I have a TON of work to do; this definitely is not my best writing. My theme isn't very clear, and I need to add characterization. I think I also need to add a flashback scene to make the conflict clear. 

It could begin any moment. Tension strangled the air in the courtroom while nervous voices chatted quietly. Cameras shuttered, a bullet piercing my head with each click. There he stood, oblivious to the situation. He nonchalantly scratched his head, unaware that he had shattered my life into a mosaic where the pieces of tiles formed nothing but a mass of confusion. Anger consumed me. The grand wooden desks were his only armor to my wrath.

 Interrupting my tantrum, the gavel pounded a systematic call, summoning the citizens to a quicky achieved silence. 

        “All rise.” commanded the bailiff. He reads his script, and the trial began, leaving no time for my tornado of emotions to unwind. 

        “Good morning. Calling the case of Mr. Matthew Whitt versus Miss Claire Johnson.” stated the judge in a monotonous voice. Are both sides ready?” The trial proceeded with the jury taking the oath. Beside my lawyer whom I had only briefly met, adjusted the collar of her navy blue blazer, preparing for her opening statement. 

        “Your Honor and ladies and gentlemen of the jury- the defendant has been accused of attempted rape.” Her bold voice was a gunshot through the heavy air. “Evidence of his behavior are supported by a witness, as well as a dropped knife matching his fingerprints.”

        I sat through endless discussions of evidence and what was circumstantial and what was not while my mind raced. No, he didn’t hurt me as bad as he could’ve, which I was thankful for. But to convince a room full of men would be nearly impossible. However, there are other women out there who have not been served justice. And I want to bring change to this society. 

        Finally, it was my turn to provide my evidence. “Ms. Kendall Johnson, please come forward.”

        I picked up my brick feet and dragged them to the podium where my interrogation would begin. I recited my side of the incident, just as I had rehearsed for hours in place of sleep. In front me, I face the attorney of the opposing party. 

Where were you going on the evening of the 25th?” asked the public defender. His pale skin furrowed, determination racing through his body. 

“I was walking down past the bar to run errands.” I said. Vague, but true.

        “And you were alone?”

        “Yes, sir.”

        “Where were you going, specifically?”

        “Down to the bank to deposit a check, and to the post office.”

        “What were you wearing?”

        What was I wearing? The question repeated in my head. My blood began to boil. 

“How is that relevant to the case?” I fired.

“Answer the question, please.” he said firmly, creating an uneasiness in the room. 

“Well,” I began, gritting my teeth. “It was a chilly night- after all it was September- so I wearing a school sweatshirt and a pa-”

“Objection. I refuse to believe you weren’t showing any skin.” Behind me, voices began to whisper. 

“Sir this is not like the case down South. And even so, no justi-” 

“You were calling attention to yourself, obviou-”

I found myself beginning to yell. “My clothes do not define my character!” He doesn’t reply, prompting my rant to continue. 

“I am a young teenage girl growing up where the male gender is favored.  I live in a society where when I tell a man no, a third person has the nerve to ask me if it was because my dress was too short. I find it sad that when I tell someone the truth that I said no, and  I didn’t want to go anywhere with him, they still believe it’s my fault. Just because I am a female does not mean that I am denied the rights and respect every other man in the world has.”

The last of my words echo off the marble walls of the grand building. Tears blur my vision and threaten to diminish my composure. The judge clears his throat. 

“Do you have anything else to ask?” said the judge. 

The public defender shook his head. “No Your Honor.” I walked back to my seat and waited for the closing statements to begin. 

I remained silent for the remainder of the trial, smoke still trailing from my ears. What seemed like hours later, the judge dismissed the jury to decide the verdict.” Again, we waited, with authorities constantly shifting around, tapping fingers in a cadence on the desks. Sweat glistened from the fluorescent lights. I glanced at my watched every few minutes. 

After an eternity, the jury reentered the room. Immediately I sat up straight, eager to find out. Sweat trickled down many of their middle-aged faces. 

“After much deliberation,” a man began, “we have come to the conclusion, that Mr. Matthew Whitt, is in fact, guilty.”