The courtroom is not a space conducive to comedy. For
one thing the ceiling is too high, too much space for jokes to
float up and fade. And then there's the layout, the way the various
people--judge, defendant, prosecutor, jury--are isolated in their
zones. Laughter is like a virus, more easily spread when people are
in proximity to each other, and the only person anywhere near
me is Barry, my lawyer.

Not that I'm in the mood to try out any new material, even if
Barry hadn't hinted that levity is a bad idea when you're charged
with manslaughter by saying, 'The only one who gets to be funny
in here is the judge and if the judge is funny I'm allowed to laugh,
but you aren't. You are going to be as serious as ass cancer.'

The viewing area is empty, the judge's decision to prevent a
'spectacle.' I didn't object, and neither did Barry, which is odd
because he seems to enjoy an audience almost as much as I used
to. Because I'm famous, there's been high demand to see the trial.
Depending on the news outlet this is either the trial of the year
or the decade. I am a top story every night. There are at least ten
Web sites dedicated entirely to the trial's goings on, reporting the
tiniest of minutia. There are daily tweets on what the jury orders
out for lunch. A large crowd hoping for a glimpse of something
interesting gathers in a roped-in designated free speech area out
in front of the courthouse every day. On the cable news crawl you
will find my name scrolling by at five minute increments. Apparently,
I spark the synapses of the national consciousness.

Crowds used to be my thing, but lately, I sometimes like to
imagine myself as the main character in one of those postapocalyptic
movies where there is only one person with one loyal dog
companion left on Earth and that vision feels pretty damn good,
relative to the present circumstances anyway.

No, two people. I would like there to be two people left on
Earth (with or without the dog), me being one of them.

Barry and I must now enter and leave the courthouse from
below ground in a car with dark windows because otherwise the
paparazzi would never allow us down the courthouse steps. They
would slowly melt me to a puddle under the heat and glare of their
camera lights.

As is, when the car leaves the underground garage, they stand
in front of the vehicle, blocking its way until they get more than
enough pictures. They seem willing to risk their lives for these
pictures (of the car, not even of me since the windows are blackened),
one hand braced on the car's hood while they fire away with
their cameras, defying the car to run them over.

I killed a man, that's not in doubt. We're not arguing about that.
I said as much to the first cops on the scene when they approached
with their guns and their f lashlights drawn, the guns aimed at my
torso, the flashlights focused on my hands, because it was in my
hands that I still held the gun and they asked, 'Did you shoot this
guy?' and I said, 'Yeah.' And one of the cops said, 'Hey, I know
you,' and the other cop said, 'Me too.'

In the mug shot that you've probably seen I look blottoed, crazy,
my hair electrified, my eyes sunken deep into my skull, but it's
important to remember that it was raining and I was wearing a
hood and there's a certain amount of shock associated with being
arrested, even when you've done nothing wrong.

Plus, I was in love.

The trial is to determine if I had to shoot the man, if it was selfdefense,
if it was justified. It is illegal to shoot someone because
you...