Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I understand you’ve reached a verdict.
The judge’s words sounded thick, as if they’d been dipped in molasses. All around him, he noticed, time had somehow suddenly slowed to a virtual stop. Seconds had stretched into hours, like a bad movie with too much slow motion in its direction. He heard the restless crowd around him suck in a collective breath and then hold it as the judge spoke. The moment seemed so fragile, as if he had just watched someone drop an expensive glass vase and was just waiting for it to shatter into a thousand pieces. He imagined, as he looked straight ahead at nothing, that if they did sentence him to die, this might be what his final moments alive would feel like. The last few hours lasting as long as days; final seconds becoming an eternity, until, he suspected, there’d come a point he’d actually be anxious for it to just end. His body was physically tingling, from both the terror and the excitement, as a million little fingers delicately crawled across his skin under the ill-fitting, cheap black suit his attorney had made him wear. The prickly feeling was at once euphoric and also insatiably itchy and uncomfortable, and he resisted the urge to claw himself out of his restless skin. It was imperative that he remain here, in the moment, no matter how anxious he might be. The end was almost here.
Will the defendant please rise …
They were all here for him, he knew as his eyes took in the room without ever moving. Not for his brilliant father or his cold, society mother or his sorry-ass, tragedy of a brother. This time it was for him. They had traveled from as far away as China and France and Germany – all around the world – to see him. To hear him. To watch him with their cameras. And as he sat there, waiting to rise up and hear his fate, suspended in this fragile moment, he knew that in dozens of countries, millions of people, right now, were talking about and shedding tears over him. Of course, the attention was never his intention, yet he couldn’t help but find it funny how things worked out sometimes. And he couldn’t help but be more than a bit proud of himself at how far he’d come with this. At how far he’d made it. But, of course, it was not time for smugness. The vase was still out there in mid-air.
His attorney gripped his arm and leaned into his ear. ‘David, David, listen to me,’ he whispered sternly, hoping to get through. ‘If the verdict is guilty, say nothing. Do nothing. Everything you say and do can be used against you. I will come see you across the street as soon as they complete the booking and the paperwork, and I will try to have you placed back on nine, so you can continue your meds. The penalty phase will not be for a few weeks, probably.’ Mel lifted him by the elbow, encouraging him to stand up now. ‘So say nothing, that’s very important to remember.’
He stood.
Will the clerk please publish the verdict …
The judge kept up his angry stare as the clerk rose, unfolded the paper and finally put on her reading glasses. Sitting up stiffly in his seat, he moved closer to the bench, tapping his wrinkled fingers impatiently on the wood, and surveying his courtroom with a suspicious, anxious stare.
And that was when he saw the judge blink.
It had happened so fast, he was sure no one else had noticed. But he’d played enough poker in his life to know a tell when he saw one. Judge Farley, with the flicker of panic in his cold, angry eyes, had just choked right in front of him and given away his hand. And in that brief, fragile instant, he knew what the clerk was about to say.
He felt everything inside of him relax, and he bit his cheeks as the clerk began to read aloud the words he already knew were coming. He bit them hard until they bled. The pain kept him from moving. From cheering. From sighing. From smiling. From laughing.
We find the defendant not guilty by reason of insanity …
He’d wanted to scream, or jump. Even hug his attorney back. He’d wanted to reach over the gallery rail behind him and hug his crying father, too, before he finally smacked that pitiful, profound look of despair and disappointment off the old man’s face. It was the same familiar look his face slipped into whenever he got within ten feet of Darrell after he’d been diagnosed. That’s why he wanted to remove it. His mother had always been far more discreet, reserving her looks of disappointment and shame and despair for more private moments, when the cameras were off and the guests had gone home, but there was no need to look behind him to know that she was gone already. There was no way she could handle the failure of being the mother of two schizo sons, the mother of an insane murderer, no matter how well she’d played the supportive role these past few months. The label alone would probably kill her. Good.
The men and women who judged him were still sitting in the box, shifting uncomfortably in their seats, the cameras were still set upon him. So, of course, he didn’t slap his father. Or yell at his mother’s shadow. And he didn’t hug anyone. He didn’t do anything. He just swallowed the blood from the chewed wall of his cheek and he stared straight ahead.
The shouts and screams erupted everywhere, all around him. He heard the cheers of those who had made him their cause. The Pro-Life poster boy. The champion of the Treat People With Mental Illness In A Fair And Decent Way groups. And he heard the cynical jeers of those who thought him the devil incarnate. Of those who believed him a malingerer. A faker. A murderer.
Amidst all the noise and shouts and clutter, from somewhere behind him, he heard them call her name.
‘Ms Valenciano, are you happy with the verdict?’ ‘Was justice done?’ ‘Have you spoken to David Marquette?’
His miracle worker. His Anne Sullivan. She who had made the blind see his illness; who had made the deaf hear the voices only he heard. Assistant State Attorney Julia Valenciano. They continued to shout their questions, but she never answered them. He didn’t hear her sweet, defiant voice. Even so, he knew she was there, somewhere behind him, waiting. He could feel her. He could even smell her perfume. Their electric connection was still there, as it had been since the beginning, and he knew she would not leave him until it was all over.
I find that the defendant most definitely meets the criteria for involuntary commitment, and as such, am hereby committing him to the custody of the Department of Children and Families … I will review the hospital’s report on your client’s progress and we will proceed from there with any further extended commitment …
He owed her big-time. He owed her, perhaps, his life. And it was time to let her know just how thankful he was to have it. It was time to let the world in on the proud little secret that he had been keeping all to himself. Well, maybe not all to himself, he thought with a chuckle. There was one other out there who was very good at keeping secrets.
As they came for him with their shackles and chains and handcuffs, he patiently held out his arms, because he knew it would not be long before he was free of them. Before God miraculously healed the sick and he would be well again and they would have to regrettably let him out. The time was sure to quickly fly …
He let them lead him away, but he knew she still waited. Until the last second, she waited for him. So he turned around and he made sure he thanked her for all she’d done for him with a big, friendly smile.
To God
Why have you made life so intolerable
And set me between four walls, where I am able
Not to escape meals without prayer, for that is possible
Only by annoying an attendant. And tonight a sensual
Hell has been put upon me, so that all has deserted me
And I am merely crying and trembling in heart
For Death, and cannot get it. And gone out is part
Of sanity. And there is dreadful Hell within me.
Ivor Gurney – English composer, poet and patient,
The City of London Mental Hospital