Chapter 7
I stand next to Amaya, trembling. Despite my best efforts, my body cannot stop shaking.
Thinking of what will happen to me if I’m sent off to jail twists my stomach into knots.
I’ve heard about the brazen violence, abuse, and isolation that happen on Rikers Island.
I’ve seen people beaten for just talking back to the guards.
The darkness of the cells has given way to the brightness of the courtroom, and I blink to adjust my eyes.
The dank smell has been transformed into a neutral, almost disinfectant, scent.
I notice the many people staring at me, all with looks of disdain, including the judge, a white man in a black robe sitting on his raised pulpit.
The court officers, beefy in a way that makes me think they drink protein shakes with a side of steroids all day, stand close as if at any moment I will try to run.
The prosecutor, at least twelve feet away, shifts in his seat like he’s trying to get even farther from me, with a face upturned in disgust as if I just spent the last hour mouth-breathing on him post-coffee.
Amaya faces the judge, knuckles white from her grip on the lectern.
“Court is back in session,” a voice I can’t place rings out. Whether it’s the bright lights or my dehydration, I’m developing an intense headache.
“Okay, this is the case of People versus Siriwathi Perera. Ms. Perera, you have been charged with murder in the second degree.”
“My client is pleading not guilty,” Amaya replies with conviction almost before the judge finishes.
Amaya glances over at me with a look that feels familiar.
It’s the same one my brother used to give me when he was worried about me.
It provokes a mix of warm feelings because someone cares, but also dread because she’s worried.
About me? About the outcome of this bail hearing?
About me being trapped at Rikers Island?
My spiraling anxiety is off to the races.
“Very well, let’s get on to the arraignment,” the judge directs, while looking at his phone. I wait for someone to tell him to stop looking at it. When no one does, I realize this is his courtroom. No one tells the judge what to do.
The arraignment, Amaya explained a few moments earlier when we were still in the dark cell behind the courtroom, is when I am formally charged with a crime. The prosecutor reads out the version of what they believe happened.
“On October second, at 1:20 a.m., Siriwathi Perera stabbed her passenger in her taxicab, fatally injuring him…”
No, no, I think to myself. I am horrified to be associated with this.
I want to interrupt the prosecutor and deny the charges, but Amaya tells me I cannot speak during this time.
To do so would make the judge mad, and an angry judge sets high bail.
I pray that whatever has him glued to his phone is going to put him in a good mood.
I try desperately to slow my breathing, which seems to quicken with every new word uttered by the prosecutor.
They got the wrong person. But who is the right one?
How did someone kill a passenger in my moving, locked vehicle?
So many questions are floating in my head all while I need to focus on what they are saying.
I peek behind me, and there I see my parents huddled together on the bench.
I can tell my mother has been crying. My father looks exhausted, and the bags under his eyes are deep set.
My stomach tightens at the scene. It must be breaking their hearts to see me in handcuffs.
Amaya must have called them. She said family support is a factor in how high a judge may set bail.
The beefy court officer yanks my arm, forcing me to face forward again.
The prosecutor continues. “Despite the fact that this is the defendant’s first arrest, we believe that the defendant is a flight risk because she was born in India and has significant ties to the country…”
This, I know, is the bail argument. The prosecutor is arguing why bail should be set, why I am a flight risk and a criminal who needs to spend the days until my trial in jail.
But I have never been to India. Surely the assistant district attorney is talking about Sri Lanka and confused the two.
And even if he had the right country, I haven’t been back there in years.
I couldn’t afford the ticket even if I wanted to run.
And, perhaps most importantly, I am innocent.
I don’t want to run. I want to clear my name.
I pinch myself under the flimsy illusion that this is just a dream.
I suddenly feel awful that only yesterday I was rooting for bail to be set on a suspect in my podcast—that man, like me, is innocent until proven guilty.
“The defendant committed a grievous crime. Her bail should be set at one million dollars.”
For a second, I wait for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
One million dollars and my name should never be uttered in the same sentence, unless Ammi finally wins one of the lotteries she enters weekly.
Amaya explained I will have to pay 10 percent up front.
That’s $100,000. Amaya told me the judge will probably set some sort of bail; given the grave nature of the case and the evidence against me—mainly the dead body found in the cab I was driving—it will likely be high.
I wasn’t expecting a million dollars. If bail will be set this high regardless of my past, this exercise seems entirely pointless.
She said if she can argue for it to be lowered, set at a more reasonable amount, someone may be able to pay.
