Drowning Lessons
Without A Sound
Frank's POV
The months following Gerard's arrest are still a complete and utter blur for me. I went to school, didn't talk to anybody, didn't learn anything, got hustled a lot. But I didn't care. I got slammed into lockers, jeered at by crowds of school athletes, and even beaten a few times after school in the parking lot. I didn't feel it, didn't fight back, didn't cry.
I remember going to court dates, having the dates pushed back, watching as my parents and Gerard's parents found him lawyer after lawyer after lawyer. The preliminary hearing was brutal. Gerard seemed as numb and cold as I was. I didn't get to speak to him much. When I'd go to visit him sometimes we'd just sit there and stare at each other, not saying a word, not crying, not touching. Just staring into each other's eyes, trying to find some semblance of the people we were.
I don't know what he saw, but I sure couldn't find him in those dark, dead eyes.
In the hearings following the preliminary, his monotonous, unfeeling testimonies didn't seem to help him much in the eyes of the jury. They saw what anybody else probably would have seen. A remorseless killer who would probably do it again if they let him walk.
Needless to say, we'd lost hope before we'd had a chance to muster any up.
I was asked to give a testimony to how the fight and subsequent stabbing happened. It was the only time I'd felt anything in a long time.
“Mr. Iero, can you tell us what happened on the day of the murder?” the Gerard's lawyer had asked me.
“I wasn't there, so I can only tell what I heard from Gerard,” I said, trembling. Hearing the word 'murder' shook me like you wouldn't imagine.
“As this case isn't to be based on speculation, can you testify as to the way these boys,” he motioned to Rick's friends in the 'audience', “treated you and your friends over the years?”
“They were cruel to us. They don't know us and they judged us and harrassed us because of what we wore and how we looked. They beat us up from middle school to high school, always outnumbering us. They made it hard to get up in the morning,” I paused, looking at the jury, assessing their reactions. They remained blank.
“As the years went on and we all got older, the beatings only got harder, the harrassment only got worse. They vandalized our property and publicly humiliated us any chance they got,” I said, tears beginning to roll down my cheeks. My voice was unsteady. I hoped I was sounding more traumatized than disturbed.
“Vandalized your property? How so?” Asked the defense lawyer.
“They spray painted profanity on one of our cars. I guess it was only that one time.”
“What kind of profanity?” he asked
“Objection, your honor! That's hardly relevant!” the DA interjected.
“Sustained. Stick to what matters, Mr. Larson,” said the judge.
“He spray painted faggot on the side of Gerard's car!” I shouted before Mr. Larson could ask another question.
I heard murmurs coming from the jury and the crowd. They were clearly appalled at what the jocks had done. Whether that swayed their viewpoint either way I wasn't sure at that point.
“Thank you, Frank. Please step down,” Larson said.
In the conference room during the recess, I realized that Larson hoped it had.
“That was beautiful, Frank. I'm certain the more I can 'accidentally' let the witnesses let things like that slip, the better. I couldn't have asked for a better performance,” he said.
“Performance? Is this a game to you? Entertainment? A kid's life is at stake, and you're saying we should all perform beautifully to trick them into giving the right verdict?” said Mrs. Way incredulously. I was beginning to dislike this greasy lawyer.
“No, that's not what I'm saying at all. They won't let us just toss around random facts during testimony. I need to be going somewhere with everything, and small details like that don't matter to them. Until they hear it.”
The rest of the trial proceeded normally, with no outbursts or 'grand performances'. They adjourned and the jury retired to their meeting room.
Those particular two months moved very quickly. More seemingly unnecessary trials, testimonies, conferences, recesses, and statements from the lawyers. On the last day, Gerard's lawyer gave what I'm sure he thought was quite a stirring closing statement. He painted a picture of two boys, who never did anything to harm anyone until they were simply pushed too far. There is only so much we as humans can take, he said, and Gerard's actions were simply what he needed to do to protect himself and his friends.
The jury seemed unmoved.
The D.A. gave a similarly passionate closing statement, stating exactly the opposite of everything Gerard's lawyer had. Everyone gets bullied, and we all deal with it in different ways. Do we all go killing our tormentors? No. Should we allow those that do a second chance to possibly do it again? Absolutely not.
After three hours of statements, and three and a half more hours of jury deliberating, my heart nearly stopped as they reappeared and filed back into their benches.
“Will the jury please read the verdict,” said the judge.
My blood ran cold and I broke out into a sweat. Gerard sat in front of me, rigid, head up, shoulders straight. The room was completely silent. One of the jury members slowly stood up, taking her time, loving that all the attention in the room was locked on her, knowing our next moves would be based solely on her words.
“We find the defendant, Gerard Way, guilty of murder in the first degree, armed robbery, resisting arrest, and the kidnapping of seventeen year old Frank Iero.”
