Chapter 5

Locke stood up, his knees still auditioning for the role of "world's wobbliest." Clearing his throat, he glanced at the jurors, each representing an emotion he felt multiplied by ten in this moment. "So, um, about those memories," he started, his voice carrying the uncertainty of someone who's about to explain why they brought a cat to school for show-and-tell.

"Firstly, the art show," Locke ventured, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "I admit, I might have come off a bit... overly proud. But, you see, I was really nervous. And sometimes, when people are nervous, they say things like, 'I'm the best artist since sliced bread.' Wait, that's not right. Since... well, you know what I mean."

A few jurors exchanged glances, while sadness began to sob, perhaps in confusion... or something.

"And about the birthday party," Locke continued, his cheeks reddening at the memory. "I just really hate losing. Plus, I heard somewhere that great leaders take charge!" He scratched his cheek shyly, "Though, I guess hogging the video game isn't exactly leading, more like... being a game hog."

A murmur of laughter rippled through the courtroom, even the judge seemed to suppress a smile.

Locke, encouraged by the slight shift in the room's atmosphere, pushed on. "What I'm trying to say is, everyone has moments they're not proud of. Like when you accidentally call your teacher 'Mom' or when you trip and fall, but try to turn it into a jog like nothing happened."

The jurors, now visibly more engaged, watched as Locke fumbled through his defence, his earnestness shining through the awkward analogies.

"I've learned a lot since those memories. Like, sharing is actually pretty cool. I get to see my brothers smile, and there are fewer moments of them going, 'Locke, you're such a controller hog.' Plus, I've been practising being less boastful." He counted his fingers thoughtfully, "I only mention my natural talent, like," he raised two fingers towards the jury, "twice a day now!"

He took a deep breath, "In conclusion," Locke said, his voice gaining a bit of strength, "I may not be the perfect person yet. I'm only ten. I've got a lot of growing up to do. And I think... I think my quirk could help me become better. Not just for me, but to help others too."

As he finished, the courtroom was filled with a mix of amusement and contemplation. Even the prosecutor appeared momentarily thrown off by Locke's unconventional, yet heartfelt, defence.

The judge, after a moment of consideration, nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Lamora. Your... unique perspective has been noted. After a short break, you may present your own evidence."

Locke, now slightly buoyed by the lightened atmosphere his defence had created didn't feel the minutes pass as he stewed in his chair. It wasn't until the gavel came down that he snapped out of it and stood up once more, rounding the desk and standing before the jury. Clearing his throat, he prepared to present his evidence with the gravity of a ten-year-old who had just realized he could argue back.

"Okay, so, we've established I've made some mistakes," Locke began, giving the prosecutor an exaggerated glare, causing the jury to chuckle. "But I've also had moments...good moments. Like, really good moments that I think should count for something." He motioned with a dramatic flair, and the courtroom's walls shimmered, ready to display his memories.

"Exhibit A," Locke announced, trying to emulate the prosecutor's authoritative tone but sounding more like he was introducing a magic trick. The scene that unfolded was one of Locke at a local park. He was younger, helping a clearly younger and frustrated child learn to tie his shoelaces. The patience and encouragement Locke showed were evident, his usual braggadocio absent.

"I remember that day," Locke said, a hint of pride in his voice. "I didn't even brag about it later. Much."

Before the jurors could fully digest this display of kindness, Locke rushed on to his next piece of evidence. "And then there's Exhibit B." The scene changed to a classroom setting, where Locke could be seen sharing his lunch with a classmate who had forgotten theirs. The simple act of kindness was underscored by the genuine smile on Locke's face—a stark contrast to the arrogance previously shown.

"These moments," Locke continued, "they're part of who I am too. I mean, yes, I've been a bit full of myself, but doesn't everyone have their ups and downs?" He looked around, hoping his point was hitting home.

"But here's the thing," Locke said, shifting gears. His tone took on a more serious edge, and he paced slowly, mirroring the prosecutor's earlier gravitas. "I'm not just arguing that I can be nice. I'm saying I learn. I adapt."

He snapped his fingers, and the scenes on the walls shifted to show Locke listening intently to a teacher, then later, applying those lessons in a group project, leading his team with a newfound humility.

