robbery gone wrong, they called it. I didn’t own a hoodie and have never owned a gun.

I sat in jail for two years. The trial lasted two days. Witness after witness was called in and pointed their condemning fingers in my direction, swearing under oath and on their faith that I was the perpetrator of this crime. It was like a terribly twisted vaudeville show; perfectly rehearsed. They all said the same thing and somehow recalled the night with perfect clarity.

My attorney advised that I take a deal. The idea was not only ludicrous, but insulting. I wasn’t guilty, why should I take a deal? How could these people get up on the witness stand and say these things about me? Too many things didn’t add up. Surely the jury would see that. Surely these witnesses would come to their senses.

One witness told police he saw two men running from the house. Another somehow saw the vehicle leaving the scene through her living room window, while sitting at her dining room table. A third said it was a person with a limp. When it was their turn to testify, all of them identified a blue four-door sedan.

The woman who identified me in the back of the cruiser was the star witness. She was a school teacher and very credible, but even her story had changed. It was no longer two shots because in actuality there had been a total of five. The discrepancy was discovered just before the trial began.

By the time she testified, her story matched the details of the crime. The statement was explained away by the prosecutor. She simply misspoke. The question of the green hoodie or the second shooter was rationalized as well. I must have had an accomplice and I was simply protecting him. My taxpayer funded public attorney just watched it all unfold, like a catatonic fool. Why shouldn't he? After all, he had 164 other cases to attend to and I’m the idiot that didn’t take the deal.

Six minutes. That’s all it took for twelve people to decide that I was guilty, despite no physical evidence and the expansive list of contradictions. The judge used every bit of his Harvard education to express his utter contempt for such a "vile degenerate". How anyone of supposed intellect can say these things and still claim to be impartial is a mystery to me.

“If I could pull the switch myself I would do so quickly and without pity,” the judge declared. “You are convicted of taking life and so shall this judgement be upon you. This court sentences you to death by lethal injection. May God have mercy on your soul, because the great State of Oklahoma will not.” His gavel cracked with thundering permanence. The prosecutor had his vengeance and the people had their storybook ending. The truth be damned. 

“Hopefully, there is some evidence you can find to exonerate me,” I continued. “Police said the killer must have worn gloves. Still, there are plenty of holes in the State’s case against me.”

I didn’t even own a sedan. I drove a mid-sized sport utility vehicle, but that didn’t seem matter. The prosecution showed the jury a silhouette of a typical four-door sedan and several different types of SUVs to prove how one could be mistaken for the other at night. How is that even allowed?!

Sleep will not come tonight. I'll toss and turn, anxious about my letter. This is irrational because I already know that it could be months before I hear from them and even if they take my case, it will be a years-long effort which may still ultimately fail. Why does the simple act of writing this letter make me so restless?

Some part of me still holds on to my previous life, where food comes to your door with a phone call and letters arrive at their destination within a few days. A whole world of consumption and instant gratification is taken for granted because it's just a short trip to the department store, the pharmacy, or my favorite bar. I've heard of something called a text message which, as I understand it, is like a letter you send over the phone that someone can read within seconds. I don't really get it, but it sounds interesting.

Everything is slowed to a crawl inside this place. If I ask my mother how she's doing, it takes a month to get the answer. Her last letter said she was doing fine, but I suspect she wouldn't tell me if she wasn't.

Letters are collected monthly with the mail call, but at this point I'm not even sure how many more days that will be. You lose track of time as well because every day feels like four—and you're alone all the time. For a while I had a 13 inch television that allowed me some connection to the outside world and that helped. Ever since it stopped working, I've only been able to keep track of time by the dates on the letters I occasionally receive from friends or family. Last month (or was it two months ago?) I found I had passed my 44th birthday, so I know I've been in here for just over 22 years.

"Please take a look at my case. I have nowhere else to turn and my time is running out," I gently fold the note and place it in an envelope, write the address of The Innocence Project on the front and motion for the guard to take me back to my cell. I don’t seal the envelope because the letter will have to be inspected.

This is pretty much the last hope for me, so... fingers crossed.

Author’s Note: This story is fiction and, although it is estimated that eyewitness testimony contributes to 71% of wrongful convictions, any similarities to actual events is purely coincidental.