"The jury has agreed that Ms. Jane Beau is guilty of all murders," one man said, standing from his seat. The others around him have either avoided my gaze or stared right at me with hatred and disgust. I let out a sigh; the man began listing the names of the victims, wasting his time, to be honest.
Eighty-six. Eighty-six lives I took with my own hands, eighty-six families I ruined—their words, not mine; eighty-six faces and names I didn't care to remember.
"Ms. Beau?" I looked away from the jury and met the eyes of the judge, who was an overweight black man, no older than fifty, wearing a wedding ring on his left hand. His partner must really like a man with hair as his upper lip disappeared under a bush of dark whiskers and his double chin sported the same hair.
"I'm sorry, I doze off there," I said, leaning into the mic. I could hear the gasps of the people behind me, and soon, mutters of the same people filled the room.
"I can't believe the nerve of her."
"Is she being serious?"
"No respect. No remorse for what she has done."