by RJ Crayton
I imagine he has closed his eyes and is trying to steel himself to move past these words, though he has never really been able to move past what happened. I reach out and stroke his arm gently, wondering if he is grimacing, or just sad, lamenting that he never knew the woman his mother had been when she married his father. Only the mentally ill woman she had become before she drowned in a neighborhood pool.
He rubs his thumb gently along the top of my hand, then continues. “With my mother’s condition, and especially after she died, my dad wanted to keep the government out of our lives. I resented him then for keeping her condition a secret, for pretending she’d drowned by accident, for leaving Emmie with so much responsibility. I realize now he was doing the best he could. I thought it was weak back then, that he failed to take charge of the situation. But he hadn’t. He took charge the only way he could. He made sure we were safe, then came here every day and did his job and came home every night and had nightmares. I got used to the screams from his bedroom, waking from some dream about this god-awful place. Even so, he came back everyday so he could afford to take care of us. For that, he’s a good man.”
I have met Luke’s father only once, but he seemed meek. He is tall, like Luke, and handsome and fit. But, there is a certain something about him that makes him seem overly gentle, overly docile. I wonder if my impression of Luke’s father has been clouded by what Luke told me about him. The two don’t get along. Luke always thought his father hadn’t been strong enough.
“You respect your father more now that you’re here, now that you’ve actually seen his working environment first-hand?’
“No, working here hasn’t affected me that way” Luke says quickly, surprising me. “I respected him more after I found out you’d been marked. I realized that sometimes compromise isn’t as bad as I thought it was. That I’d rather compromise and have you, than risk it all, and not have you. Realized that maybe we were more important to him than I’d ever thought. Realized his sacrifices were from love, not cowardice. I guess maybe I should have always known that. But, I was too bitter.”
I scoot closer and lay my head on his shoulder.
“I love you,” I say.
“I love you, too.” He clasps my hand and squeezes tight.
“You must,” I chuckle. “Otherwise, I think you’d be anyplace but here.”
“Yeah, it’s about as bad as my father described. I thought he’d told me some of the stuff just to scare me, but it was all true.”
“I didn’t realize he talked about it with you.” I always had the impression that Luke knew it was bad from his father’s demeanor and offhand comments. Something about the way he spoke makes it seem like they talked at length.
“When I was younger, he didn’t tell me about it. When I started working for Dr. Grant, he decided I should know details. Wanted me to know what I was getting into, what would happen to me if they found out what we were doing on our trips to Peoria.”
“And it didn’t scare you, the idea of being put in here?”
He pauses, and when he resumes his voice takes on a steely tone. “Of course it scared me, Kelse. But, I thought I’d be stronger than him, and do what was right, instead of what was easy. Turns out, he wasn’t doing what was easy. He was doing something hard, something that was right. I was taking the easy way out. I was breaking the law on some principle that may have helped some women I barely knew. But, the biggest sacrifices we make should be for those we love. That’s what my dad did.”
I lean in and wrap my arm around him. “Thank you for doing this for me, Luke. I don’t know that I could survive in here without you at night.”
He squeezes me closer to him. “I couldn’t survive out there, wondering what was going on in here at night.”
He holds me for a few moments more, then strokes my peach-fuzz head. “It’s late. You should get some rest.”
I close my eyes and try to clear my head. Then a thought pops in. “Luke, I have a question.”
“Go ahead,” he says, still stroking my head.
“Were you mad that I left you at the gas station?”
“Hmmmm,” he says, stopping the gentle stroking and resting his hand on my shoulder. “Where’d that come from?”
“I have a lot of time to think in here,” I say, gently guiding his hand back to my head. “I was wondering about it this afternoon.”
“I see,” he says, then is silent for a moment. “I wasn’t angry. I hadn’t expected it, but I figured you thought you’d be caught.”
“The man in the store recognized me, I was sure,” I tell him. “I just wanted to put some distance between us, so you wouldn’t end up in a holding facility, too. When I asked you to buy the antacid, I was so afraid you were going to realize I was faking.”
He starts laughing. Big belly-shaking guffaws. Not a fitting reaction. “What is so funny?”
“I’ve felt very guilty these past few days, and apparently for nothing,” he says through pauses in his laughter. “I thought it was my fault you’d been spotted. I thought someone outside recognized you while I was inside the store.”
“Oh no,” I say, raising a hand to my mouth in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, no reason to be sorry. I shouldn’t have spent so long reading the medicine labels. The antacid said you’re supposed to consult a physician before taking if you’re pregnant. I was looking for something with a safe label, and debating if I should just say they didn’t have any. Debating whether I’d made a mistake by not telling you about the condom breaking. Then I started worrying you’d eat the wrong thing in Peoria. I realized I’d been in there too long. When I went out and you were gone, I figured someone had spotted you.”
The idea of Luke poring over labels is sweet. It makes me smile, but also, it makes me sad, too. “Hey,” I say in a serious tone. Luke stiffens a little, as if bracing for the new direction the conversation is going to take. “This made me laugh, in retrospect, but there’s an underlying problem in this story. We weren’t honest with each other. I should have been more honest about my reservations to your proposal, and you should have told me when you realized the condom broke.”
