Docile

by K. M. Szpara

The courtroom is silent except for the occasional turn of newspaper pages. Everyone seated here, today, heard Alex’s interview and Mariah’s follow-up. This morning, they read Chadwick Bell’s profile on my mother. The tension in the room is deafening, breaking only when the judge enters and calls court to session.

  Reginald Moore stands. “Plaintiffs would like to call Elisha Wilder to the stand.”

  I can do this. I knew this was coming, but now I’m so nervous the courtroom prickles to gray in the corners of my vision. I’m going to have a panic attack. I can’t do this right now. Get it together, Elisha.

  “Mr. Wilder?” the judge says. “Do you need a minute?”

  “No.” I stand and smooth the wrinkles in my suit. Instinctively, I reach for my cuff, for the diamond chain, but it’s not there.

  It’s not there. I removed it.

  I don’t belong to anyone.

  I rub my finger, instead, over the thick scar of a branding iron. The mark of a debtor. I can do this.

  I walk slowly to the witness stand and sit, minding my posture and suit. Trying to look as credible as possible for these people judging me. None of them have enough debt to fully understand what it’s like. You can’t serve on a jury once you register with the ODR or go to debtors’ prison.

  Reginald approaches with a smug smile on his face and a piece of paper in his hand. He’s the only one in the whole courtroom who looks pleased after the onslaught of news. “I’d like to submit for evidence plaintiffs’ Exhibit E, Elisha Wilder’s Multilineage Debt Resolution Consent Form, signed by David Burns and Abigail Wilder.”

  Oh no.

  “Mr. Wilder, you stated in your deposition that you believe Dociline harmed your mother such that she still acts like an on-med despite having discontinued the drug four years ago. Do you stand by that testimony?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “And can you tell the court whether your mother was in her Docile-like state when she signed this consent form?” He points to where it rests, still, on the ledge.

  “She was,” I say.

  “Did you consider that, like an on-med, she might be unable to read and understand legal documents such as this one when you gave it to her?”

  “I—” I look at Verónica, but she can’t help me, now. I can’t lose this case for us over a permission slip and I can’t disappoint Empower Maryland. “I didn’t know for sure, either way.”

  “Did she know who you were?”

  “Yes.”

  “After Dr. Bishop injected her with the alleged counteractive, did she know who you were?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said, ‘You’re so tall.’”

  “Safe to assume, then, that she did not remember you growing up.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Okay, that’s fair.” He holds his hands up in surrender.

  “No, it’s not fair,” I say.

  “Pardon me?”

  “My mom stopped injecting Dociline when her term ended. She was supposed to detox within a month. She was supposed to come home to us, but she didn’t. No one believed us or helped us, until recently. How was she supposed to sign anything over four years? How could we pay off our debts without sending her back to the ODR, herself? Would she have been allowed to sign for her own debts or was her only option debtors’ prison thanks to Dociline? No, it’s not fair. She might not have been able to read or understand that form—I don’t know—but we had no other choice. Bishop Labs and the ODR made sure of that.” I look at the jury, pleadingly. Believe me.

  “Did you tell anyone at the ODR about your mother’s condition when you submitted this form with her signature?”

  “No.”

  “So, you submitted it aware of its fraudulent nature.”

  “I told you I didn’t know whether she was capable of understanding.”

  “But her medical records state she behaved like an on-med Docile for years, after coming home.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you trust that an on-med could understand and give consent to signing a legal document?”

  “No.”

  “Your father signed this, as well. He’s never injected Dociline, has he?”

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  “Was he aware of what he was signing?”

  “Yes.” Technically true. He thought it was for Abby, but I hadn’t filled her name in, yet, and he didn’t ask. Reginald doesn’t either.

  “Why should we believe you, Mr. Wilder? By all rights, you submitted a fraudulent document to a government office and, by Dr. Bishop’s own admission, continued working with him on a back-alley drug to inject your mother with. Did you consider that you were tampering with an ongoing lawsuit?”

