Part 5: Cross-Examination

Part 5: Cross-Examination

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

[The courtroom doors creak. Not open creak like the script of a bad 90s drama, except what’s about to walk through ain’t fiction.]

Bailiff (loud, with flair):

“Now entering: Lead Prosecutor Ms. Rochelle ‘Ro’ Davis, Esquire. Counselor of Conviction. Cross-Examination Queen. Bring your tissues and your truths.”

[A sharp heel clicks once… twice… three times. You don’t hear her walk. You feel her approach, like thunder in heels.]

She ain’t even looking at me yet, but I already feel her dissecting my soul like I’m a frog in a 7th-grade science lab. I’m the accused, the witness, the defendant, and the poet rolled into one trembling man in a slightly wrinkled suit I ironed with prayer and panic.

Ro Davis (smirking):

“Well, well, well.

If it isn’t Mr. ‘Faith over Feelings.’

Mr. ‘I'm too spiritual to break.’

Mr. ‘I write my trauma in cursive and call it healing.’

Don’t worry, I’ve read all your reflections. Very moving. Almost made me cry. Almost.”

[She adjusts her cufflinks like she’s about to give me either a legal lecture or a whooping from the ancestors. Either way, I brace myself.]

Ro Davis (circling the courtroom like a hawk that smells emotional blood):

“Tell me, Mr. Shunnar How’s that spiritual armor holding up, hmm?

Still shiny?

Still ‘no weapon formed against me shall prosper’?

Or did the enemy sneak in through the crack in your confidence?”

[She pauses for dramatic effect, and some of the gallery folks look away like they know it’s about to get spiritually spicy.]

Me (straightening up, trying to sound composed):

“I’m still standing.”

Ro (laughs, but not the funny kind the kind where sarcasm has holy water on speed dial):

“Oh, bless his bold little heart.

Still standing.

So is a crooked fence post, but that doesn’t mean it’s holding anything up.”

[The courtroom ooohhhs. Even the stenographer raises her eyebrows.]

Ro:

“Let’s talk about grief, shall we?

Specifically, the kind that kicks in when your praying mama, your backbone, your spiritual GPS, gets called home.

Tell us, oh resilient one…

Did your faith catch you like a holy hammock, or did you free-fall into doubt like a man on a tightrope with no safety net?”

Me (lowering my head, whispering):

“I broke.

I shattered.

I was angry with God, confused with life, and disappointed in myself.

I prayed, but it felt like I was on mute. Heaven had the phone off the hook.”

Ro (mockingly gasps):

“Say it ain’t so!

The same man telling folks to trust the process was out here questioning the whole blueprint?”

(She leans in.)

“Weren’t you the one who wrote, ‘Even in the storm, I choose to dance’?

Well?

Did you dance when the lights went out and the rent was due?

Did you praise when the pantry echoed back at you?

Or were you like the rest of us crying in the dark, talking to God like He was a customer service rep on eternal hold?”

[The courtroom laughs nervously. I can’t help but chuckle too.]

Me:

“Honestly?

Some nights I was praising.

Some nights I was pacing.

Other nights? I was in the fetal position singing old gospel songs off-key like they were spells.

I even offered God a deal once You bless me by Friday, I’ll fast until Monday.’”

Ro (chuckling):

“Oh, a spiritual negotiator. Classic.

So tell me, were you also the spiritual Houdini?

Smiling in public, weeping in private?

Hiding behind your affirmations like they were armor?”

Me:

“Every. Single. Day.

I was doing Holy Ghost cartwheels on the outside,

but inside, I was one more unanswered prayer away from pulling a Jonah and catching the next boat to anywhere-but-here.”

Ro (stepping closer, serious now):

“Did you ever…

not want to wake up?”

[Silence fills the courtroom like incense in a quiet temple.]

Me (softly):

“Yes.

There was a morning when I laid there staring at the ceiling fan,

and I asked God if He forgot I was still down here.

I whispered, ‘If this is it, I’m tired.’

And just when I drifted into despair…

I heard something.

Not audibly. But deep.

‘You’re still mine.’”

[Ro pauses. Her mocking grin softens. Her eyes flicker.]

Ro (quietly):

“You sure it wasn’t just exhaustion?”

Me:

“I’m sure.

Because exhaustion makes you want to give up.

But this voice gave me a reason to stay.

Even if it was just to write a single sentence, breathe one more breath, or smile at someone who needed it.”

Ro (nodding slowly):

“So you admit you’re cracked?”

Me (smiling):

“Cracked? I’m a mosaic of broken moments glued together by grace.

And baby, that glue?

It’s got names: Mercy. Favor. Unexplainable Joy.

And a God who sees mess and still says, ‘That's my masterpiece.’”

Ro (snapping her fingers):

“Oop!

We got ourselves a testimony up in here!”

[The courtroom murmurs. Even the judge leans forward like he's invested in this episode.]

Ro (raising an eyebrow):

“But don’t you think all your pain disqualifies you from being a vessel?”

Me:

“Nope. It qualifies me even more.

Because people don’t want a preacher who never bled.

They want someone who’s limped through the valley and still showed up with praise on their lips and bandages on their heart.”

Ro (sarcastically):

“So now you’re the suffering servant? The poetic prophet? The chosen one?”

Me (grinning):

“Nah. I’m just a dude with a pen, a past, and a purpose.

A man who’s learned that God doesn’t throw away broken things He repurposes them.”

[Ro circles one last time. The room is still. She looks at me… deeply. Not as a prosecutor now but as a sister who’s also survived.]

Ro (quietly):

“No further questions, Your Honor…

But if you could send a copy of that last poem to my office, I’d appreciate it.”

Judge (smiling, gavel in hand):

“Witness may step down. But let the record show he stood tall.”

[Applause breaks out. Not wild. Not loud. Just… sincere. Like a church clap after a soul-stirring solo.]

I walk back to my seat, not with pride, but peace.

Because in that courtroom where I was accused, tested, and stripped

I also remembered:

Every cross-examination by life is just a setup for your next elevation.

And even when the enemy pulls receipts,

Grace brings the pardon.

Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar