Describe in Detail, Please

“Can you describe what you were wearing that night?”

The words echoed in the chamber a moment, followed by a few exasperated sighs from the prosecution’s side. Was there a more antiquated question? Surely the defense was knowledgeable enough to predict the onslaught of accusations that would follow this question. 

Or perhaps the defense was more deft than initially thought to be. Perhaps there was something else they were trying to prove by asking the question. At least that’s what Adam thought, pondering what traditionally male clothes could provoke an assault anyhow. Were dark wash jeans more seductive than light wash? Was he more likely to be snagged off the street wearing a polo as opposed to his typical graphic tee? 

“Sir, can you please answer the question?”

“Mm?” The question pulled Adam away from his thoughts and back to the cramped wooden seat on which he sat, facing the courtroom. The stout defense lawyer held his gaze, beads of seat lining his forehead.

“I asked, what were you wearing?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I was um, well jeans for sure. Blue jeans. And a t-shirt on top.” Why did he say ‘on top’? Despite all the emotions he was already feeling, a wave of embarrassment started to rise as well. 

“Yes. jeans and a t-shirt. Can you be any more specific?”

Adam held the lawyer’s steady gaze for a moment, feigning a look of concentration on his face, as if he could prove to the lawyer that he was actively trying to recall his clothes that night. Then he broke his gaze and peered down at his palms. He began tracing a finger along the rough edge of his pants. “It’s ok”, he traced with his middle finger, willing his mind to believe it. As if the notion that he was ok would part the clouds in his mind, illuminating the answers to the lawyers questions. 

“Look here son, we all want justice.” The lawyer had taken a few steps closer to the bench now, holding that unwavering gaze. “Now the blood reports indicate that you had quite a bit of alcohol in your system that night. All we want is to see that you can show us you were of sound mind and have the right party accused, alright? So show me that you can remember something simple, your exact getup that night.” 

Adam heard the judge besides him inhale slightly at the lawyer’s words, but she stopped short of recusing him. 

“It’s like I said, I wasn't dressed up or anything. I hardly ever wear more than a shirt and jeans, it looked close to what I’m wearing now I guess”, insisted Adam, awkwardly gesturing to his bottle green button up shirt and khaki pants. His lawyer had said to wear something that made him look younger, more sympathetic to the judge. Adam remembered his mom pulling out the green shirt that very day, mentioning that it brought out his lovely eyes, as her own filled with tears. 

The lawyer sighed. Adam felt that he owed the lawyer a stronger, more detailed response, even with the knowledge that his bungled answer had probably given the lawyer more than what was necessary to finish the case.

Adam quickly scanned the room before looking down at his hands again. His mother kept trying to hold his eye and nod encouragingly, but he couldn't bear the sight of her desperate, failing attempts to appear reassuring. 

His finger fell back into its rhythm, tracing “its ok its ok its ok” onto his rough pants. His breathing became more even as he fell into his old habit. He could feel a callus forming on his fingertip. 

“Alright, son. Forget the getup. Tell me about the street that night. Now the report says a call was made at the intersection of Arrowhead St. and 5th Ave. Can you describe the street to me?”

“Yes, there were uh, people definitely. People were out on the street.”

“A crowded street on a Saturday night.” The lawyer had a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. Adam felt blood rushing into his face, followed by another wave of embarrassment. “Why yes, I’m inclined to believe you.”

Adam felt weak. Sitting in a chair too small for him, being prodded with questions for which he seemed to have no decent response, he felt young, vulnerable. He felt an urge to answer the lawyer’s questions if only to regain a sense of confidence in himself. He wished for the confidence that accompanies answering the teacher’s most difficult question correctly in front of the whole class. That comes with describing in vivid details, the heat in the air that night as he left his car, the throngs of people listening to the live air band, the sticky surface of the bar that held onto his first drink. But there the memories stopped. They were replaced with the stuff of nightmares, all covered in a hazy cloud. Stepping into the haze was possible, yes, but it came at the cost of sanity, wellbeing, and at times for Adam, even consciousness. It was easier, oh far easier, to keep the haze where it was, to let it settle over the memories, sinking deeper as more time passed. 

Yet here, he was being asked to blow the clouds off and recall with detail each and every moment from that night. Each step, feeling, and touch from that night, so that the pudgy lawyer could definitively say that he, Adam, was right. 

Adam let out a shaky sigh, he felt his muscles contracting in his legs. He had let the clouds part for a moment, but a moment was all that was needed for the waves of nausea to overcome him, for the spasms to overtake him. He let the clouds settle again. How could he dare to bring those memories to the forefront of his mind again, knowing that just a snippet brought him to his knees?

How can you remember the very moment you have vowed to forget?