Final Decision

Breathless with terror, she entered the courthouse using the badge she was given. Twenty-seven-year-old Laura Jenkins, pregnant mom of one didn’t know what to do. She bypassed the metal detectors and X-ray machines, a privilege given to grand jurors. She headed up to level four of the courthouse where the grand jury convened.

She struggled to hold back tears as she took her seat behind the table beside another juror. She buried her head in her phone to avoid conversation but her home screen was a picture of her three-year-old son, Oscar. Her eyes filled again and the lead weight of panic filled her chest, squeezing until she couldn’t breathe.

She’d received the text immediately after. From a number she didn’t recognize, the test read: Do NOT call the police. If you do, you will never see your son alive again. We have a task for you. If you perform this task satisfactorily, your son will be returned to you Monday. If you call the police, he will be returned to you, but not alive. Please await further instructions.

Her husband encouraged her to follow the instructions. He was sick with worry and fear, but unwilling to sacrifice their son. He forbade her to call the police.

She received the second text an hour later. This she read while she and her husband clutched each other in tension and fear. They were both physically ill. This time the number was different.

It read: On your back porch you will find a bag. We need you to bring it to the courthouse with you tomorrow. At noon, you will place the bag in the women’s restroom on the second floor. Immediately leave the building and respond to this number. Oscar will be returned to you within one hour.

The text was followed by a picture of Oscar. In it, Oscar sat with a sippy cup of milk entranced by the television, evidenced by the soft blue glow on his face. The surroundings were dark and she couldn’t make out anything else in the background.

How could she do what they’d asked of her? How could she kill so many innocent people to save her son? How could she live the rest of her life knowing that she’d effectively killed her own son?

Before the members of the jury began their proceedings, she jumped up, grabbed the black Jansport backpack and cried out, “I’m going to be sick!” She fled to the women’s restroom and vomited the coffee she’d ingested, the only thing her stomach could take at breakfast that morning.

At the sink, she stared into her eyes at the mirror. She was shaking. She was pale. She took a deep breath and began to pray.

She prayed for guidance and direction. She prayed for a solution. No solution came.

She stood at the sink, her interlaced fingers turning white, head bowed. Tendrils of a story came to her. It was something from the Bible. Her eyes popped open. Isaac. Abraham.

Was Oscar her Isaac? Was she supposed to figuratively lead him to the alter as a sacrificial lamb? Was she supposed to trust God that he’d protect Oscar?

She studied herself in the mirror again. Her gaze hardened. She knew exactly what to do.

She left the courthouse by a back staircase. She’d removed her sweater and pulled her hair up, added her sunglasses. The disguise was weak, but hopefully they weren’t watching. She started walking quickly toward a park.

When she arrived, she pulled out her phone.

“911 what is your emergency?”

“I have a bomb.”

Do you believe?