All about POV: Notes from the second prep session

“Room 313”. Mom’s voice keep repeating herself in my head. Room 313 she said. I stood in the doorway of the school and watched all these people scurry past me with no one making eye contact. They were all strangers and I kept looking for anyone that knew me. No such luck, so I reluctantly stepped forward and into the maelstrom of foot traffic and slowly, reluctantly walked straight ahead for room 313.

It took a moment but I found the room numbers. They weren’t etched into the frosted glass like at my school. Here they were on a small white sign, just to the side and above the door knob of these dark oak doors. 142 this one said, 141 the next.

“Kid! Are you lost?” said a deep booming voice behind me. I said nothing and twisted around looked up. He was an teacher. I knew this because he was wearing a tie. Kids didn’t wear ties.

“What room are you supposed to be in?”

I continued to look up and then simply lifted my hand with the crumpled piece of paper in it that had the instructions on where go. He took it and scanned it.

“Trumpet contest is on the third floor, room 313. Follow me kid.” He turned and headed upstream, against the flow of foot traffic. I was afraid I would loose him so I scurried off after him. He wasn’t hard to loose really, being a head taller than any of the kids wondering the halls - carrying or practicing their instruments. We passed a bunch of flute players, all playing the same song. Some classical piece I think. I had been practicing “Greensleeves” on the trumpet, as had everyone else in the 4th grade all over the city, and today we were going to see who was the best at Greensleeves. Playing trumpet wasn’t my favorite activity of course but I learned the song just so Mom would stop bugging me about this contest and how important it was to show everyone that I was good at it. Especially Dad who wasn’t sure it was money well spent for such an irritating instrument that sounded, to him like an elephant run over by a bulldozer. But mom made sure I could play Greensleeves well enough to justify her decision to bring a little culture in to the family.

“Here Kid, up these stairs to the third floor, then just find room 313.”

The teacher didn’t even wait for me to say thanks before he took off. I dragged my trumpet behind me letting it bang against the stairs as I dragged it up the stairs. Bang, bang, bang as I climbed.

The third floor was much like the first floor; kids in the hall were playing trumpets this time. Room 301. Looked like 8th graders. I didn’t recognize the song coming from room 301. Room 305 was 6th graders, because there I saw Brian’s O’Malley’s older brother Dave.

“Brian’s down there”, he pointed down the hall and I finally saw someone I recognized and hurried down the hall to just outside room 313. It was finally reassuring to see a friends face in this strange school full of strange people. Dave put his trumpet to his lips and began playing the song he had practiced for weeks just for this day.

“What’s that you’re playing?”

“Ode to Joy” he said.

From inside room 313 I heard the same song and then the slow realization that the song on the flip side of Greensleeves was the song I should have been practicing all these weeks. It was just then when the door to room 313 opened and another teacher stuck his head through the door and I heard my name called.

I was not the last time I’ve fainted in public.

Here is my story (from the exercise on presenting a skeptical POV from the setting of a crime case involving a defense attorney):

I sat there quietly and looked at Sam Watterson. He was an older man, not very tall, with greying hair and perhaps looking somewhat a bit unsettled. I didn't blame the guy--after all, he was accused of murdering his wife of fifteen years.

"I am innocent," he told me. "You do believe me, don't you?"

I gave him a measured look. "Mr. Watterson," I began.

"Sam. Please call me Sam." He looked down and away. "All my friends do."

"Erm, yes. Mr. Watterson," I said. "The charges brought against you are very serious; and I have to tell you that the District Attorney has put together a very ... solid case against you. So I need to ask you again. What do you want to plea?"

"I'm innocent." But his voice was softer and perhaps there was a note of uncertainty.

"You are aware, are you not, that if you plea innocent and then are found guilty, the resulting sentence is likely to be far more serious than if you plea guilty to a lesser charge?"

"What lesser charge?"

"The DA has agreed to offer you a plea bargain. If you agree to plea guilty to the charge of second degree murder, he has agreed not to push for the death penalty."

Mr. Watterson looked at me. "I thought there was a moratorium against the death penalty in Illinois."

"Yes, there is currently; however, that is likely to be dropped after the elections this November and I have to tell you as your lawyer that you are at serious risk."

"It wasn't premeditated," he said. "In fact, I am innocent of the charges."

"Mr. Watterson," I strove for calmness. "I am your defense attorney. It is to your benefit to be as candid as possible when you are talking with me. I will tell you that nothing that you say can surprise me; and everything that you tell me is strictly under the bonds of attorney-client confidentiality."

I added, dryly, "Unlike the statement you gave the arresting officers, what you tell me will not be used against you in a court of law."

"You don't believe me, then." A quiet statement of fact. "I want a new defense attorney."

"Mr. Watterson, you have the right to ask for a new defense attorney; however, I will tell you that my record is very good; you are unlikely to find an attorney that will increase your chances of success."

Silence. I tried to look compassionate while maintaining a professional look.

...