Trust My Words

SMYTHE’S TESTIMONY LASTED A DAY AND A HALF. ON HER FIRST DAY, she was on the witness stand until the end of the day. While nervous, she offered a timeline of events leading to the murder. She then described her actions directly after that. The prosecution drilled her time and again to offer in meticulous detail what she heard and saw.

After a long, arduous day, she felt grateful to be done with the first bit of the trial. Her temples throbbed and her jaw ached, and she quickly realized it was from clenching. The clenching was an unconscious reaction as she focused on answering each question, and her shoulders felt as though she had been slammed against a wall from the tension she carried. She was released for the evening with an admonishment to speak with no one about the case. Her exit out of the courtroom went without incident, and once in the SUV, she fell asleep. Later that evening, Artie had pizza and salad delivered and ensured Smythe was occupied with a couple of movies.

“The movies, especially comedies, will help release any pent-up anxiety. It’ll help—I promise,” Artie said as she turned the first one on. And indeed, the movies did help—Smythe laughed often. A little over halfway through the first movie, Smythe rested her head upon Artie’s shoulder and fell asleep. Artie smiled and listened to the quiet purr of Smythe’s breathing, allowing her to continue to sleep until the movie was over, putting her to bed after a peaceful rest on the couch.

Artie’s preparation for the second day varied only in that each team was given a different driving and station assignments. Artie again outfitted Smythe with several tracking devices and the latest in bulletproof vest technology.

Bolstered by the prosecution’s questions the previous day, Smythe seemed more confident in herself to continue her testimony. However, at the start of cross-examination by the defense team, it was apparent her second day would become more challenging.

Constant objections from both the prosecution and the defense made her testimony tedious, and she began to wonder if she might have nightmares that evening. Forced to recount the murder in minute detail for a second day, she offered the same answers she gave the day before. At one point, it seemed to Smythe that her memory was being called into question with reference to her father’s diagnosis of a degenerative brain disease. That brief line of questioning was followed by recounting her recollection of her statements to police dispatch and first responders at the crime scene. Yet, instead of buckling as anxiety began to mount within her, she focused in on every word of questioning. Her memory intact, she did not waver.

When it was clear Smythe’s testimony was solid and consistent, the defense mounted a half-hearted attack against her character. Smythe remembered her conversation with Artie.

Bring it.

He attempted to besmirch her recent employment decisions, her LGBT status, and her decision not to enter WitSec or any other federal protective custody program. The prosecution quelled each attempt, with several sustained objections ending the defense’s meager nipping of her character. With a final redirect of questioning from the district attorney, Smythe’s testimony ended. She received a final admonishment from the judge to discuss the case with no one and was excused. As she rose from the witness box, she heard the judge excuse the jury for the day and to prepare for final arguments in the morning.

I was the last witness? Maybe just for the prosecution? I don’t understand.

Hurried along by two deputies, she looked around for Artie, but could not locate her in the crowd nor find her as she approached the conference room. She watched as the deputies opened the door, allowing her to move past them into the room.

“Here she is,” the deputy said to the person in the room. Smythe walked in, smiling brightly at the thought of seeing Artie’s face again. She certainly had a few questions for Artie, including what appeared to be the end of the trial. She abruptly stopped short as she crossed the threshold. Her pulse began to race, her breathing quickened, and her vision tunneled, for it was not Artie standing before her but two of Artie’s security detail.

“Where’s Artie?!” she snapped, her anger and shock evident by the frown upon her face. She looked toward the back of the room to the bathroom door, hoping perhaps Artie was in there. The door, however, was open.

A member of Artie’s team Smythe had not met before stepped toward her. “Ms. Daniels, there’s been a breach in security within the courthouse. Please come with us. Time is of the essence.”

“No, something’s wrong. I will not go with you—this is not part of the plan! Artie would want me to stay here. I’m not going!”

“Ms. Daniels, Artemis said you might refuse. She asked us to give you this note,” said another team member.

He stepped forward, holding a small piece of notebook paper in his hand. She took the note and read it.

“Sweetheart, I ask that you follow my team out. They will protect you and get you back to the apartment safely. I’ll meet you there. Walk closely behind them, and they will lead you away. Trust my words.”

—Artemis.

Smythe re-read the note several times. She did not move, save her eyes as she canvassed the room. There was no way out except through the door they now stood in front of.

Walk closely behind them… trust my words.

Her faced relaxed, and she nodded. The team turned toward the door, double-checked the area to ensure it was safe to proceed and cautiously but quickly escorted her out of the conference room, leading the way through a back corridor toward a stairwell.

Sweetheart…Walk closely behind them. She’s never talked about walking closely behind a team, they always—

Smythe furrowed her brow and gradually began to slow her pace as they approached the stairwell. She darted her eyes from side to side. There was no one around. No hidden door to run through, only the long corridor walls. Her hands began to tremble, and she grit her teeth. To quell her mounting fear, she clenched her hands into fists.

