by Kat Kenyon
“Anything else?”
He says something into his earpiece as we begin the race down the stairs, then gives me a shake of his head. “Arnowsky didn’t say anything except get there.”
We hit the outer doors and it’s clear as soon as we step outside the news of the hearing is public. Paparazzi aren’t supposed to be on campus, but they keep sneaking on, have been for weeks. And today, they surround us, flashing their cameras and yelling at me from all sides, asking why my name is on a court filing.
We haven’t gone two steps before I’m surrounded by three additional guards. Neil and another take the front, pushing through the paparazzi, with the others guarding my back. Not that it stops them. They don’t back off as we jog across campus, keeping up as they yell, cameras dragging the attention of gawkers, creating a spectacle. Forty-five minutes is no time in Southern California, and I have to get to court, so I want to break every camera that gets between me and the car.
I can handle the press without feeling homicidal, mostly because they’ve stayed away from Rayne. Well, they have been since the promise of litigation for criminal trespass and harassment scared the shit out of them. Now, they take pictures of her with long lenses but stay out of her way. Me, they follow, mobbing the off-season practices, outnumbering the sports journalists. They annoy the real professionals enough that our regular journalists go out of their way to make getting their sleazy shots difficult.
I’m grateful since I wasn’t terribly friendly at the end of the season, but the sports journalists that cover CU have been good to me, and I intend to pay them back. They’re backing me and I’ll return it in spades.
The parking lot stretches in front of us as Vindex’s big, black SUV rolls up. When the paparazzi see it, they trip over themselves to get a shot, their questions getting louder, more insistent, blocking our way to the door. Neil and the other guard walk through them, moving them without shoving, making sure to hit one with the door when he opens it, a not so subtle warning to back up.
Neil flips forward the middle row seat and two guards crawl into the third row. As soon as it’s locked in place, Neil motions me in, where I crawl in beside a guard who’s waiting. Another guard hops in, and Neil slams the door, leaving me in the middle. He jumps into the front passenger seat, and I’m completely surrounded by men with weapons.
Looking out the windows, the paps in front of the SVU keep taking pictures, pressed against the glass, still screaming questions. The driver, another former Marine, honks, but they don’t move. They push against the SUV harder, one practically crawling on the hood to get a better shot of my bad mood.
It works.
“Rayne can’t think I didn’t—Get me there,” I spit out, pissed they could make us late.
“Run them over, Tony. We can’t miss this hearing.” Neil sounds bored when he says it, but he looks back at me, giving me a nod.
Tony grunts and revs the engine. That’s the only warning they get before we slowly roll forward, sending them scattering, arms waving, as high-pitched clucking and screeching tears from their mouths. Each microsecond that passes, Tony drives faster until there’s a gap, and as soon as the space opens, he guns it to shrill screams and flashes of light.
I’m not sure if we run over a foot or two, but we get through and out to the street. Tony weaves in and out of traffic, breaking every law as I change into my suit, and we still only get there with minutes to spare.
We drive past the front door of the courthouse where more paps and journalists wait, pulling into the rear parking structure where Sam and another couple of guards are waiting.
“You ready to go?” Sam asks as I get out, tugging on my suit jacket.
“I’m ready to bring her home.” That’s all I can really think about.
Bouncing on my feet, I press the elevator button, my heart beating in my ears as we go up. When the doors finally open into the cream granite hall, a couple journalists who have clearly snuck in, rush us. Three of my security team intercept them, using their bodies to block their cameras, pushing them back. Their words are spoken quietly, but firmly, and within a minute, the courthouse officers are there.
Once they’re gone, Neil leads me down the hall to where Arnowsky is standing by a small door and waves me into an equally small room. Shutting the door, he puts a folder on the table as he sits. He’s an average height man, with average brown eyes and a small birthmark under his left eye that twitches when he’s annoyed. He’s distinguished-looking, his silver hair is immaculate, and he dressed like the Stanford law graduate he is, but his silence sets off alarm bells.