"I learned from my mistakes. That's gotta count for something, right?" He shook his head, his heels clicking together as he stopped before the jury. "So, no matter how much the prosecution attempts to twist my memories to fit their narrative," he stabbed a finger towards the blonde man, "in the end, my goal remains the same. To become the best version of myself." he declared, turning to the Judge and nodding, "nothing further your Honor."

Locke, with a hint of swagger, approached his desk. He had planned a triumphant glance towards the prosecutor, a sort of "take that" smirk. However, his confidence faltered mid-stride as he caught sight of the prosecutor's reaction.

Clap... Clap... Clap...

The sound echoed mockingly through the courtroom, each clap a deliberate, taunting slow beat. It felt like a cheer for someone who had spectacularly missed the point, each clap stripping away Locke's newfound confidence, peeling it off like scales from a dragon under a blacksmith's hammer.

"Does the prosecution wish to counter?" the judge asked.

"Yes, Your Honour." Springing from his seat with the grace of a theatre actor taking centre stage, the prosecutor made his way to the forefront. He came to a halt before the jury, a dramatic pause in his step. Turning towards Locke, he pointed a finger, letting it hang in the air, a silent but deadly arrow aimed straight at its target.

"Truly, a marvellous performance by Mr. Lamora," he proclaimed, his voice dripping with irony as he sidled up to the wooden railing dividing him from the jury. Leaning in, he cast a conspiratorial glance at Fear, huddled in its shadowy corner, and smirked. "He really wasn't joking about his knack for rapid adaptation, was he?" Though the words seemed to be meant for Fear, the barb struck Locke directly.

The prosecutor took a step back from the jury, his gaze sharp and calculating. The room was thick with anticipation, every spectator and juror leaning in, as if drawn by the gravity of his presence.

"Now, let's take a closer look at Mr. Lamora's actions thus far," he began, his voice smooth, yet laced with venom. "Our young defendant has presented himself as quick to learn, adaptable, and, dare I say, humble in the face of his mistakes."

He paused, allowing the words to hang in the air, a baited trap waiting to be sprung.

"However," he continued, the word slicing through the silence like a knife, "one must wonder if these moments of self-reflection and humility are as genuine as Mr. Lamora would have us believe. Or if they are, in fact, calculated acts of manipulation, designed to endear himself to us."

The courtroom was still, the tension palpable.

The prosecutor paced slowly, letting his accusation simmer. "Consider his justification for the art show," he said, casting a glance at Locke. "Was his acknowledgement of arrogance not a clever ruse? A way to appear self-aware and thus more likeable?"

He didn't wait for an answer, his rhetorical question hanging in the balance.

"And the birthday party," he continued, his voice rising in conviction. "Claiming to hate losing as a justification for selfish behaviour. Is this not a masterclass in manipulation? Framing his flaws in such a way that we might excuse them, find them relatable, or even... endearing?"

The jurors shifted uncomfortably, the seeds of doubt taking root.

The prosecutor stopped pacing, standing still as a predator ready to pounce. "Mr. Lamora has made an art of victimizing himself before us, painting a picture of a boy so earnestly striving for improvement that we cannot help but root for him."

He leaned closer to the jury, his expression one of grave concern. "But in doing so, he manipulates our emotions, playing us as one might play a fiddle." He swatted at the air before him, his face contorted in shock, as if he was hearing his own words for the first time. "He asks for understanding, for patience, for a chance to prove himself. Yet, in asking, he subtly asserts control, guiding our perceptions to see not the truth of his character, but a carefully constructed facade."

The prosecutor's gaze swept over the jury, each member now wrestling with their thoughts, their emotions. "Is this not the very definition of manipulation? To influence, to shape the opinions of others for one's own benefit?"

He let the question simmer, the implication clear. Locke Lamora, in his attempt to defend himself, had unwittingly revealed a more sinister aspect of his personality.

"Thus," the prosecutor continued, his tone sombre yet triumphant, "we must question not only the actions of Mr. Lamora but the motivations behind them. Is he truly the remorseful, aspiring hero he claims to be? Or is he a more calculating, manipulative individual, using our empathy against us?"

Locke, sitting amidst a storm of accusations, felt a chill run down his spine. The prosecutor had turned his defence inside out, painting him not just as arrogant and self-centred, but as a cunning manipulator. It was a twist he hadn't seen coming, a narrative he hadn't anticipated.

