Mental State

by M Gardner

  But his happiness didn’t come. The glowing digits on his nightstand steadily marched toward oblivion. A minute became five, then twenty, then sixty. An hour became two; three; four. He rubbed his heavy eyes and fumbled for the television remote in the early dawn light. He imagined his impolite classmates fidgeting while waiting for the national morning news to conclude. He imagined Robert scrutinizing the tortuous story, doubt creeping into his mind.

  A story about a local political scandal and the graphic on the news was replaced with Lindsay’s smiling face. Steven leaned toward the television, and the specter of sleep seemed to have faded. The story was the same droning he had heard yesterday and the day before. Lindsay’s death appeared to be a suicide. The cause of death was from the self-inflicted wound on her arm. Experts testified that the direction and depth of the cut were consistent with the suicide theory, but there was something else…

  Steven’s mouth hung open as this new part of the story unfolded. The police suspected an outside influence on Lindsay. They were looking into any instances of bullying, and they were convinced, partly due to her suicide text, that someone had convinced her to take her life.

  Steven’s face replaced Lindsay’s to the right of the news anchor. He was a person of interest. Whereas Lindsay’s photo showed her a vibrant young woman, Steven’s photo had been lifted from his social media timeline. He was squinting in harsh light, and his tongue was sticking out. He wasn’t sure when his photo had been taken, but the contrast between the two images was glaring. The news had already made up their mind about who was to blame for Lindsay’s death.

  He was named in Lindsay’s suicide note. The news anchor made the appropriate noises about Steven not being a suspect, just a person of interest. No charges had been filed, but the police were looking into the young man. Steven’s world collapsed like felt castles.

  Steven stabbed the power button on the remote and let it clatter to the floor. A cold shiver ran along his spine. Kids at school think I did it, he thought. The news people believe I did it. Even the police seem to think I did it. It’s a good thing Robert has stuck with me…

  Steven’s notebook was open to a blank page covered with minuscule marks from tapping his pencil. The instructor and his classmates ignored his presence as if he wasn’t there. Even Robert hadn’t spoken to him all morning. Steven’s last vestige of support had abandoned him to a campaign of silence.

  Heavy footsteps thudded down the hallway. They couldn’t have been other students – the chatter of low voices was absent. After a hard knock, the door swung open, and the school principal, a guidance counselor, and two police officers crowded the doorway. The police had blank looks on their faces, while the others were stoic.

  The instructor hurried to the door. After an exchange of low voices, Steven saw one of the policemen nod toward him. Everyone around him focused on his pale face; he was no longer invisible. A few heartbeats later, the instructor stepped aside, and the quartet strolled toward Steven’s desk.

  “Steven Bass?” one of the officers asked.

  Steven trembled. He tried to swallow, but nothing could displace the lump in his throat. Instead, he nodded.

  The other officer said, “We need you to come with us.”

  The first officer picked up Steven’s backpack. After a cursory glance inside, he took the notebook from Steven’s desk and placed it inside before zippering it up. His leather gloves creaked as he tugged the desk away from Steven.

  They walked to the door, Steven between the pair of officers. At the door, one walked through first, followed by Steven, and finally, the other officer. As Steven cleared the threshold, he glanced back into the classroom.

  All the students were talking in hushed voices. Their faces, formerly stoic, were bright in triumph. David and Leonard smirked at each other. Robert had turned to watch Steven leave, shock apparent on his face. Before the door clicked shut, Steven could’ve sworn he heard a cheer erupt from the classroom.

  As he walked through the double doors of the high school to the police car, Steven was aware of faces pressed against the windows watching him.

  Are the cops arresting him for Lindsay’s murder?

  It’s about time that freak got what’s coming to him.

  There were more, but Steven’s ears burned, and tears streamed down his face. What else could they think? he asked himself. Everyone thinks I killed the love of my life.

  4 Guardless/Trial

  Steven leaned his shoulders against the vertical steel bars, the weight of the world squarely on his shoulders. He was the definition of melancholy.

