2 Months After massacre

I tried to absorb every word that left my father and Raymond. They'd been speaking nonstop for the last twenty minutes, caught in one another's crossfire of words, before they'd retreat back and let the other speak. By the time we were ushered into the courtroom my brain was so busy trying to wrap itself around all that'd been said that I didn't budge until I heard Attorney Steele from the prosecution stand say, "I'd like to call to the stand, Ms. Everly Rodgers."

The astonished gasps and weak, muffled cry of my mother followed me all the way to the stand, my eyes trained on Judge Montez straight ahead to keep myself from looking to Clark at my right.

The Bailiff looked to me as I approached, "Do you solemnly affirm that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

Lifting my right hand, I nodded and managed a quiet, "I do."

As soon as I had pulled out the chair, Judge Montez, looking up from the stack of files before her, said, "Please state your name for the court and spell your last name for record."

Swallowing hard, I touched my hand to the microphone only to have feedback echo through the room. Once I'd fixed it, I leaned forward and said. "My name Is Everly Rodgers. Last name R-O-D-G-E-R-S."

Judge Montez didn't look up this time. "Mr. Steele, you may proceed."

I watched Attorney Steele step out from behind his podium and parade his way toward me at the Witness Stand. His dark eyes softened a little with every step he took in my direction. "Just to state before the court and have on record, Ms. Rodgers, you are the younger sister of Clark and Franklin Rodgers, correct?"

Hearing Frankie's name sent a icy shiver straight down my spine. "That is correct, sir."

"You lived with your brothers in your home in Lincoln Heights, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

Attorney Steele stopped a few feet in front of me and said, "Given that you were in their presence daily, did you ever notice anything concerning about either of their behaviors?"

Before I could find it in me to speak, my eyes flickered to Clark at the Public Defense table. Unlike the last time we'd all been in this court room, he wasn't a slouched mess, but had sat upright, tense, and was watching me with an undecipherable look in those cold eyes. Just looking into them had my left hand curling into a fist.

"Yes." I managed to force out, tearing my eyes from Clark and looking back to the lean, middle-aged man before me.

"What was that?" he repeated, and I faintly heard Judge Montez say something about the microphone through the slight buzzing that had started in my ears.

I adjusted it once more and louder said, "Yes, their behaviors were concerning."

"It says here that Clark was suspended fifteen times between the beginning of his Freshmen year and the end of his Senior year. Is that correct?"

Though I'd never counted, that sounded about right. "Yes, sir."

"And these were on accounts of violence, correct? Fights, arguments, disagreements."

"Yes, sir."

Attorney Steele began to retreat back toward his podium, but asked, "Ms. Rodgers, do you remember where you were the morning of May 28th?"

How could I ever forget?

"Yes, sir. I was in my Chemistry classroom taking my final exam."

"Do you remember the room number?"

"208 sir."

I straightened, my eyes flickering to the crowd. I felt my shoulders slump forward seeing my father. He was blinking rapidly, but it wasn't stopping the tears that continued to fall.

"Ms. Rodgers, this was a photo taken on scene moments after S.W.A.T had done a sweep of the school." Attorney Steele set a super imposed 8x10 photo of Brady on the wood in front of me. I instinctively turned my head to the right to avoid seeing one of the many images that would forever be burned into my mind. Only, it did nothing but send me staring into the dark, dead eyes of my older brother.

"Can you please confirm for me that this is Brady Bowers?"

I wanted to scream in his face that this wasn't Brady. Not the Brady who'd once sat with a grin on his face as he continuously got dunked at a children's hospital fundraiser to ensure the kids raised the money needed. Not the Brady who had everyone smiling the second he entered the room. The photo before me was a boy who had his face, but the life and light were no longer in him. His entire body was ashen, his eyes wide open, but lacking any sort of life. Blood soaked through his shirt and across his neck and along his chin, covering the outer edges of his mouth.

The crimson was the only color in the photo.

"Ms. Rodgers, this is Brady Bowers, correct?"

I lifted my head a fraction, my eyes moving passed him and to Mr. and Mrs. Bowers sitting in the second to last row behind Hilary, clutching one another with silent tears shared between them.

"Yes, sir. This is Brady Bowers."

"He was a friend of yours, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

Attorney Steele edged closer with another 8x10, asking, "You stated that you were in Room 208 when the first gunshot was heard. According to the footage we pulled from the hallway, that was the first classroom Clark Rodgers went into. Is that correct?"

"As far as I'm aware, yes." I responded.

He then says, "And in the cafeteria, footage shows many of the male students and faculty trying to bust the lock from the inside, is this correct?"

"Yes, sir."

Then, as if they had absolutely no conscience or heart, they set a super-imposed photo of Miles on the podium in front of me. I'd been there, but something about seeing an photo of it made it all the more real and I immediately reached for the tissues and brought them to my mouth in fear I might get sick. It was shot from a higher angle than how I'd seen him from the ground a few feet away, pieces of his brain lay scattered around his mess of dark hair and blood encased his body. I rested one of the tissues over the photo as my body started to tremble in response to seeing it. Attorney Steele either didn't my reaction, or pretended as though he hadn't, because he continued.

"This was another victim, Miles Baxter. You were close with him as well, correct?"

The little bit of me I'd been able to hold together up until this point finally broke. Tears started to blur my vision, my bottom lip quivering no matter how hard I bit into it. The entire room remained silent in anticipation of my next word, and though I didn't look his way, I could feel Clark's eyes burning into the side of my head.