“Well?” I ask.
“Sit down, Tyler.” Arnowsky motions toward the chair across from him, his tone resigned.
This isn’t good.
“Just tell me,” I say, practically barking at him.
“We only have five minutes. I need you to understand that my first priority is the health and safety of Miss Mathews.” He doesn’t fidget or make any other movements that would give away what he’s thinking, but his placating tone pisses me off.
I tilt forward in my chair, leaning over the table. “Don’t start. You’re our fucking lawyer, right?”
He sighs, pursing his lips. “Yes, Tyler.”
Cut the fucking condescension.
“Mr. Blackman, Arnowsky. Mr. Blackman. You were hired by me to help enforce the power of attorney,” I remind him. “And Miss Mathews’ health and safety was put into my hands when she gave me her power of attorney, wasn’t it?”
He pulls back, brows rising.
Good.
“Yes, Mr. Blackman, you’re correct.”
“Now, those people entered our home with no right and took her. So where are we?” I ask.
“Nowhere good.” He flips open the folder on the table in front of him, then looks me in the eye.
My throat feels like I’m going to choke. “She’s a rape victim and they took her. Assaulted her. Again. Can you imagine what that did to her? She was doing better until these guys put hands on her.” I smack the table in front of me. “Did you contact the detectives on her rape case?”
“I did, but they can’t make it today. I’m sorry to tell you this, but I just received the hospital report that says Miss Mathews has become a danger to herself and others. They want to hold her and legally they have the right.”
Oh God. Please don’t let this break you, baby.
I cover my mouth with my palm before I start cussing and try to take a breath. “Will she be here?”
He nods and passes me a document across the table. “Yes. I filed a motion to force them to produce her.”
“So, I’ll be able to see her?”
“Yes. I’ve also submitted the police reports from the rape investigation and hospital records from the attack. Hopefully, the detectives have turned in more documentation.” Another set of documents that say exhibit on the top comes across the table. “But, if the doctors show she’s a danger, they’ll be able to hold her regardless.”
Please let it be enough.
Before he can say anything else, a knock from the door ends the meeting as Neil nods his head that it’s time to go.
I pass Arnowsky back his documents. The security team allows Arnowsky to leave first, surrounding me as I follow, Sam and Neil on either side of me. Following behind Arnowsky, I walk through the double doors to the actual courtroom.
There’s an unimpressive platform in front of the room covered in cheap wood paneling. My tie strangles me as I walk by the long wooden benches and through a half door that opens to two tables on either side of the row. Each step ratchets up my nerves, and by the time I sit down, I want to jump out of my skin. My suit feels sticky. Itchy. On the left, there are two rows of empty chairs behind a short wall, and on the other, is a witness box, a small desk with a woman sitting behind it, and another empty desk. Both sides have a door, and beside the one on the right, is an officer.
The room feels oddly cheap and unimportant for the decisions made
here. Like we don’t put enough effort into a room where lives are made and broken, yet here it is. Looking around, there aren’t a lot of people in the room. Mom wanted to make it, but there wasn’t enough notice for her to get here. It’s just me, Arnowsky, and our security team on our side of the courtroom, while on the other side, there’s an attorney at the other table in front and some guy in a badly tailored jacket, twisting his hands nervously. Behind him are the dicks who came to our door and took her away, glaring at me like I care.
I’m still angry enough at the cops I can’t look at them without wanting to give them both another black eye. Arnowsky already warned me the officers may press charges for my fight and her struggle, but another shot might be worth it.
As long as she gets out today, let ’em.
But, I don’t see her.
The bailiff steps forward and announces the judge, and my heart races as we stand. The door opens, and the judge walks in. The court reporter announces the case number and the judge motions us to sit. Once everyone drops to their seats, he waves at the prosecutor and asks where Rayne is. The prosecutor’s quiet answers make zero sense. What’s clear is they didn’t bring her.