  “N-no.”

  “That fraternizing with the plaintiff, without the knowledge of counsel, would compromise this case? You manipulated your way into the ODR, then manipulated Alex Bishop.”

  “That’s not true!” I shout. My words absorb into the room. “I only ever wanted to help my family.”

  Reginald smiles. “I bet you did, Mr. Wilder.” He turns and walks back to his seat. “No further questions.”

  Deep breaths, Elisha. In, two, three, four, five. Out, two, three, four, five. I’ve got this. The jury heard what I said. They’ll understand. They have to. I’m not a fraud. They can’t think I’m a fraud.

  Verónica takes her time with me, asking questions I know the answers to. That give me confidence. That I’ve already answered to Empower Maryland and during my deposition and half a dozen others.

  No, I didn’t know who Alex was before I signed with him.

  Yes, I refused Dociline.

  No, it was not my goal to “seduce” him.

  No, it wasn’t my goal for my contract to be amended. I fought to stay with Alex like I was fighting for my life.

  Then Verónica asks me, “What did it feel like?”

  “I’m sorry?” The question catches me off guard.

  “What did it feel like to be with Alex, from the time you signed the contract, until he amended it and took you home?”

  How do I answer that? I felt more and less during those six months than I have during the rest of my life.

  “I don’t mean to overwhelm you,” she says. “Let me break it down into more manageable parts. How did you feel during your initial time with Alex? During the first month or so.”

  “I felt a lot of things. Angry at Alex, in general. That he refused to see or care and could afford not to. That someone with as much money and power was even allowed to exist—I’d never met anyone that rich, before. But I was also angry at myself for giving in to him, doing what he said.”

  “You must’ve known you’d have to, since you’d planned to refuse Dociline, even before you met him.”

  “I did. I never planned to disobey—especially not with the threat of losing our contracted stipend. I’d accepted that I was a Docile. That was my life. Doesn’t mean I liked myself for it. Alex was infuriatingly fair. All I had to do was follow rules. When I broke them, it was my own fault.”

  I pause, remembering the feeling of rice digging into my knees, the angry scratch of my pen over paper, and the loneliness of confinement.

  “After breaking the rules, the first time, I became increasingly nervous that I would break them again. Then— Do you mind if I keep going? I think I understand your initial question, now.”

  “Please, go on,” she says.

  “At first I was nervous because I didn’t want to lose the stipend. Then, because I didn’t want to be punished, again. Then, because I started to care? I remember worrying, one night early on, that I would get to know him. What if he was nice? People can be nice to your face and awful everywhere else. I was afraid to lose my anger, but … I did. I lost myself.

  “The more time I spent with Alex, the more I got to know him. He made me like him—he said as much, yesterday. It wasn’t all punishments. He…” I bite my lip.

 
Verónica moves closer and gestures toward herself. “Look at me. You don’t have to look at anyone else.”

  “I’d never experienced companionship like that before. After a few months, I was sleeping in his bed regularly. He was a good lover and he cared—I think he genuinely cared whether I was okay, when things went badly with my family or if I had a bad experience at a party. He said it was his responsibility. I began to care, too, until all I wanted was to make him happy.

  “By the end, Alex was all I could think about. The stipend, my family, punishments—they didn’t mean anything. I would have done anything for him. When he told me he was taking me home? I’ve never hurt more in my entire life. I still feel that ache in my chest, the dread and the longing, when I remember it. I felt like there was no point to living, anymore. I wanted to die.”

  Verónica lets my words hang in the open air of the courtroom. “I’ve heard you say you love Alex. Is that still true?”

  “I can’t give you a clear answer. I’ve thought so much about what love means, since he let me go. Do I feel strongly for Alex? Yes. Do I care deeply about him? Yeah, I do, whether or not I want to or think it’s right or deserved. My mom spent ten years on Dociline and it lingered with her for the next four. I spent six months with Alex Bishop and I’m not sure my feelings for him will ever fully go away. Whatever you want to call them.”