  No, Steven thought, I know why I’m sad; I just can’t do anything about it.

  He clutched his blanket and pillow to his chest and stared at the eight-foot by ten-foot cell. The guard that had escorted him didn’t say a thing; he just guided Steven with his baton. As the cell door clinked shut behind him and the guard walked away, Steven heard him whistle a cheery ditty.

  Steven’s eyes scanned the cramped cell. Toilet; sink; bunk. Steven’s only solace was that he was alone in the cell. Steven would’ve thanked God for the small miracles, but he figured if God cared about him, he wouldn’t be there in the first place. He tried to remember the opaque language the corrections officers used while processing him into the facility. Rules; expectations; punishments. They were spoken by his new benevolent tyrant–the uncaring justice system. A system that excelled at warehousing human beings but seemed short on justice.

  He took a step forward and allowed his bedding to fall onto the thin mattress. He sunk to the floor and leaned his back against the vertical frame of the bunk, his head in his hands. Now, more than ever, he willed himself not to cry. He began to shake as the sting of unwanted tears betrayed his eyes.

  Why is this happening to me? he asked silently. Why am I being punished for something I didn’t do? Although he admitted that claims of innocence were probably nothing new to this cell.

  Steven drew his knees to his chest, squeezed his eyes closed, and silently wept until an uneasy sleep overcame him.

  Steven sat staring straight ahead. His ears burned when he caught snippets of conversation in the gallery. David and Leonard sat in the row directly behind the Defendant’s table. They were happily discussing all the things they hoped would happen to Steven when he got his life sentence. As if all this time in lockup isn’t enough, he silently groused.

  Steven didn’t know if Robert’s presence a few rows behind the dickhead duo was a good thing or not. Steven and Robert were the only real friends Lindsay had. When Steven was escorted into the courtroom, his eyes immediately fell on Robert, fidgeting with his pressed shirt and tie. His friend refused to make eye contact.

  If Robert thinks I’m guilty, Steven thought, then I’m doomed.

  Steven sat ramrod-straight in his chair; his tie hung at an odd angle. The public defender shuffled papers to Steven’s right. He shifted his eyes slightly to the Prosecution table and made eye contact with Lindsay’s mother. She looked away, and Steven had no problems detecting the anger and rage behind her eyes. The Assistant District Attorney placed his fingers lightly on her arm, and Lindsay’s mother stared stoically toward the judge’s dais.

  The judge slowly turned page after page of a stack of papers in front of him. He would occasionally pause to check a piece of paper in another pile or look at Steven or Lindsay’s mother.

  The judge cleared his throat and banged his gavel against the dais. The gallery was suddenly quiet; the only sound Steven heard was an occasional cough and his own heart thundering in his chest.

  “Steven Bass,” the judge began, “you are being charged with involuntary manslaughter in the death of Lindsay Breneman. I have reviewed the documents relating to the case, and I find sufficient evidence to proceed with a trial. I have entered a plea of not guilty on your behalf, and I am ordering that you be tried as a youthful offender.”

  “Your Honor!” Steven’s attorney pleaded. “There is no evidence of any encouragement
by my client in this case. Miss Breneman made her own conscious decision to take her own life. Steven Bass has already been convicted in the court of public opinion based on zero evidence. Lindsay Breneman’s death is a tragedy, not a crime! Trying my client as a youthful offender allows harsher punishment than the typical juvenile case and allows the trial to be open to the public. My client cannot possibly get a fair trial in these circumstances.”

  “Councilor,” the judge replied, “this preliminary hearing is neither the time nor the place for you to be arguing the case. You have been awarded ample time to not only respond to the Assistant District Attorney but to argue the merit of the charge of involuntary manslaughter.”

  The judge looked to the Prosecution’s table, and his eyes met Lindsay’s mother’s. He continued, “We owe the victim, in this case, a swift trial based on the facts.” He steepled his fingers and returned his attention to the Public Defender. “Steven Bass will be remanded to the Verde Detention Center. Jury selection and the trial will begin on…” The judge adjusted the screen to a laptop on his dais and leaned forward to consult it. “...Friday morning and eight AM. This proceeding is adjourned.” He struck the gavel to the dais and stood to leave the courtroom.

