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I replay our conversations from that day, her demeanor, our argument before she dropped me at the curb. The way she looked at me after I told her it was over between us.
I shift in my seat, feeling a tingle at the base of the neck.
Thatlook.
There is something about Sylvia Stone that intrigued me from the start, drew me in. Not in the way you may think. She is an attractive woman, yes, but there is something more to Miss Stone, deeper, that emanates from her. Weird vibes, my mom would call it.
I remember the way she looked at me, watched me like a hawk, during the trial. There was an eerie calmness, a detached iciness in her eyes that sent a chill up my spine. At times, her gaze on me was so intense that I swore I could feel it. An invisible beam, an alternative way of communicating that only she could manifest. Like she was speaking to me with those deep brown mysterious eyes.
What? What had she been trying to tell me? If anything at all?
I remember a story she’d told on the witness stand, of she and her mother. When asked by the prosecutor what she and her mother enjoyed doing together (conjuring sympathy from the jurors), she’d said baking. This spun into a painfully long narration of their baking teamwork, their favorite recipes, the secret ingredient in their famous “Stone Cookies.” A Stone favorite, of course. Midway through a story about fruit cake, she just stopped. Stopped talking, like a doll whose battery just fell out.
The entire courtroom went silent. The type of silence where you can hear white noise in your ears.
Her body began to tremble, her chin, shoulders. Tears started streaming down her stoic, expressionless face. Then, she doubled over and vomited on the floor, a splash of chunky pink goo.
Court was adjourned for the day and Sylvia was rushed to the hospital where she was treated overnight for a panic attack and ulcers.
I’d felt the same weird vibes from her the second I saw her when I showed up at her house after being released from prison. Red flags ignited—keep your distance. But I needed information on the letters she’d received. And yes, I will admit, when I realized Sylvia’s interest in me went beyond surface level, I used this to my advantage.
I’m not proud of this.
The more time we spent together, the more I was able to observe her behavior. I made note of her constant need to apologize. Her social isolation, her low self-esteem. The guilt that seemed to plague her about the trial, about locking up an innocent man.
Were the letters really the turning point? Was this when she realized I didn’t do it?
As I pull into Sylvia’s driveway I can’t help but wonder…
Has Sylvia known all along that I didn’t do it? Or, at the very least, did she have doubts?
I search my memory, replaying the day she testified on the witness stand.
The day Sylvia Stone put the final nail in my coffin.
28
State versus Rhett Cohen
Courtroom Transcript
Clerk: Please stand. Raise your right hand. Do you promise the testimony you are about to tell before this court shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?
Miss Stone: I do.
Clerk: Please state your first and last name for the record.
Miss Stone: Sylvia Stone.
Clerk: Thank you. You may be seated.
Deputy DA: Miss Stone I have a few follow-up questions from the statement you gave yesterday. Is that okay?
Miss Stone: Yes.
Deputy DA: In your transcript you stated that you saw the defendant, Rhett Cohen, at your mother’s house on January 17, 2002. Is this correct?
Miss Stone: Yes.