I didn’t bother to repeat what I’d already told her, that my parents don’t have that kind of money.
Suddenly, Amaya is speaking. Standing next to her, I feel as if she is vibrating with adrenaline.
“Your Honor, my client Siriwathi Perera has lived in New York City for almost twenty-five years. It is the only home she has known for a very long time. She is a United States citizen. While it’s true she was born in Sri Lanka”—I hear Amaya emphasize the words and see her shoot a nasty look at the prosecutor for confusing the two countries—“she would never flee the country while this case is pending. She hasn’t been back to Sri Lanka for many years. ”
I sneak a quick peek at the judge, but he is still looking at his phone. Is he googling where Sri Lanka is in relation to India? I bet he’ll think they’re the same place like the prosecutor.
“Siriwathi has been gainfully employed as a taxi cabdriver for nearly five years. She lives with her parents and cares for them in their home in Queens. Unfortunately, her family does not have the financial means to post such an incredibly high bail, and setting it so high would mean that Siriwathi would likely spend the duration of this case in jail, on Rikers Island. Siriwathi is an active community member…”
Suddenly, I hear the snap of cameras and notice the judge stand to attention.
The clicking is rapid-fire. I turn my head just in time to see the bright flash of light coming from men with press badges dangling from their necks.
They are sitting in the audience behind me.
Were they waiting for my case to be called?
They are not in the actual space where I stand and the judge presides, but they are close enough to take clear photos.
The thought of my exhausted face splashed across the front page of my local newspaper, which in NYC means a national headline, makes me feel like the walls are closing in fast.
“After listening to both arguments and carefully considering,” the judge growls, as if trying to look even more formidable for the cameras that are still clicking away, “I’ve decided to set bail at five hundred thousand dollars. Next case.”
I’m not sure how the judge could have carefully considered everything, given his immediate decision.
I soon realize the judge made up his mind far before the arguments.
It didn’t matter that I have an otherwise spotless record, volunteer in my community, and work as a cabdriver.
None of that matters if you are accused of murder.
In just a sentence, my life is changed forever.
Bail is set. The lights of the courtroom start to swirl.
My breath quickens, and I wonder if I’m about to faint or have a heart attack.
I’d thought being innocent of this crime would keep me safe, and my naivete fills me with utter embarrassment.
I’ll be going to Rikers. I remember the police saying that people like me won’t do well there.
I shudder at the possibilities of what they truly meant.
At this moment, for the first time in a long time, I just want to hug my parents, but the officers are already dragging me away.
I look around to find Amaya, hoping there is something she can do to help me.
I see her across the courtroom speaking to a court officer.
She turns and faces me with a smile for the first time.
Her smile, in the midst of such bad news, feels like she’s in on something that I don’t understand.
I’m so confused. Have I been wrong to trust her?
Is she joking around when this is my life?
“Just hold on,” she shouts as they continue to drag me away to my cell. “It’s going to be okay.”
I ready myself for the stench of the cells, something my nose had grown accustomed to when I was back there but will have to adjust to again after the open air of the courtroom.
I assume I will be waiting and readying myself to get on a bus, handcuffs placed even tighter than they are now.
My wrists scream in agony at the thought.
I wonder if my legs will be shackled, too, or what other restraints will be forced upon me.
Will I have to bend and spread, the last shred of my dignity evaporating?
I try to steady my breathing, knowing this is a terrible place to faint.
The officer yanks me back toward the darkness of the cells.
The cameras continue to click as I leave the room.
Without warning, tears prick my eyes. I dig my fingernails into my hands, but the tears still flow.
I’ve managed to avoid crying even when threatened with a punch to the face in my cab, but I can’t keep it together now.
I’m mad at myself for showing my vulnerability when I need my tough facade most. The tears run down my face, and because I’m cuffed with my hands behind my back, they flow freely, hitting the ground as I walk.
The thought of handling what lies ahead in the next day—no, in the next hour—feels daunting to me.
I bargain with a God that I haven’t believed in for a long time to give me just one chance to find the person who did this, to make this right and clear my name.
I can’t bring back my dead passenger, but I can give him justice.
I am led into a back room and am told to turn around.
The officer fumbles with the cuffs, and I almost want to scream at him to get on with it so I can be left to cry without his prying eyes.
He looks like he feels sorry for me, but I don’t want his pity.
He grabs the cuffs and I hear a click. They feel looser, not tighter, until they are off completely.
Suddenly, I hear the words I didn’t expect to ever hear. “You’re free to go.”