  “Thank you, Elisha.”

  “Thank you.”

  When I sit down, Mom closes her hand over mine. We listen to Dutch confirm Alex’s training methods and my feelings. He smiles at me when he takes down Bishop Labs, again.

  I hope we’ve done it. As Reginald and Verónica give their closing arguments, all I can think is, Please let us have won. Please believe us. I watch the jury. If I could project my feelings into their brains, I would, I would, I would.

  * * *

  We sit in silence: Verónica, my family, and I. Nora, Abby, and Eugenia came over to hear the verdict, but since they’re not named defendants, they won’t be allowed to sit with us in the courtroom, so we sit together, now.

  “Do you think we’re going to win?” Abby asks Verónica.

  “I think we have a good chance,” she says.

  By now, I’m used to disappointment, though. To an uncaring state. To judges who declare people incompetents because their parents can afford it. To trillionaires suing debtors.

  “Even if we don’t,” she says, “we made a good case.”

  “You did,” Eugenia says. “The details about Dociline and Abigail and what Alex did are all over the news. People know, now. Politicians and journalists—they’re finally taking our calls, because of you. Reaching out. Sharing your story with the working class and folks in the counties. I don’t want you to worry about the money, if you lose. You’ve done good, even if it doesn’t work out in this instance. Your brother is very brave for what he’s done.”

  “He is,” Abby says.

  “He is,” Mom echoes, a hint of her Docile mannerisms.

  “Yeah,” Dad says, squeezing my shoulder. “He is.”

  We look up when the bailiff knocks on the door. “They’re ready for you.”

  “Thank you.” Verónica stands up and faces us. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” I say, and follow her back into the courtroom.

  The judge and jury are already there when we enter. The benches crammed with spectators. Lex, Alex, and their lawyers stand behind their own table.

  Up close, I can see the dark circles under Alex’s eyes. When I pass, he mouths, Good luck.

  “Madam Foreperson,” the judge says, “have you come to a consensus regarding the matter of Bishop, et al., versus Wilder, et al.?”

  She stands. “We have, Your Honor.”

  This is it.

  “As to whether defendants Abigail Wilder and David Burns legally transferred their debt to defendant Elisha Wilder, in order to sell it to plaintiff Dr. Alexander Bishop the Third—”

  This is it.

  This is it.

  “—we find that Abigail Wilder did not.”

  No.

  “And that her outstanding debt, in the amount of approximately one million dollars—”

  “No,” I say out loud.

  “—be reverted back to her name.”

  Cheers and objections rise up from the room, again. Increasingly loud chatter. I remind myself that Eugenia said Empower Maryland will pay the million dollars. I scan the crowd behind me, hoping to catch sight of her reaction, but I can’t find her. She just said it, and they haven’t even read the entire verdict. I can’t help but worry this is a sign, though. That I’ll be labeled a fraud and Eugenia will take it back.

  “As to—”

  The judge bangs his gavel down, silencing the court.

  Please.

  “As to whether defendant Elisha Wilder, with the assistance of defendants Abigail Wilder and David Burns, did knowingly and intentionally defraud plaintiff Dr. Alexander Bishop the Third—”

  Please, please, please.

  “—we find in favor of the defendants.”

  The courtroom erupts with noise—cheers and sighs and groans. I shudder, holding Mom’s hand so tightly, it’s the only thing that keeps me on my feet. Whisper, “We did it.”

  75

  ALEX

  When I return to the lab for my things, they’re already packed in boxes, waiting at the security desk beside Dylan. “I packed up your shit,” she says. “An intern was supposed to, but I volunteered.”

  “Thanks,” I say, glad to see a familiar face in this building where I am no longer welcome.

  “And I’m supposed to tell you that all your permissions have been revoked.” She watches while I stack the three boxes on top of one another. I didn’t have much, here, anyway. Not since I liquidated my apartment. “I’m sorry it played out this way for you, Alex.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, though I was surprised to hear her say it. “I chose this.”