"Now... let's delve into Mr. Lamora's 'evidence,' shall we?" the prosecutor said, his voice smooth, oozing confidence. "While at first glance, his actions might seem altruistic, a closer inspection reveals the cunning of a wolf dressed in sheep's clothing."

The second piece of evidence Locke had presented—a moment where he shared his lunch with a classmate—was projected onto the wall. The prosecutor paced in front of the image, pointing at Locke's smiling face in the memory. "Here, we see Mr. Lamora sharing his meal. Or so it appears. But notice the crowd around him, the attention he garners. Is this generosity, or a calculated move to enhance his social standing? To paint himself as the good-natured student in the eyes of his peers?"

Murmurs ran through the courtroom as the scene shifted, now displaying Locke helping a younger boy with their shoelaces. "And here," the prosecutor continued, "a seemingly kind gesture. Yet, let's not overlook the subtle glances towards the camera in the distance, the awareness of his audience." the man shook his head in disbelief, "this isn't just help; it's a performance, with Locke as the star and director."

As each scene unfolded, the prosecutor twisted the narrative, watering the seeds of doubt and suspicion he had planted. He painted Locke's actions not as genuine kindness but as strategic manoeuvres in a game where Locke always sought to come out on top.

"But let's not stop there," the prosecutor said, his voice taking on a grave tone. "Mr. Lamora's 'adaptability' and 'quick thinking,' as he so humbly puts it, might indeed be his most dangerous traits." The jurors leaned in, captivated and wary.

"Consider this," the prosecutor waved his hand, and the memories shifted to Locke's interaction with the jurors during his defence, highlighting his moments of humour and humility. "Even now, in this courtroom, he plays the part of the misunderstood hero, using his wit and supposed sincerity to manipulate not just the narrative but your emotions, esteemed jurors."

He paused for effect, letting his words sink in. "Is this not the hallmark of a true manipulator? One who veils his ambition and self-interest beneath a cloak of feigned vulnerability and charm?"

The courtroom fell silent, the jurors casting uneasy glances at one another.

"In conclusion," the prosecutor stated, stepping back and folding his arms with a look of triumph, "Mr. Lamora's actions, when observed without the rose-coloured glasses he so generously provides, reveal not a hero but a protagonist of his own design. A master of manipulation, adept at bending the narrative to his will."

The ensuing quiet was deafening. A phantom ringing that dug into Locke's ears.

As the prosecutor reclaimed his seat, Locke remained unbearably still, a statue frozen mid-motion, his internal storm mirrored by the sudden chill in the courtroom atmosphere. The weight of the prosecutor's words settled over him like a shroud, their implications echoing off the ancient walls, whispering accusations of manipulation and deceit.

Locke's gaze swept the room, catching the shifts in the jury's expressions. Where once there was amusement, or at least a wisp of curiosity, suspicion and scepticism took root. Their looks, once warm or neutral, seemed colder, more calculating. Even Fear, who had been on the receiving end of the prosecutor's smirk, now regarded Locke with a renewed intensity, its shadowy form seemingly denser, more oppressive.

The judge's call for a break felt like a reprieve and a condemnation all at once. "We will take a short recess. The prosecution will continue after," he announced, bringing the gavel down with a finality that echoed Locke's heartbeat in his ears.

As the courtroom began to empty, Locke's fingers twitched, the urge to sketch, to release his swirling thoughts onto paper, overwhelming. It was his way of processing the world, of making sense of chaos. Yet, here, in the centre of a trial that questioned his very nature, his hands felt as if they belonged to someone else—trembling, unsure.

The judge's departure broke Locke's thoughts, his robes sweeping behind him like the closing curtain of an act in a play. The courtroom, now a quieter stage, left Locke alone under the spotlight's unblinking scrutiny.

He found himself absently tracing patterns on the wood of the defence desk, lines and shapes that morphed into abstract expressions of his turmoil. Locke's mind raced, replaying the prosecutor's words, each one a brush stroke in the portrait of a manipulator he didn't recognize. Was he truly what the prosecutor claimed? A puppeteer pulling on the heartstrings of the jury for sympathy? The thought gnawed at him, a relentless spectre of doubt.

His heart pounded, a rhythmic reminder of his vulnerability. For a moment, he felt very much his age, a ten-year-old standing in the shadow of a towering accusation. The room seemed to close in, the air thickening, making each breath a labour.