He sighs and starts to say something, but I cut him off. “It’s water under the bridge, Luke. I just don’t want more water and more bridges. Let’s just both promise to be completely honest, even if we’re concerned about the other person’s reaction.”
Luke kisses my forehead. “I promise,” he says.
“Me too.”
He holds me in his arms for a while, then kisses my head and tells me. “You really do need to get some sleep.”
“Alright,” I say and close my eyes.
Chapter 22: Preparation
The psychiatrists my father hired return and question me again. I tell them everything again, same as before. I asked Uncle Albert if there was any way to put a better spin on things, but he insisted I say everything the same. “Changing your story midstream makes it look like we’re trying to gaslight the doctors. Exactly the same,” he said. So, I tell them everything the same, remembering that this all goes to pregnancy psychosis. “One of the hallmarks of the condition is the person believes they’re being perfectly rational,” Albert said.
It seems like we’ve been over the same ground a dozen times when the doctors finally pack their things and leave. Uncle Albert returns. The day guard, a different one from Pig Face, carries in Albert’s chair, then leaves. I am not sure if the new guard is my father’s doing, or if it was Pig Face’s turn to move on. Either way, Pig Face has not been back since I mentioned it to my father. The day guard also has been standing outside, hopefully my father’s doing, too. Even if he was stationed inside, he would’ve left, as attorneys and clients are due privacy.
Albert sits in his chair and leans forward, a severe look on his face. “I have news,” he says, clasping his hands together in his lap as he pauses to see my reaction. I remain expressionless and nod. “First, like I thought, the judge denied my motion to dis
miss because you weren’t technically eligible to donate when you fled.”
I nod, and try to look steely, strong, even though I am not. It is deflating to hear him say the words, despite knowing this was the likely outcome.
Uncle Albert, his two hands held together by interlaced fingers, begins to tap the lonely thumbs against each other and continues. “Now it’s all about the hearing. You and I have some decisions to make.”
I shift my position on my bed block, as it suddenly feels horribly uncomfortable. I brace for what will probably be more bad news. “Like what?”
“Well, as you know, they scheduled your hearing for tomorrow. They didn’t do it just because you’re guaranteed a speedy trial, but because they hoped we’d balk and ask for more time to prepare. That way they could drag this out, get some more bad press for your father and get more prepared.”
He looks like he’s awaiting my response. I am not sure what to say, so I nod my head for him to continue. “While some attorneys would seek the continuance, I’m inclined to go tomorrow.”
I lean back slightly, and reach up to tug at my hair, which is no longer there. Even though it has been three days since I’ve become bald, and I don’t have the weight of the hair or the feel of it brushing against my face and neck, I sometimes forget it isn’t there. “Why do you want to go?”
“Because, the prosecution only gets better with preparation. If there is a crime that involves lots of witnesses to interview and evidence to collect, you can’t go. You just have to suck it up and postpone or you’d be doing your client a disservice. However, in a case like this, where the facts aren’t going to change much, where you’re not going to learn anything earth-shattering or new, it’s best to just go ahead. You get a less prepared prosecution.”
“Aren’t you less prepared, too?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “But, I know enough to know where I can poke holes in his case and where I can’t. The burden of proof falls on him, not me.”
Albert sits up straight, adds, “Plus, we’re at the beginning of a jury cycle. This jury has only been empanelled a week, so they’ve probably only heard a couple of cases. Towards the end of any jury’s six-week term, they’re tired of it, and tend to be more willing to convict.”
I sigh and drum my fingers on my block. I am not sure if I am on board with going quickly, however, the consequences of a wrong choice are dire. “If juries convict more often in the later weeks, why don’t they shorten the session?” I ask.
Albert hunches his shoulders, and blows out a long breath. “It’s been suggested by some people that we should. It just hasn’t happened. The six-week system was fine when FoSS began and there were so few people left. Empanelling a jury for each specific trial, like they did in the United States, required too many people coming in for vetting, and wasn’t stable enough. The six weeks system worked fine, then. But, now, it’s like getting professional jurors after that amount of time. There’s also a high bias toward conviction anyway.”
A high conviction bias. Wonderful. “And you think going tomorrow will reduce the chance of that?”
“Yes,” he says emphatically. “We’ll catch the prosecution off-guard. I’m sure he’s expecting us to seek a continuance, for at least two weeks. But, that will put us later into this jury’s term. If we’re gonna have the same set of facts in two weeks, I’d rather go now than then.”
I nod, then manage a smile. “Let’s do it, then.”
“One down, one to go,” he says. “The other question is whether you testify.”
I freeze, bite my lip, as I digest his incongruous suggestion. “Shouldn’t I?”
“No, you still have the Fifth Right. You don’t have to testify for or against yourself during a trial.”
I remember one of my professors declaring the Fifth Right one of the more important carryovers left from the old U.S. system of justice. Yet, I’ve always thought it a weird one to carry over. It seems imprudent not to testify on your own behalf. I try to read Albert’s expression. It is neither sad nor happy. Looking into his face gives me no clue what to do. My gut says I should testify, but the fact that he would even suggest I not, leaves me second guessing. “Shouldn’t I testify? I mean, how else will they know what I was thinking?”
He crosses his arms, leans back and ponders. A slight frown forms as he looks at me. “Kelsey, I’m not sure we want people to know what you were thinking.”
Ouch, that hurt. Clearly my expression said as much, for he gives me an apologetic look. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I do need to be honest and give you a realistic, legal perspective on this. Hearing your thoughts in your own words might turn the jury off. I think it would be better just to let the psychiatrists speak. To let others speak, and for the jury to assume you’re too mentally incompetent to speak at the hearing.”
Albert takes a deep breath, then speaks again, softer now. “Plus, I can’t allow you to lie on the stand. Not knowingly, at least.”
I am both stunned and offended. “I wouldn’t lie,” I protest.
He shakes his head, and gives another apologetic look, leaning forward in his chair. “I misspoke. I don’t think you would lie. It’s just that there is an issue that the prosecution is going to want to address, and your father has indicated you would like to keep the information to yourself.”
“What?”
He points to my belly. “The father.”
Well, yes. That’s a problem.
“If I put you up there, the prosecutor is gonna ask. And as an attorney and a judge, for that matter, I’m an officer of the court. I can’t knowingly let you lie up there. Now, I don’t know for sure who the father is. I have an idea, from what Lewis has said to me over the past few months. But, I can’t be sure, so I couldn’t definitively say you lied about it, and wouldn’t accuse you of it. But I have to warn you, whomever you name, the prosecution is going to go talk to and make sure you’re not lying. And if you take the Fifth when they ask, I think it would make you look conniving and duplicitous. And a person who is conniving and duplicitous is able to fake mental illness. Juries don’t like defendants who are only willing to tell part of the story.”
Well that makes sense. “But, do they like defendants who don’t talk at all?”
With an understanding glance, he says: “No, they don’t like that either. However, this may be a case of bad versus worse, rather than good versus better. And, I think I can hint at you being not stable enough to testify. But, I can’t hint too much or even come right out and say that, or else they’ll delay the trial because you’re not stable enough to testify.”
I guess this is what the inside of a rock and hard place feels like. I lean back against the wall and pull my legs up so knees are under my chin. “I’m sorry,” I say to him. “I’m sorry I talked to them, that I said things that have made it so I can’t even testify. I was tired and unsure. It was stupid to think I should just say what was on my mind.”
Uncle Albert reaches out and pats my shoulder. “Kelsey, trust me, lots of people talk. They say much worse. People in custody say all sorts of things they later regret. I’ve seen plenty of cases like that. Right now, you have to let it go. What’s done is done. We have to deal with the statements we have and move on. We can’t change the past, so let’s not worry about it. All we can control is what we do next.”
Gee. He knows just what to say, and he’s right. We’ve got to deal with what we’ve got. No regrets. “Let’s go with your gut, Uncle Albert,” I say. “I won’t testify.”
“Okay, well that takes care of the major hurdles,” he says. “I’m going to let you eat lunch, while I look over the psychiatric reports. I’ll be back in an hour, okay?”
I nod my understanding. He stands, leaving behind the chair, and walks to the locked door. He knocks, and a moment later it opens. The guard lets him out and removes the chair. I am alone, yet again.
* * *
When Uncle Albert returns, I have finished up my lunch: a turkey sandwich
, flanked by baby carrots, grapes, and a cup of spinach soup. A prenatal supplement came alongside it. Without Pig Face, meals are turning out fairly well at the holding facility.
“How was lunch?” Albert asks.
“The best part of my day,” I respond truthfully. Perhaps it is the pregnancy hunger, but I’ve never had such a satisfying meal. I could almost forget why they want me so well-fed and healthy in the first place. Almost. “So, what now?”
“The psychiatrist’s report is about what I expected. She’s good and was able to do me a favor by seeing you. She’s testified in cases in my court, so she’ll do fine on the stand,” Albert says, leaning against the wall. “I want to talk to you about potential witnesses that could help our case, in terms of your character.”
I study his frank expression, in an attempt to avoid thinking about where he is headed with this. “My character?”
“Yes, our goal will be to show that this is out of character. That this is strictly the pregnancy psychosis talking here. So, I’d like a character witness. Do you think there’s anyone willing to do that for you?”
Well, hmm. That is a good question. No one, and I mean no one, wants to be linked to a criminal. Once you are on the inside, or let’s face it, once you’ve been accused, it is as if you have the plague. No one will vouch for me, willingly at least. Well, almost no one.
“Susan,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Susan’s agreed to testify about her own marking. And while she’ll say good things about you, she’ll come off too biased. I was hoping for someone less attached — someone you haven’t been best friends with for the past decade.”
I search my brain thinking of anyone who might still be willing to say something nice about me at this point in my life. Someone who isn’t afraid of getting tainted with the stench of my crime, and worrying about their own reputation. I have friends, but they’re not good friends, friends whom I could call anytime, anywhere. I suppose, having found one in Susan, I never searched out another, and now the only people I could even consider are no more than robust acquaintances.