Trust. My. Words…Oh God, no—I’m going to have to either turn and run or stand and fight my way out of here—

Without warning, she heard the sound of quick-moving footsteps from behind her and the sound of Artie’s voice.

“Smythe, drop!” Artie screamed.

In one terrifying movement, Smythe fell to the floor and covered her head. The security detail turned and drew their weapons. With her weapon drawn, Artie took a defensive stance without cover and shot several times at her own security detail. Smythe squeezed her body tightly into a ball, her ears ringing at the sound of the exchange of rapid gunfire.

And then silence.

Just as quickly as the gunfire began, it ceased. Smythe lifted her head slightly, peering in front of her, terrified that she would see only the barrel of a gun. Instead, what she could see through blurred vision were both men, a mere few feet to the side of her, unmoving, face down on the tile floor.

She looked behind her toward the previous sound of Artie’s voice. Artie was splayed on the floor, barely moving, along with another man. Additional members of Artie’s teams and sheriff’s deputies were running in her direction. As though propelled forward by some unknown speed she did not know she possessed, Smythe jumped up and ran toward Artie.

“No, no, no, please God, no.”

She slowed her pace and slid to the floor next to Artie, who lay face down.

“Artie, honey, it’s ok. Baby, please—”

“Smythe, let us through,” a team member directed as he approached.

“No! Stay away from her!” In an instant, Smythe grabbed Artie’s weapon, which lay at her side.

“Back away, I mean it! None of you can be trusted. None of you!”

The team members halted their advancement. Smythe held the gun in between both hands, her index finger on the trigger.

“Back away, I said!”

“Smythe, we didn’t do this. Let us tend to them,” another team member said.

Holding back tears, Smythe refused.

“Two of you did this! Two of you! You’re not going near her!” Smythe screamed.

It was in this here-now moment Smythe paused to wonder at it all. Here she sat on the floor, the weapon in the palm of her hand cold to the touch. It was a weapon that had just splayed two armed security agents assigned to protect her on the floor. To Smythe, it was symbolic. It was a weapon that so many in the United States owned. Touted as a recreational outlet, the right to bear arms had done so much damage. The daily gun violence ravaged her nation—the almost monthly mass shootings, with no real action to stem the violence. The inaction of elected national officials charged to serve and protect the citizens of the land—here she sat, with a weapon, focused on protecting only her part of the world.

“Baby,” Artie muttered.

Smythe did not respond. Her eyes darted from one team member to another, glaring at the them, gripping the weapon so tightly her hands began to shake. Two deputies pulled their weapons from their holster and aimed them toward Smythe.

“Don’t shoot her. I repeat, don’t shoot her. She’s friendly. Lower your weapons!” yelled one of the team members. He walked cautiously before the deputies, placing his body between their weapons and Smythe.

Smythe swept Artie’s weapon from side to side in an effort to keep everyone at bay. She neither heard the others around her or Artie’s voice.

Artie, still face down, opened her eyes and looked at Smythe and tried again.

“Baby, give me the weapon. I’m ok. Give me the weapon.”

Artie slowly rolled over onto her back. Smythe noticed Artie’s movement and momentarily glanced down at her. Smythe growled, willing the cold terror she felt to release its grip upon her.

“Can you sit up, honey? We’ve got to get out of here. I have to get you to safety.”

Safety? How safe was she really with a weapon?

“You need medical assistance.”

“No, baby. We’re already safe.” Artie craned her neck and looked behind her to her teams, who had slowly gathered around. “They’re the good guys. Trust me. Lower the weapon,” Artie said, in between gasps.

Artie forced her eyes to remain fixed onto Smythe. She nodded toward her slowly, mouthing “please.”

“It’s ok, baby,” Artie said. “It’s ok.”

With no fight within her frame, Smythe lowered the muzzle of Artie’s weapon and then burst into tears, tenderly laying her head on Artie’s chest.

Artie’s team moved in.

Smythe bolted upright. She screamed so loud all activity ceased momentarily.

“NOOOOOO!! NO!” Smythe cried out. In the here-now moment, the choice was hers to make. Lash out in fear, and perhaps hatred, or choose love. Fury coursed through her veins. Artie reached her hand to Smythe’s chest and pulled her down to her own. Smythe began to sob, her hand releasing her grip upon the weapon before lightly touching Artie’s cheek.

Step by step, a team member slowly approached Smythe. He bent low and held out his hand.

“Smythe,” the agent started.

Her body tightly cocooned around Artie, Smythe looked out to his outstretched hand. She could feel the ache in her back as she raised her torso. The agent’s fingers reached toward the weapon and gently placed his hand over it.

