I Didn’t Do It — I’m Innocent. I am an innocent man. I didn’t do it…
By: Ryan Fan
Tags: True Crime, Crime, Fiction, Justice, Short Story

Fiction

I Didn’t Do It — I’m Innocent

I’m the devil incarnated, Satan on Earth. I’m the duplicitous, murderous ex-boyfriend. Nothing I say is credible.

Photo by Pablo Padilla on Unsplash

I am an innocent man. I didn’t do it. Everyone thinks I did it, and there’s all this evidence here. Max even agreed to be an eyewitness against me in court, but I swear to you: I didn’t kill him.

Here’s the story that Max is peddling against me in court — I killed Lyle because I was so mad that he broke up with me. Because of my Saudi Arabian heritage, I wanted to cover up the killing from my parents, who would have had my throat if I was dating and having sex, with a man. I couldn’t handle rejection, and the problem was, this was after 9/11. The jury ate it up.

Nevermind the fact that they never tested the DNA. Nevermind that they found someone else’s blood. I was a convenient suspect, and I don’t know what to do.

I have been in prison since. My lawyer said I was lucky I didn’t get the death penalty, and that I should have taken the plea deal to avoid the risk.

It’s been 30 years. I don’t expect to get out now. It was rough in the beginning and I saw my fair share of fights — after all, I have a first-degree murder conviction. I should have taken the plea as my lawyer said. Now, I’m fine. Moustache — I don’t know his real name, also got a life sentence, and he said to let him know if anyone messed with me. Ever since, and that was about 18 years ago, I haven’t had any problems.

But I didn’t do it — why should I take the plea if I didn’t do it? Why is the justice system the way it is?

Here's what happened: it was after school, and I went to Wal-Mart to buy medicine for my mom. Patrice saw me at the Wal-Mart, but he was never called to the stand. None of the employees there testified either — and when the media caught hold of the case, I can’t blame them.

I saw horrible things said about me, all over the news. One reporter from the Jurtown Times called me the “Muslim Menace,” and no one was going to speak out for me. It was October 17, 2001. I knew what my parents wanted to do at all points — keep a low profile. They didn’t want to be associated with their gay son.

They showed their faces as minimally as possible. It was easier for them to just give up on me. Jurtown is 20 minutes outside the city — a couple of people’s fathers, husbands died as first responders to the attacks. I saw the looks kids gave me in school, the looks they gave my parents when they went to the store.

Keep a low profile. I did that from my parents too. They didn’t want to see me at all. Up until that day, I led a prayer at the mosque, and I had straight A’s, and a near-perfect score on the SAT. I got a couple of questions wrong in reading to bring me under the threshold, but I was the kid they wanted me to be.

I applied in the first round of admissions to Cornell, Brown, and Johns Hopkins. With my grades, being on the basketball team, and scores, the guidance counselor said I was a shoo-in.

And I wanted Mom and Dad to keep seeing me as perfect. I didn’t want to disappoint them. That’s why I didn’t want to tell them about Lyle. We had a bit of an incident during prom —my parents saw me and Lyle, holding hands. They had their suspicions, but I was convincing enough to show them that I and Lyle barely knew each other.

We broke up then because Lyle didn’t like how I didn’t want to tell my parents. It hurt a lot — Lyle meant everything to me. But he met a guy in the newspaper club, Justin, that he spent a lot of time doing layout. We broke up at the harbor, and then a couple of weeks later, he and Justin started dating. He seemed happy, so I wanted to be happy for him, but I couldn’t deny that silently, I had a feeling of rage — after all, who wouldn’t?

And then Lyle disappeared. I don’t remember when it was, but I just remember his mom calling me to see if I knew where he was. Apparently, Lyle told his mom about me, and she was supportive of everything. I wish I could have had the same courage.

I saw him by the bleachers after school, but I didn’t know where he was later. After all, I was at Walmart at the end of the day. I wouldn’t have seen him after school if I was, anyways. Detectives called my house the same night — I told them the same, and they thanked me for my time.

They found his body a couple of days later, buried in a park a couple of miles away. Justin got pulled out of class time and time again because obviously, he was the prime suspect. I was 16, so for some reason, I thought I was clear. After all, I was at Walmart, and I thought there was going to be someone vouching for me.

It’s not like I didn’t wonder where Lyle was. I missed him, and he was gone. I planned a memorial at the school for him but in secret. I still didn’t want my parents to know. I let Justin take the credit. Justin seemed like he just didn’t want to talk about it. He and I weren’t talking at the time, so I had enough distance, and I understood it was just too fresh for Justin.

A week later, they started questioning me. I told them everything I knew. They seemed really nice. Detectives Jackson and Paul seemed like they wanted the best for me. They talked to my parents and said they just wanted to cover their bases.

One night, they knocked on my door. They stopped being nice. They kicked open the door and barged into my room. Paul pointed the gun at me, and Jackson put me in cuffs.

I was put into a cell almost immediately. I received the charge — first-degree-murder. What? I had no idea where Justin was. I didn’t see who did it. And then came the trial.

My parents never forgave me. They didn’t hire a lawyer. They took money out of my college fund. I was on my own, so my only option was a public defender. Justin claimed I mutilated Lyle’s body and tortured him before he died, and he even cried on the stand.

My God, what a fucking liar, I thought.

Justin apparently had a rock-solid alibi. He was working at Blockbuster after work — his timecard and his manager confirmed it. I just recently found out that Justin’s manager was his mom— why did they never look into that? Just because his mom has a different last name doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have checked his relations.

But Fitzgerald never brought Patrice to the stand. I don’t know why. My parents have never spoken to me in the past 30 years. I don’t know why, but I just felt helpless. I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know what to feel.

It’s clear who I am now. I’m the devil incarnated, Satan on Earth. I’m the duplicitous, murderous ex-boyfriend. Nothing I say is credible. And to my ultra-religious parents, to their community, I’m the one going to hell.

I used to care a lot about what they thought, but now I’m at peace with my God. They don’t matter to me anymore. Only the truth matters.

I didn’t do it — I’m innocent. And I just wish someone would believe me.