Essay by smiddi10Junior High, 8th gradeA, May 2004

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Justice is blind. It cannot see the truth. The truth that I am innocent. Wrongly accused of a callous murder. There I stood in the middle of a courtroom surrounded by strangers. Strangers who are just about to decide whether I am worthy of a descent life or not. Thoughts were racing through my head. What would my family think? What would become of my children? What is going to happen to me? The courtroom stood with perfect synchronicity signalling the entrance of the judge and jurors. The air was full of tension as the crowd sat down, anticipating the outcome with unsure faces.

I was unsure of what the next moments held for me. The case had been close, the main evidence against me was a smeared fingerprint, found on a gun just outside the house with blood of the victim on it. The only problem with the fingerprint was that it wasn't mine.

But it was one expert's opinion that the print was mine and that I was a liar and a murderer.

The judge stood up, raising his hefty frame out of his throne. He was a large man, with glasses and a stressed out face which had taken a battering from being in an emotionally draining position for a number of years. He cleared his throat, silencing the whispers from the crowd.

"Has the jury come to a decision?" He asked.

"Yes, your honour," replied one of the jurors.

"Read the verdict."

My moment of truth had arrived. I knew I was innocent, but did anyone else?

"The jury finds the defendant... guilty on the charge of murder."

I was horrified. So horrified that I just stood there staring at the ground. The chill of the handcuffs being attached to my...