  The gallery stood, and nervous chatter permeated.

  “I hope they give you the chair, sicko,” a voice intoned behind Steven. He didn’t need to turn to recognize Leonard.

  “We don’t have an electric chair, idiot.” David’s voice was just as recognizable.

  “Well then, I hope he enjoys his stay at Verde.” The malice in Leonard’s words was palpable as he turned on nimble feet and hurried out of the gallery.

  The Public Defender closed Steven’s folder and placed it into an accordion file on the floor next to his chair. He pulled out another and began arranging the papers for the next case. Steven looked to him for support, but all he got was a pair of hunched shoulders, intent on preparing for the next case. A court bailiff escorted Steven out another door and toward a complement of Sheriff’s Office deputies, who placed handcuffs on Steven’s wrists. They led him to a van and began the journey to the Verde Detention Center.

  Day six of the trial, Steven thought as he stared out the two-foot-square of his jail cell. The steel bars embedded into the frame weren’t what disturbed him. It was the pitted and marred Plexiglas that prevented anything outside from getting in. Not that Steven would’ve had any contraband delivered–he didn’t have anyone who cared enough about him to bring him anything. No, the worst thing about the sealed window was that it didn’t allow nature in.

  Lindsay had always sat on the narrow fire escape to Steven’s apartment to listen, watch, and smell the city beneath them. Occasionally, a bird or a butterfly would land nearby. Lindsay would ooh, and aah, or let out a fatuous giggle at the thought of nature refusing to admit defeat against the humans.

  Lindsay would’ve loved the view here, Steven thought. Since no one wanted a facility for jailing the worst of them nearby, it was an hour-long trip by prison transport.

  The case was harsh. Everyone accused Steven of assisting Lindsay to end her life. The parade of detractors sat on the stand, and they knew Steven was guilty. There wasn’t any actual evidence that Steven had done anything, but the Prosecution kept mentioning the text message. It was the only thing they could produce that even remotely supported their claims. The case ground on. Neither Steven nor Robert, Lindsay’s two best friends, had been called to testify.

  How could they all think I’d do something like that?

  Steven squeezed his eyes closed and leaned his head against the cold steel bars. He hugged his arms and willed the tears to end. The large door of his cell rattled loudly, tearing his attention from his self-pity as a bulky man with tattoos from his wrists up both his arms walked into the cell. He carried blankets and bedding in those massive arms; his defined biceps bulged as the man stared at Steven. The man offered a smile and a grunt before lowering his bulk onto the bottom bunk.

  Steven couldn’t stop the wave of fear that came over him at the thought of spending the night with his new cellmate.

  Steven sat in his seat with a slight tremble. The people in the gallery made no attempts to hide their glee that Steven had a hard time in prison. More than once, Steven caught a word or two about him deserving whatever pain he got behind bars.

  “Your Honor, if it pleases the court, the Prosecution calls Robert Robles to the stand.”

  Steven froze. He could hear Robert’s distinctive shuffle as he walked to the stand. He placed his hand on a Bible and affirmed to all present his intention to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  The prosecutor looked up from his table and leaned back against his chair. A grimace of worry crept across Robert’s face.

  “Councilor?” the judge asked after a moment or two of the prosecutor sizing up Robert.

  The prosecutor stood, and his wooden chair creaked in the silent courtroom. Everyone waited with bated breath to hear Robert’s testimony.

  “Robert,” the prosecutor asked, “are you a close friend of Steven Bass?”

  Robert nodded.

  “Son,” the judge said to him in a calm, almost understanding tone, “we need you to answer out loud for the official transcript.”

  Robert cleared his throat. “Yes,” he squeaked.

  The prosecutor gave Robert a warm smile. “How would you describe your relationship with Steven?”