She’s supposed to be here.
The guy next to the prosecutor keeps glancing at us, sweat seeming to rise on his forehead magically. When our side is acknowledged, he startles and looks at the prosecutor for reassurance.
Arnowsky ignores the other side, standing and walking to the front. He doesn’t look at anyone except the bailiff while he hands him one of our documents.
“Your Honor,” Arnowsky starts, turning his attention to the judge, “this writ requires the State produce Miss Mathews. Mr. Blackman has a legal, binding power of attorney that supersedes the rights of the mother. The court shouldn’t have issued that order in the first place. The mother had no right to request the hearing, therefore, all the actions following should be thrown out. It also means the entry into the home was without grounds. A welfare check doesn’t work like this.
“Miss Mathews was the victim of a violent sexual assault less than forty-five days ago, something law enforcement was well aware of before they acted like the gestapo, violently laying hands on her as if she was a criminal, taking her away from her home. This, in spite of the officers being told there was a valid POA.”
I glance back at the cops and watch them flinch slightly. But, whatever small amount of guilt they have isn’t enough. I want them to suffer.
Arnowsky doesn’t stop. “This at very least should have given the officers pause, and allowed my clients time to show the original order was invalid. In doing so, they caused her to have a major panic attack. Something completely understandable when someone breaks into your home to take you away after you’ve already been assaulted.” Arnowsky pauses and stares at the nervous man beside the prosecutor. “If my client is in anything but reasonable condition, it’s due to the handling of the State and the hospital. She was improving while living at home with her loved one. There she had support, she had access to her friends. There, she had security she trusts, people she chose.
“It’s unacceptable for the State to ignore her rights and stop her from seeing her counsel. The writ needs to be enforced, and I have to insist on seeing my client to see what kind of condition she’s in. I want to see what kind of damage and trauma the State has perpetuated against my client. Now.”
Yes. Let me see her now.
The judge nods a couple times, then waves at the other side.
“So, Mr. Lyle, what do you say? He’s got a point. If she was fine before the officers got there and is now catatonic, isn’t that on law enforcement and the hospital?”
Tiredly, the prosecutor stands. “At this point, it’s really irrelevant. She is catatonic. She’s certainly not well enough to travel. The sole issue now is how to best make her well.”
As he sits, Arnowsky pops up. “Your honor, this writ is absolute. They have to produce her.”
The judge waves him off, dismissing him. “The doctors say she’s not well. There’s no absolute rule. You’ll have to do better.”
“The writ of habeas corpus is exactly that, Your Honor. She was doing well before they got hold of her and now, they could keep her ‘unwell’ forever. They aren’t allowing anyone to see her. They’re claiming she’s too unwell to travel and be seen, but they made her that way. They say their role in it doesn’t matter.” Arnowsky’s voice rises with each sentence as he points at the men on the other side of the room. “These people are playing in an already tortured girl’s life and saying it doesn’t matter.”
“I’m going to let them hold her until tomorrow.”
“Your Honor!” Arnowsky practically pounds the table.
“Counsel, the writ is irrelevant today, she isn’t here.”
The judge jots something down on the paper in front of him, then leans back and looks at the other attorney. “Get the girl ready. You will produce her tomorrow, well or not. I’m not getting reamed out by the Court of Appeals for you. Get her here by ten in the morning. I want to hear why you should have the right to keep her when he has the right to make medical decisions.”
The sound of the gavel slamming down is a gunshot to my stomach. I want to use it on the men on the other side of the aisle, and when I look across the room, the doctor, Frenwhit, the asshole in the bad jacket, recoils.
He should.
I don’t know what they did to my girl, but if she’s catatonic, it’s their fault. She was coming back. And now—now I have to physically get her back to try to undo it all over again.
I could murder them where they stand.
Chapter Five
Rayne Mathews
Don’t cooperate.
