I was caught in the standard wrong place, wrong time.
They wouldn’t hear I hadn’t done the crime.
They took in my face, my clothes, my race,
but when it came to evidence there was no trace.
Media mayhem then ensued,
it was entertainment, not the news.
Fame wasn’t all it was made out to be
and I wasn’t fond of the paparazzi.
My fate in their hands no way to fight it,
their minds were set, they had decided.
With their clear disdain and hateful chants,
I entered the dangerous legal dance.
Dressed in a suit, I felt a fool,
no longer a person I was a tool.
Stereotypes flying, emotional strings pulled,
my defense charged the jury like a raging bull.
As the jury adjourned to decide my fate
there was nothing left but to sit and wait.
Whatever their verdict my life was over
when I was hated by my only daughter.
When the wait was over, with a weight on my shoulders
and a lump in my throat as large as a boulder,
I looked to the Judge, his glare left me terrified
and I felt there and then that mercy had died.
The spokesman’s gaze locked with mine
and his sympathy made me start to cry.
The words “not guilty” echoed through my head,
mercy at last, it wasn’t dead.
The lawyers escaped to their very next case,
so I turned to the gallery, looking for a friendly face.
I searched but there was no mercy in their eyes,
it seems it doesn’t matter what the jury decides.