  Robert’s face fell, and it appeared that something interesting was on his lap. With his eyes still locked on his pants, Robert replied, “Well, he’s my best friend.”

  Steven felt the corners of his lips tug upward. Support was a scarce commodity lately.

  “You were a close friend with Lindsay, as well, weren’t you?”

  Robert looked up, and his eyes met with Lindsay’s mother’s eyes. “Yes,” he replied in a small voice.

  “Would you say you were best friends?”

  Robert swallowed audibly. “Yes, we were all best friends.”

  The prosecutor nodded; his eyebrows arched. “I know you’re upset over Lindsay’s murder…”

  “Objection!”

  The bark from Steven’s lawyer startled him, and he almost fell out of his chair. The rage in his eyes was unmistakable.

  “Sustained. Councilor,” the judge leaned forward in his chair, “I will not tolerate any shenanigans in my courtroom.”

  The prosecutor nodded meekly. “You’re upset over Lindsay’s passing.” He glanced at Steven’s lawyer before continuing, “Please tell the court if Lindsay was acting strangely at any time that you can recall.”

  “No,” whispered Robert. A murmur permeated through the gallery.

  The prosecutor cleared his throat. “Did she talk about ending her own life?”

  “No,” Robert declared through clenched teeth, “she never talked about that.”

  “So, she was a happy young lady? Never upset about anything?”

  “No,” Robert hesitated. “She always seemed happy. Well, she was always upset over the constant arguments, but…” Robert closed his mouth with an audible snap.

  The prosecutor had a wide grin. “‘Arguments,’ you say? Please tell us about the arguments. I remind you that you are under oath and subject to penalty if you do not tell the truth.”

  A slight shiver enveloped Robert. He appeared to look around the courtroom for support of any kind.

  He found none. “Mister Robles?” asked the prosecutor.

  “They were arguing,” Robert finally said, hanging his head. “Steven and Lindsay, I mean. She told me about it about two weeks before she…you know. She was upset, like she wanted to vent about it or something. But they were always fighting; it wasn’t, like anything new, right?”

  The prosecutor’s gaze hardened, and he looked at Steven. “So, there wasn’t any sign that she wanted to kill herself?” The volume of his statement rose, and he practically yelled the last two words.

  “Objection! Mister
Robles is not qualified to gauge someone’s mental state.”

  Finally, he says something, Steven thought grimly. He had started to wonder if his court-appointed attorney was there just for show.

  The prosecutor smiled a wolfish smile and stared at the jury.

  “The jury will disregard that last question,” the judge ordered.

  Like they could just forget that my best friend blamed me for her death, Steven thought as the jury members looked to one another. The prosecutor’s declaration seemed suspiciously specific.

  “No further questions, your Honor,” the prosecutor declared and returned to his table.

  On the stand, Robert’s head fell into his hands. The gallery murmured, the noise reaching a crescendo. The judge banged his gavel several times, but the gallery would not be pacified.

  The noise and the sight of the courtroom fell away as Steven sat, tears welling in his eyes and a numbing dread in his stomach. He was losing.

  5 Nightmare/Numb

  Steven staggered into his cell. He saw that his cellmate wasn’t inside, and a wave of temporary relief washed over him. His thoughts focused on the trial. Why hasn’t anyone examined the broken bathroom door? he thought to himself as he climbed to the top bunk. I tried to save her, and the door is the proof! Otherwise, why would I break down the door? He knew after the revelation at the trial that he was done for. Her message to me said that ‘he’ told her that it was the only way. How could ‘he’ be me?

  Steven was shocked that Robert had revealed the arguing and constant fighting to the jury and the smug prosecutor. The prosecutor’s satisfied smile haunted Steven. Now, more than ever, everyone was convinced that he had forced Lindsay to kill herself. Steven flinched at the sound of ill-maintained metal-on-metal. His cellmate had arrived.

  Steven heard labored breathing as his cellmate stood at the head of their bunk bed. “Hey, little lamb,” he cooed, and Steven froze. Steven tried to make himself as small as possible.