  “Yeah, but family is supposed to love you no matter what,” she says.

  “Well.” I pick the boxes up and peer around their side. “Doesn’t always work out that way, apparently. Thanks for your help with this and … everything.” She knows. This is as close to a heart-to-heart as Dylan and I will ever get.

  “You know my rate, if you ever need it, again.” She smiles and heads back into the Silo.

  I walk out to Jess’ waiting car, load the boxes into the trunk, then join her in the front seat. “Ready to go, boss?” she says.

  “You know I’m fired, right?”

  “Holy shit, you’re fired?” Her face morphs from surprise to laughter in seconds. “Of course I know, doofus. I’m still allowed to call you boss, if I want.” She pulls out into traffic.

  “Fine with me,” I say.

  “Any idea what you’re going to do?” Jess asks, while she swerves around stopped cars and buses on her way up Charles Street.

  “Well, I don’t have a house and I don’t have a boyfriend and I don’t have any money. I don’t have a job and my résumé probably isn’t worth much, after all this.”

  “Don’t you mean your name?”

  “That too.”

  “Well, you still have friends.”

  “Did you learn that from an after-school special?”

  “No!” She looks at me a second too long and nearly flies through a red light. “Whoops. I just mean we’ll help you.”

  “I know,” I say. “Thank you for that.”

  “No problem, boss.”

  * * *

  I haven’t lived with a roommate, well, ever. Haven’t stood awkwardly in someone else’s house, unsure what I’m allowed to touch or where I’m allowed to go. I’ve stayed with Jess, before, but never like this. I’m not even paying her rent. I hate it. I hate feeling like I’m in someone’s debt without the means to make up for it.

  The next morning, I lie in bed, on sheets embroidered with my name—a name I don’t even want, anymore—while Jess goes to work. This isn’t lik
e when I broke up with Elisha, the first time. I can’t mope around in bed. Sell everything I own.

  I can get out of bed, though, and I do. I can shower. I can put on real clothes—or not. I’m not going anywhere. After I make myself a strong black tea—Jess doesn’t keep coffee in the house—I stack everything on her kitchen table into a neat pile and set it on the counter. No SmartTable, here.

  I retrieve my personal tablet from the guest-room-now-my-room and plant myself in a flamingo-pink chair, wearing a pair of heather-gray University of Maryland sweatpants and a white tee shirt. There’s enough color here to go around.

  A knock interrupts my doodling.

  “Coming!” I call as I make my way on bare feet down the narrow hallway. Jess lives in a historic building; I have to turn three locks to open the door.

  I yank open the humidity-swollen door, ignoring the loud whine of sticky hinges. In front of me stands Elisha. Unlike me, he’s wearing a pair of tight-fitting jeans, the denim worn, soft, and fraying. Over them, a long crimson tee shirt hangs. Over that, an unzipped hoodie.

  “Going incognito?” I ask.

  “What does that mean?”

  I motion around my own head. “Don’t want anyone to recognize you.”

  “Oh, no.” His eyes rake over my body, in turn. “Don’t want anyone to recognize you, either, I can see.” Elisha smiles, looking between his scuffed leather boots and my bare feet.

  “You got me,” I say, sharing his smile. “Were you looking for Jess? She isn’t home.”

  “That’s okay.” He squeezes into the narrow hallway, beside me. “I actually wanted to talk to you.”

  “Oh.” We’re so close. I scratch the back of my neck to occupy my hands, then realize that would be better accomplished locking the door. “Well, please, have a seat. The kitchen is mostly clean.”

  Elisha continues down the hallway, taking his sweatshirt off and draping it over a lime-green chair, before sitting down.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  “Sure.”

  I pick a blue floral teacup out of the cupboard and fill it. “Milk? Sugar?”

  “Both, thank you.”

  I set the cup down in front of him, then sit one chair away.