The trial was as silent as the funeral. Observing benches were filled up with homeless people coming for a quick nap and some of Gran’s friends.

Mother was referred as “the victim”, “the disabled”, “the woman”, “the unfortunate”, “the dead one”. Never by her name.

It was stiffy in the Courtroom, despite the lack of bodies. Gran wore a black dress, her graying hair knotted in a tight bun. We sat at the front seats, in the Witness box.

After the Crown, the Defence stood with a flourish, his voice echoed. With each of his words, the inside of me recoiled tighter and further into itself, wishing to nothing more than disappear.

“The boys had no gain in killing a dying woman. There was nothing in the house for them to steal, she was living in a run-down place. The boys simply break into due to curiosity and intoxication at the time. The trail of fingerprints, shoe prints and broken glass matched the boys’ path as they described in their confession.”

Gran’s expressionless face slowly deteriorated with each of the Defender’s arguments. I refused to acknowledge the fleeting awe-struck expression from the Crown and the judge, and instead focused on a bleached spot of wood on the rail in front of me.

My conscious automatically counted the Defence Lawyer’s steps as he prowled back and forth.

One, two, three, four, five. Turn. One, two, three, four, five. Turn. One, two, three, four, five.

Turn.