Berlin

Monika walked through the wall. All these years, then just like that.

No more climbing, no more digging. No more dying. Neither the first nor the last, she walked because the radio voices said she could. Because the music was calling, her friends were yelling, and the crowd was laughing for reasons they could not explain.

As the singing, the cheering, and the scattered clanks of hammers and chisels softened behind her, she wandered. She finally noticed the sour smell of cabbage she had lived with all her life, because it was gone.

The cars changed. Buildings changed. Even the walk signals changed -- chubby, charming men with brimmed hats replaced by blunt icons of order in a city with so many other reasons to be happy.

No more Stasi. No more fear. No more simplicity.

From then on she embraced the imperfect rewards of freedom.

She walked from gray into color.


{Get 151 word stories on Twitter}

The Trial: Indisputable Facts

On October 2, 2005, in the basement, near the keg, during an off-campus party thrown by some Wentworth College students, a young man named Joe mistakenly bumped a kid from Mission Park and there was a burst of tension, the kind of idiotic flare-up that happens when beer meets testosterone.

Joe had come from the suburbs to hang with friends and wasn't going to let something so stupid ruin his night. He went upstairs with his buddies.

Outside the kitchen a few minutes later, the guy Joe had bumped reappeared with a posse, at least one of whom had a bandana covering his face and a baseball hat pulled down to his eyes. They shoved Joe, threatened him, backed him against the wall. Then one of them stabbed him seven times in the gut.

The crowd panicked and fled as Joe bled to death, and his killer disappeared into the chaos.

Continue: I, The Juror

Read all of The Trial | {Get 151 word stories on Twitter}

The Trial: I, The Juror

The building had a mix of bureaucratic shabbiness and judicial majesty found in courts everywhere. I walked in hoping to be dismissed early, but still curious enough to be truthful.

The judge started with some questions for the room that did nothing to get me off the hook -- when she said celebrating Rosh Hashanah was a legitimate reason to be excused, half the room converted to Judaism.

Before long I was at the bench facing Her Honor, the assistant DA, the defendant, and his lawyer. "Your questionnaire says you've been mugged, robbed, and assaulted," the judge noticed. "Was that all one incident?"

"No, your honor. They were all separate incidents."

"Wow. Unlucky. Would that bias you against the defendant?"

"No. He didn't do it."

She smiled. "Have a seat."

Like that, I was a juror on a murder trial. It took several boring hours for the rest to be chosen.

Continue: His Peers, and Mine

Read all of The Trial | {Get 151 word stories on Twitter}

The Trial: His Peers, and Mine

It took all day to seat 12 plus alternates, and the judge chastised prospects putting self above duty: "I don't believe you. I don't want a liar in my jury or my courtroom. Get out." Others were excused for legitimate reasons.

In the end, Poke got a jury of his peers. There was the retired white teacher who became our forewoman. The black fireman who'd been met with slurs and bricks when his school bus arrived in Charlestown in 1975 (he's never been back). A middle-aged plumber type who'd been arrested as a young man. "That was a long time ago. Have a seat," said the judge.

One woman lived in a project, like Poke. Another walked in Boston's annual March for Peace. I briefly fantasized the youngest woman would make things more interesting. Then she proved to not be that interesting.

Together with the rest, we took our responsibility seriously.

Continue: Witnesses of Various Worth

Read all of The Trial | {Get 151 word stories on Twitter}

The Trial: Witnesses of Various Worth

Only lawyers know why they call the witnesses they do.

Most were at the party when Joe died but didn't see it happen. And...?

One testified he knew he wasn't drunk because he still had some beers left in his Friday night 12-pack. The judge laughed though we couldn't.

An expert showed a knife everyone agreed wasn't used to kill Joe. They'd found it in Poke's home.

A detective provoked an urgent and sustained "Objection!" for saying he worked in the gang unit. It's the, ahem, Youth Violence Strike Force.

Then there was Chris. Chris mattered. He'd been flown in from an Army base in Germany and, wearing his dress uniform, wept as he told a roomful of strangers his First Aid training failed his best friend. Like a movie, he held Joe in his lap and begged him to hang on. The ambulance was too slow, and death too indifferent.

Continue: Joe We'll Never Know

Read all of The Trial | {Get 151 word stories on Twitter}

The Trial: Joe We'll Never Know

At a murder trial, the most important person isn't there.

We saw Joe's bloody t-shirt and counted the knife holes. We heard from the last people he spoke to, and the friends he'd gone with. People Joe had never met testified about seeing him killed. Nobody said a bad word about him. Nobody talked about a hidden dark side or blamed him for bad decisions that put him in harm’s way.

I confess that when I hear news about young people being killed in the city, I quickly assume they brought trouble upon themselves. But Joe didn’t “deserve it."

His parents were always in court. They didn't speak. His Mom fought constant tears, and his Dad silently wrapped his arm around her shoulders. When I remember their faces, all I see is pain.

Their son was a friendly guy having fun at a party. I think I would have liked him.

Continue: Poke the Defendant

Read all of The Trial | {Get 151 word stories on Twitter}

The Trial: Poke the Defendant

Etanis is his real name. Everyone called him Poke. The judge instructed us not to speculate.

His friends had nicknames, too (“Country” was born in the Midwest) and were well-known to the party hosts. Apparently, no matter where you are, teenagers make nice with college kids offering free beer.

After the trial the internet told me Poke had a criminal record. In the courtroom he was a blank slate, presumed innocent. An old picture shown despite the objections of his offensively-minded defense attorney, Rosemary Scapicchio, showed Poke with mildly menacing cornrows. On trial he wore a suit with his hair pulled back in a perfectly harmless man-tail.

Poke didn’t speak. He never took the stand. His emotionless expression never changed and his attention never wavered. We never learned much about his family or his life.

He was an unknown. We were there to decide whether this stranger was a knife-happy murderer.

Continue: Star Witness #1

Read all of The Trial | {Get 151 word stories on Twitter}