Somewhere behind me, Donna Way screamed.
The months following Gerard's arrest are still a complete and utter blur for me. I went to school, didn't talk to anybody, didn't learn anything, got hustled a lot. But I didn't care. I got slammed into lockers, jeered at by crowds of school athletes, and even beaten a few times after school in the parking lot. I didn't feel it, didn't fight back, didn't cry.
I remember going to court dates, having the dates pushed back, watching as my parents and Gerard's parents found him lawyer after lawyer after lawyer. The preliminary hearing was brutal. Gerard seemed as numb and cold as I was. I didn't get to speak to him much. When I'd go to visit him sometimes we'd just sit there and stare at each other, not saying a word, not crying, not touching. Just staring into each other's eyes, trying to find some semblance of the people we were.
I don't know what he saw, but I sure couldn't find him in those dark, dead eyes.
In the hearings following the preliminary, his monotonous, unfeeling testimonies didn't seem to help him much in the eyes of the jury. They saw what anybody else probably would have seen. A remorseless killer who would probably do it again if they let him walk.
Needless to say, we'd lost hope before we'd had a chance to muster any up.
I was asked to give a testimony to how the fight and subsequent stabbing happened. It was the only time I'd felt anything in a long time.
“Mr. Iero, can you tell us what happened on the day of the murder?” the Gerard's lawyer had asked me.
“I wasn't there, so I can only tell what I heard from Gerard,” I said, trembling. Hearing the word 'murder' shook me like you wouldn't imagine.
“As this case isn't to be based on speculation, can you testify as to the way these boys,” he motioned to Rick's friends in the 'audience', “treated you and your friends over the years?”
“They were cruel to us. They don't know us and they judged us and harrassed us because of what we wore and how we looked. They beat us up from middle school to high school, always outnumbering us. They made it hard to get up in the morning,” I paused, looking at the jury, assessing their reactions. They remained blank.
“As the years went on and we all got older, the beatings only got harder, the harrassment only got worse. They vandalized our property and publicly humiliated us any chance they got,” I said, tears beginning to roll down my cheeks. My voice was unsteady. I hoped I was sounding more traumatized than disturbed.
“Vandalized your property? How so?” Asked the defense lawyer.
“They spray painted profanity on one of our cars. I guess it was only that one time.”
“What kind of profanity?” he asked
“Objection, your honor! That's hardly relevant!” the DA interjected.
“Sustained. Stick to what matters, Mr. Larson,” said the judge.
“He spray painted faggot on the side of Gerard's car!” I shouted before Mr. Larson could ask another question.
I heard murmurs coming from the jury and the crowd. They were clearly appalled at what the jocks had done. Whether that swayed their viewpoint either way I wasn't sure at that point.
“Thank you, Frank. Please step down,” Larson said.
In the conference room during the recess, I realized that Larson hoped it had.
“That was beautiful, Frank. I'm certain the more I can 'accidentally' let the witnesses let things like that slip, the better. I couldn't have asked for a better performance,” he said.
“Performance? Is this a game to you? Entertainment? A kid's life is at stake, and you're saying we should all perform beautifully to trick them into giving the right verdict?” said Mrs. Way incredulously. I was beginning to dislike this greasy lawyer.
“No, that's not what I'm saying at all. They won't let us just toss around random facts during testimony. I need to be going somewhere with everything, and small details like that don't matter to them. Until they hear it.”
The rest of the trial proceeded normally, with no outbursts or 'grand performances'. They adjourned and the jury retired to their meeting room.
Those particular two months moved very quickly. More seemingly unnecessary trials, testimonies, conferences, recesses, and statements from the lawyers. On the last day, Gerard's lawyer gave what I'm sure he thought was quite a stirring closing statement. He painted a picture of two boys, who never did anything to harm anyone until they were simply pushed too far. There is only so much we as humans can take, he said, and Gerard's actions were simply what he needed to do to protect himself and his friends.
The jury seemed unmoved.
The D.A. gave a similarly passionate closing statement, stating exactly the opposite of everything Gerard's lawyer had. Everyone gets bullied, and we all deal with it in different ways. Do we all go killing our tormentors? No. Should we allow those that do a second chance to possibly do it again? Absolutely not.
After three hours of statements, and three and a half more hours of jury deliberating, my heart nearly stopped as they reappeared and filed back into their benches.
“Will the jury please read the verdict,” said the judge.
My blood ran cold and I broke out into a sweat. Gerard sat in front of me, rigid, head up, shoulders straight. The room was completely silent. One of the jury members slowly stood up, taking her time, loving that all the attention in the room was locked on her, knowing our next moves would be based solely on her words.
“We find the defendant, Gerard Way, guilty of murder in the first degree, armed robbery, resisting arrest, and the kidnapping of seventeen year old Frank Iero.”
Somewhere behind me, Donna Way screamed.