Since I got here, I’ve been hurt, scared, and dehumanized, so no one here gets even the smallest piece of me. Not a sliver.
I’m becoming numb.
It’s better to be a broken machine than to feel this way.
They didn’t listen to anything I said, so I don’t talk. They manhandled me as I screamed because their hands burned, so I won’t do anything for them. I won’t walk. I won’t eat. Whatever they want, I won’t do.
Fuck ’em.
These people strapped me down, cut my clothes off me. Touched me.
I have enough rage right now that if I could put a bullet in them, I would. I’d watch the metal rip through them like they ripped through me.
They finally let me out of the straps, but they don’t trust me and I don’t trust them. Doctor Fuckwit said that until I’m not a risk to myself or others, he’ll hold me over. But I haven’t done anything to myself or them since the day they brought me in. And today’s the third day of the three-day hold, which means these fuckers have to let me go. Not that I’m going to be nice about it. I told them they had no right to bring me in, let alone hold me.
The three days I’ve been here, I haven’t slept. They have rules about when to eat, sleep…they’re always taking blood pressure readings. There’s always something. It’s a never-ending series of poking and prodding as if the pain in your head and heart isn’t enough.
I don’t know what being here is supposed to accomplish, but it isn’t going to give me back the power I lost. That they took away. They’ve taken everything I had left. Even when Nurse Ratchet walks in, it’s through an open doorway because they’ve forced me to keep it open during the day even though I’ve seen other doors closed, so it feels like punishment.
“Well, it appears you’re going to court whether Doc likes it or not.” Nurse Rachet grins as she looks up from her rolling computer. The sound is unique and you always know when they’re coming.
I slide my eyes over to her.
“Your boyfriend’s filed for your release, you were supposed to go yesterday. So now, I’m supposed to prep you.”
Prep me?
It must show on my face that I don’t understand what that means, so she keeps talking. “Doc Frenwhit’s afraid you’ll freak out again, so we have to prep y
ou for transport.” She jots a few notes down even as she shakes her head.
I can feel my eyes get big.
No. No, don’t drug me.
The two security guards, who always seem to be around when things go to shit, walk through the door and I throw myself off the bed. “You don’t have to drug me!”
The health tech on my left snorts. “We’re not taking chances.”
There’s nowhere to run, but I try to dodge the four huge hands reaching for me. The hand that clamps down on my wrist drags me back and pushes me back on my bed while I scream to be left alone.
“Sorry, we have to follow orders,” Nurse Ratchet says sadly from behind me. A moment later, I feel the burn of the shot.
• • • •
The sun coming in the small windows of the van seems brighter than it should. Everything feels unreal, like I’m under water. Whatever they jammed into my arm makes me feel heavy. Even if I wasn’t restrained, the weight of my limbs would be too much. I’m here…but under a fog.
After what feels like an eternity, we stop. The side door opens and I’m wheeled backward down a ramp. The cold and the sun feel good on my body and it makes me want to stay outside. I don’t want to go inside. I don’t know what they’re going to do next. Then the thought hits me.
Tyler’s inside.
He’s here to take me home. All else is forgotten as they wheel me into a building. It’s all a blur to me and I don’t care enough to try to pay attention.
Tyler’s taking me home.
We go down a couple hallways, then through a door into a small room. It’s just the transport team and me in silence for what feels like forever. As we sit, the medication slowly lifts enough for my mind to start working.
They fucking drugged me! I wasn’t threatening anyone. They did it because they could. My mood flares white hot, but I can’t do anything about it except lift my head a little and look around the room. It’s even a struggle to move my hands, but at least they move, and while I can’t lift my legs, I feel them.
I know why we’re here but it still comes as a surprise when my doctor, Fuckwit, appears for the first time, rushing through the door. He’s sweating and running his hands through his thinning gray hair, then gripping his elbows through his ugly tan jacket.