A surge of frustration welled up within him, his wavering optimism battered but not broken. He was ten, for heaven's sake. Were his mistakes so unforgivable, his attempts to grow so easily construed as manipulation? The very notion seemed absurd, yet the courtroom had been swayed. And Locke, with his love for art, understood too well the power of perception. Once painted in a certain light, it was nearly impossible to convince people to see you any differently.

He needed a plan, a way to counter the narrative that had been spun around him. But how? His mind raced, ideas and strategies flitting through like shadows at dusk, elusive and intangible. He needed to remind them, somehow, of the earnestness behind his actions, the genuine desire to be better.

It felt like an instant. The courtroom reconvened and gavel sounded and the trial resumed, Locke standing at the precipice of judgment, an artist in a courtroom. The prosecutor had called him to the stand.

The air felt thick, charged with an undercurrent of dread that Locke could hardly breathe through. He walked to the witness box, each step feeling heavier than the last, his heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.

Was this allowed? How could this be allowed? He screamed in his head, yearning for a response that never came. He felt the cool bench beneath him, it didn't creak or bend or move so much as an inch.

The prosecutor wasted no time, launching into a barrage of questions that felt more like accusations. "Mr. Lamora, let's discuss the circus incident, shall we?" His tone was deceptively casual, but his eyes, his eyes were sharp, predatory.

Locke swallowed hard, nodding. "Okay," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Would you say you enjoy being the centre of attention?" the prosecutor began, his question seemingly innocuous but loaded with implication.

Locke hesitated, sensing the trap. But he could not lie, the judge would know. "I... I guess? I mean, sometimes?" His response was tentative, his usual confidence nowhere to be found.

The prosecutor pounced on the uncertainty. "Interesting. And on the night of the tragedy, you were indeed at the centre of it all, weren't you? A real hero's moment."

"I... I didn't mean to be," Locke stammered, the prosecutor's relentless gaze bearing down on him. "I was just trying to help."

"Ah, 'just trying to help,'" the prosecutor echoed mockingly. "Yet, in your own words, you admit to seeking out these 'hero moments.' Doesn't that strike you as, let's say, manipulative?"

Locke's mind raced. How had his words been twisted so? "No! That's not what I meant!"

The prosecutor ignored his protest, continuing his ruthless interrogation. "Let's delve deeper, shall we?" He waved a hand, and the memories of that terrible day played in their entirety. Locke watched Delilah's pinned form, and tears immediately flooded his eyes, blurring his vision.

He didn't want to see that, his hand trembling as his fingers dug into his knees.

"You claim to have been driven by a desire to save Delilah, yet isn't it true that you've always craved the spotlight? That this was just another scene in the drama of Locke Lamora?"

Locke felt a panic rising, a storm within that threatened to break free. "No, you've got it all wrong—" he insisted, but his voice cracked.

The prosecutor leaned in, his voice a venomous whisper. "Or perhaps, Mr. Lamora, you saw an opportunity in the chaos, a chance to play the hero, consequences be damned." he flicked his hand for emphasis. "After all, what better way to escape the shadow of your mother than to create a spectacle of your own?"

Locke's breath hitched, the accusation hitting too close to home. Locke's head throbbed, his vision blurring at the edges as he fought to maintain his composure. His earlier defiance had evaporated, leaving him exposed, vulnerable. He glanced at the jurors, searching for any sign of belief, of understanding, but found none. They saw him through the lens the prosecutor had crafted, a lens that distorted his actions, his intentions, his very character.

"Mr. Lamora," the prosecutor continued, his voice smooth and unyielding, "let's revisit the moment when you decided to intervene against the clown. What exactly went through your mind?"

Locke's throat felt tight, the memories surging like a storm. "I... I just wanted to help," he croaked out. He could hear it, his repetitiveness.

The prosecutor smiled thinly, a predator sensing the vulnerability in his prey. "All you seem to want to do is 'to help,' or is it... to be seen helping? There's a notable difference, Mr. Lamora. Which was it?"

Locke flinched, the implication stinging like a slap. He searched for the words, but they seemed just out of reach, tangled in a web of doubt the prosecutor was weaving around him. "I didn't think about it... I just acted, I just wanted to save her," he finally said, his gaze dropping to his hands, which were now severely trembling.