"Ms. Rodgers?" Attorney Steele repeated.

I nodded, using the tissue balled up in my hand to wipe the tears from my face. "Yes, sir. He was my boyfriend."

"Given the brutality of this murder in comparison to the other victims, it appeared as though this may have been personal. Did Miles Baxter and Clark have any problems prior to May 28th."

"Yes, sir. They never got along."

To my relief, Attorney Steele looked to Judge Montez and said, "No further questions, your Honor."

Just when I thought I'd be released and let back into the crowd and not be held up before everyone to watch me fall apart, the judge exchanged words with Clark's Public attorney, Felix Holloway, and he made his way out from behind his podium, straightening his tie.

"Ms. Rodgers, how are you this afternoon?"

Was he seriously asking that question?

"Not great." I responded honestly.

He moved in closer, almost in a preying motion, and asked, "You and your brothers were close growing up, yes?"

I refused to look at anyone as I answered. "We had a typical brother-sister relationship."

"But you spent a lot of time around each other, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

Attorney Holloway made a wide gesture with his arm in Clark's direction. "You stated in a previous statement to Mr. Steele that your brothers' behaviors were concerning."

"Yes, sir, I did."

"Given Clark's history, it is apparent that he struggled with a lot of mental illness." Attorney Holloway adds, "Did your brothers ever receive help for their concerning behavior?"

My eyes immediately found my parents, but they had both shifted, so they were sitting upright, alert and watching everything intently.

"No, sir."

"So you're telling me that both of your brothers exhibited behavior that was disconcerting and never received any sort of help for it?"

I wanted to deny his words, to give an explanation as to why they hadn't received the help needed, but I knew I couldn't utter more than a yes or no response. "That's correct sir."

Attorney Holloway looked to the crowd this time as he continued. "Clark Rodgers is sick. He spent much of his life with mental illness that was never addressed. He was bullied by his peers and abused by his father."

"Objection!" Attorney Steele called, but Judge Montez dismissed it and Holloway went on.

"Who's to say that Franklin Rodgers didn't coerce Clark into all of this?"

I opened my mouth, then quickly slammed it shut as Attorney Holloway approached me once more.

"Objection!" Attorney Steele tried again, but I was too lost in thought to hear what both attorneys and the judge were saying.

Raymond and Dad warned this was a possibility, that the Public Defender would find a way to twist his words in a way that messed with my head and had me playing into whatever game he was trying to play so the Jury would feel sympathy for my brother. Actually, sitting here, before the man, I felt nothing but disgust for him.

How could someone be inhumane enough to defend a monster like Clark? To find all and any justifiable causes for him murdering forty-one innocent people?

There was evidence left and right that Clark was sane of mind and this had been planned. Notebooks full of names, a school map with X's all over it. Hell, I was sure, seeing the interaction between the two in the school that morning, that it was quite the opposite of what Attorney Holloway had just said. Clark had probably somehow blackmailed or coerced Frankie into doing this with him, not the other way around.

"No further questions, Your Honor."

*

I pressed my head into my father's chest as we watched my mother hug her scarf around herself and sink to the ground in uncontrollable sobs.

They hadn't even given us the final verdict on Clark's sentencing yet.

She had broken down as soon as we stepped outside of the courtroom and refused to even look at me.

By the time we were called back in for the Jury's final decision, I was leaning forward, my elbows pressed into my thighs, on the verge of the same breakdown my mother was trying to recover from.

Judge Montez looked out over the crowd and said, "I want to start this off by thanking each one of you that gathered with us over the course of this Trial, so we were able to have a fair trial. I believe in one way or another, every one of us was in some way affected by this tragedy and I feel that is why it has shaken the nation to its core. I cannot begin to fathom how the direct family and loved ones of those lost have been affected. Nor any of the victims. I just wanted to thank you all for coming here today."

She then flips through the pages and looks directly to my brother, my father and me straightened so we had a clear view.

"The sentence of court is as follows." She said, swallowing hard, "Count one of the indictment, the murder in the first degree of Miles Baxter. The court imposes a sentence of death."

A choked sob escaped me at the words that left her mouth but was surely drowned out by my mother sobbing loudly beside me, shaking her head repeatedly.

"Count two of the indictment, the murder in the first degree of Brady Bowers. The court imposes a sentence of death."

This continued for over forty people before she moved forward on to each count of attempted murder my brother was to be charged with. It was when she said my name that everything finally fell into focus for me again.

"Count fifty-six of the indictment, the attempted murder in the first degree of Everly Rodgers. The court imposes a sentence of death."

I had spent two months trying to outrun Clark with every breath I took, seeing him, feeling him, hearing him and every round of bullets he sent out of that AR. But as I watched the officer grasp his arm roughly, he slowly turned to look back at me. I half expected there to be a look of remorse, of regret over his actions as he'd heard and seen firsthand over the last couple months just how much his actions had affected those around him. But he didn't even blink, he just stared at me, cold, dead, gone-the empty shell of a once sweet little boy. I wanted to shout after him, to scream and cry, and beg to understand why he'd done what he did. But it would be no use. That night he'd told me to let go, that I shouldn't see any good in him, I should have listened. Because if I had, forty-two people would still be alive-and I wouldn't be wishing to be dead every second of my life.