A Closing Argument

Pictured: May it please the court.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have heard from the prosecution on a number of things. And they have used the facts to paint me in a certain light. I'm not mad; that's their job. As it is their job to get a guilty verdict.

I'm about to make their job really easy. I did what they said I did. I stole the car. On purpose. Fully knowing what I was doing. Should make for a quick deliberation; you might be out in time for lunch! But before I release you to find me guilty, I want to briefly give some context as to why things occurred the way they did. From there, I'm at peace. Do what you think is fair.

Objection? Your Honor, I am basically pleading guilty in this closing argument. I merely am asking for my day in court... Fine; I'll try to hurry it up.

I've been a bit... shall we say... down on my luck lately. I work from before sunup to well past sundown almost every day. I barely get any time off for rest, much less anything else in life. And that led me to a horrible place mentally. The days felt empty. I was just struggling.

Eventually, that led me to start thinking of alternatives. Though I didn't want to die, death felt like a much better alternative to what my life was. But the permanence of death was daunting. I wasn't ready for that kind of commitment.

Then I remembered the government summer camp program. Well, that's not what they call it, but it's a place to just exist and think on matters. From what I can gather, the food isn't great and the other clientele can be an issue. But if I could just keep my head down, it would be great to finally have the time to just stop and reflect, you know?

Another objection? Fine. I can move on to the actual theft. I appreciate the court's patience and accommodation. I know this is a bit unorthodox. Thank you Your Honor; I'll continue.

So I decided to steal a car and immediately turn myself in. Assuming I grabbed a cheap enough car (the older ones are easier to hot wire anyway), I'd be looking at a year in jail. That sounded amazing. I found a car that fit the bill in a local parking lot.

I took the car, hot-wired it, and drove it across town. The following evening, I turned myself in at the local police precinct. I explained that I had stolen a car and that it could be recovered at the new parking lot. They took me into custody and I figured it would be pretty open and shut.

I should have known something was up once the questioning started. I already basically gave a confession, so I wasn't sure what else was needed. But they said it was just to close out a few details, so I figured it should be okay.

That's when I found out about the baby in the backseat. In my defense, I didn't hear a peep the entire time. But that hardly matters. What followed next, the prosecution has already told you in vivid, hour-by-hour detail.

Every night since then, I've kept wishing I would have just checked the damn backseat. Or turned myself in sooner. Anything that would have prevented this from happening. But here we are. A child is dead with only me to blame.

Why does the prosecution keep objecting? I am basically doing their job for them at this point! Okay; I promise I don't have much left.

The duration of my stay in jail is going to change significantly from that one year I was hoping for. As you will hear the judge say shortly, the minimum sentence if you find me guilty is something like 50 years. But, based on the looks on all of your faces, I assume that where I realistically will end up is either life in prison or the death penalty.

Every day, this haunts me. I keep letting the "what-ifs" tear me up inside. I keep wondering what would have happened if I'd just picked another car. If my mental state was in a bad place before, it's horrible now. I may physically be in prison, but the place I truly feel trapped is within my own mind. I am truly sorry beyond words but that doesn't really change anything now, does it?

So, of those two options, I would rather die. I fall upon the mercy of the court and jury: Please, end this.