"Ah, a spontaneous hero then," the prosecutor mused aloud, turning Locke's declaration of instinct into something self-serving. "Yet perhaps you wanted to be the saviour, the hero in your own tragic tale, regardless of the risk to others. Is that not a form of selfishness, Mr. Lamora?"

"What do you—" Locke started only to be cut off.

"—But tell me, in these acts of 'heroism,' did you consider the potential consequences, or was the allure of the spotlight too compelling?" The prosecutor stabbed, eyes narrowing.

Locke's heart raced, panic tightening its grip. He could hear the scepticism in the prosecutor's tone, feel the eyes of the jury on him, measuring, judging. "No, that's not it at all," he protested, his voice rising in desperation.

Locke's sense of self-doubt grew. Was he really the person the prosecutor described? Was his desire to help at the circus tainted by a deeper need for recognition, for validation? The thoughts whirled in his mind, a cacophony of guilt and confusion.

The prosecutor leaned in, "Isn't it true, Mr. Lamora, that you've always felt overshadowed by your mother's legacy? That, perhaps, this was your chance to shine on your own?" the prosecutor asked, his voice a silk-coated dagger.

Locke's fists clenched involuntarily at the mention of his mother again. This was too far, too personal. He could feel the pressure building, a dam ready to burst. "That's not fair," he whispered, his voice cracking with the strain of holding back his emotions.

The prosecutor, sensing the crumbling of Locke's resolve, pressed on mercilessly. "Fair? Or is it simply the truth? The truth that you've been running from, Mr. Lamora?"

"No..." Locke weakly shook his head.

The prosecutor didn't let up, stabbing his finger in Locke's direction, "that you would rather use someone on their death bed, just to satiate your hero complex."

"You're wrong!" Locke growled,

"You are no hero Mr. Lamora,"

I DON'T... want to be one,"

"Of course not, just a villain in sheep's clothing."

"NO!"

"YES!, you are only a self-serving parasite, right?!"

The gavel rang yet Locke heard nothing afterward.

his world narrowed to a pinpoint, a single moment of clarity amidst the chaos. The injustice of it all, the twisting of his pain and fear into something unrecognizable, something monstrous, became too much to bear. With a cry that was half-rage, half-despair, he slammed his fist into the table, the sound echoing through the courtroom like a gunshot.

"I JUST WANTED TO SAVE HER!" he exploded; his voice raw with emotion. "You weren't there! You didn't see what I saw, feel what I felt! How dare you turn that into something ugly?" The memories of the circus, of Delilah's pain, of his own terror, all mixed with the prosecutor's twisting words, overwhelming him. Tears finally streamed down his face freely.

The silence that followed was complete, oppressive. Locke stood trembling, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. In that moment, he was laid bare, his emotions stripped down for the courtroom to see. The vulnerability he had fought so hard to conceal was now on display, a testament to the prosecutor's skilful manipulation.

He took a breath and it all came crashing down upon him. Heads turned, whispers filled the air, and for a moment, Locke was acutely aware of every eye on him. He stood there, his fist still pressed against the wood, breathing heavily, the last vestiges of his composure shattered.

The prosecutor stepped back, a satisfied glint in his eye, having successfully provoked Locke into revealing the raw, unfiltered emotions he had been trying to keep at bay. Locke realized then, with a sinking heart, that he had played into the prosecutor's hands, allowing his emotions to betray him in front of everyone.

"As you can see," the prosecutor hissed, his finger aimed at him, "Mr. Lamora is just... a boy. an emotional, unhinged, self-serving and manipulative boy. But a boy nonetheless. And is, therefore, far from worthy of such an enormous responsibility that is this quirk. Nothing more your honour."

At that moment, Locke felt utterly defeated, not just by the prosecutor's words, but by the war raging within him. The battle for his identity, his truth, seemed lost, drowned out by the narrative that had been so expertly woven around him. He was left to grapple with the pieces of himself, uncertain and exposed, in the harsh light of the courtroom's judgment.

And then, mercifully, it was over. The prosecutor concluded his examination with a smug satisfaction, confident in the narrative he'd constructed. Locke was dismissed from the stand, a shell of his former self. He stumbled back to his seat, the weight of the room's judgment pressing down on him.

As the judge called for a recess, Locke couldn't move, couldn't... think. He sat there, lost in a haze of fear and doubt, the echoes of the prosecutor's words haunting him.