I did. So what's the point?

I walked into the courtroom three minutes late and saw him sitting there on the right. I had to catch my breath. I was already nervous on the way. Woke up nervous. It was the first time I'd seen him since he tried to kill me, two hands to the neck style. And the first thing I noticed (again) was just how big he was. Ogrish, actually. Like Michael Meyers without the mask. Like just his skin itself was enough. I thought it looked even more cratered, pasty than before. The blue collar protruding from a dark polo. The matted greasy hair and those heavy black shoes. A big man. Still makes me wonder how I managed to break free of him that day, not once but twice. Or three times, maybe. I could hardly look at him now. I left the courtroom and pressed my back against the cool window. And waited for my prosecutor. For direction. He walked out into the marble corridor and sat there like he was waiting for the subway, hunched over his Blackberry and sometimes smiling under his breath. Talking to his wife, nodding at his lawyer. I was having a hard time focusing on what I was going to say and how I was going to say it. I saw the cop who had filled out the report that day and referred to him as a wounded puppy after the fact. I saw the prosecutor and his lawyer walk into one of those small rooms with the frosted windows.

And when the deal was presented to me, I was relieved. And why not, when the option of prolonged trial and sentencing would likely only lead to the the same outcome conclusion. Especially when the judge would hear what an otherwise upstanding citizen he was. Church goer, business owner with Air Canada contracts to boot and sufferer of depression. At least this way I would be issued an apology in court, in front of the judge. And get the choice of the charity. I chose a victim's charity. I explained to my lawyer that I just wanted the court (the world) to know his real intention that crazy day was to shut me up for good - nothing less. But how could I get that recognition? He didn't seem to have an answer. So I decided to take his advice and settled.

I'm settling. There's no other way to say it.

I've been staring at him, sitting much farther down the hallway now. Far enough that we can't even make out the direction or intention of each others' eyes. I swear I made out a little smirk on his ugly face, maybe caught his wife shaking her head in some form of disapproval I hope I will never understand. But I keep on staring. This is my closure. That and the $350 donation, of course - above and beyond even the wildest of my prosecutor's wildest ambitions. I thought it was a touch cheap but who am I to say?

I'm sitting in the courtroom taking in mindless conversation about the Gaspé. I feel more calm and at peace now. I watch a couple of drunk drivers, one shoplifter and a couple of women gladly plead guilty in accordance with their own out-of-court settlements. (My prosecutor seems to be an expert at avoiding the courtroom altogether) Finally he's back and we're up. Frank makes his way before the judge with his back toward me. I can see him wringing those large hands again, closer now. His lawyer explains the history. The details have all been smudged: Parties had a disagreement related to said business, there was an event that followed and now my client would like to issue an apology. It all rang so hollow. He turned to me and said: "Robert, I've had a lot of time to think about what happened that day and I'm truly sorry. I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me. And we move on."

There was no emotion in that statement. It came out awkward and left me feeling slightly uncomfortable, then cheated. It was that kind of canned apology a kid will make when forced by his mother. I didn't respond and found it difficult to look him straight in the face.

I just sat there, not really feeling like a winner or a loser.