“Let me have it, Smythe. You don’t have to hold onto it any longer.”

Smythe watched as the agent removed the weapon from her hand, slowly standing up and offering Smythe his other hand. She grasped it as if she were grabbing onto a lifeline, allowing him to help her to her feet. He placed one arm around her shoulders, bearing her weight in his quiet strength and walked her to the wall across from Artie.

“I’m going to stay with you, Smythe. You’re safe now. Let us help Artie.”

Smythe sat back against the wall. Refusing to have another tear fall from her eyes, she watched intently as the agents began assessing Artie.

“Damn, God, this hurts… it hurts,” Artie groaned.

“You caught them in the vest,” a team member said as he examined Artie’s torso.

“Yeah, I know, but now I think my ribs are broken this time. The rounds didn’t feel like issued caliber,” she gasped.

“We’re taking a look at their weapons. They don’t look issued.”

With help from one of her team members, Artie slowly sat up. She looked over to find two of her detail working on Dennis.

“He caught some bullets, boss—we’re trying to get the bleeding under control,” one of the team members said. Artie pulled herself next to Dennis. He bled profusely from his upper body, a pool of red seeping out around him.

“We’ve called for paramedics. They’re on their way,” a sheriff’s deputy offered.

In the ensuing minutes, paramedics and additional sheriff’s deputies and police officers arrived at the hallway. Paramedics worked quickly to stabilize Dennis, while deputies and police began questioning Artie’s teams. With the help of another team member, Artie moved next to Smythe against the corridor wall and watched the activity unfold.

To Smythe, the scene felt surreal. The cacophony of voices ricocheted off the corridor walls. She stared down at her hands, noticing they didn’t quiver. She then scanned her body. She expected to feel fear, but her energy was not fear. It was rage, and she consciously chose to hold that rage, not allowing it to dissipate from her body.

Paramedics transported Dennis to the hospital with a team of agents following behind them. However, it would be over two hours before Smythe and Artie would be released from the courthouse. Both were questioned endlessly about their roles in the events leading up to the weapons fire in a courthouse. Once the necessary reports were taken, Artie and Smythe were escorted to the hospital by Artie’s security team.

Along the route, Smythe argued with Artie, finally convincing her to tend to her injuries with a promise she and the teams would check in on Dennis. With Artie placed on a gurney and wheeled into the emergency room, Smythe and two teams made their way to the surgery ward to await word of Dennis’s condition.

Artie lay propped up, alone on a gurney in an ER room. She was in excruciating pain and found it difficult to take in a full breath. Her attending nurse hoped the bed position would offer her some relief until tests were taken to determine the extent of her injuries. A member of her security detail remained posted outside her room, allowing Artie to relax enough to drift in and out of consciousness.

“Artemis Leone?” a radiology technician asked as she entered Artie’s room. Artie stared blankly at her but nodded. “Hi. I’ve come to take you for tests.” Unfortunately, Artie misunderstood the tech and attempted to rise from the gurney, causing her gasp in pain.

“No, Ms. Leone,” the tech said as she placed a hand on Artie’s shoulder. “Stay put. I’ll wheel you on the gurney.” Artie nodded and collapsed back onto the gurney.

“Good,” Artie panted. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m feeling a bit banged up.”

After several hours, Artie’s tests were completed, and a diagnosis made. Her injuries were not life-threatening, and she would be released.

“Your doctor will be in to discuss the findings and prepare your discharge paperwork,” her ER nurse said.

“Knock knock,” came the sound of a man’s voice on the other side of the curtain.

“Enter,” Artie replied.

Standing before her was the recent FBI special agent assigned to Smythe’s case. She eyed him with suspicion as he approached her gurney.

“We need to talk,” he said. With an air of command in his voice, the agent voiced his concern additional threats still existed for anyone connected to the case and cautioned her to tighten security, not only for Smythe but for herself as well. Artie regarded the agent with contempt, but she also understood his posturing. She was no longer an FBI agent and considered an outsider.

She also knew that since the case was now over, he was under no obligation to continue to watch over Smythe, especially since she had refused WitSec. In his own way, she figured he was offering a professional courtesy by voicing his concern. She briefed him on the plan she had set into motion to flush out the team members she suspected had been compromised. She then outlined her security plan for Smythe for the coming weeks.

“Why didn’t you notify me of your concerns about your team earlier? This could have been avoided,” the agent accused.

“Because I didn’t trust you. It became evident that someone connected to this case placed a hit out on Carole. I still believe it’s someone from your department, but I also knew someone from my team had been tracking Smythe’s movements,” Artie shot back.

The agent glared at her. “And you thought it was me. Whether you like it or not, we’re going to have to work together to keep your client—”

“It’s handled. From your end, this portion of the case is over, and you know it. And let’s be clear, I contacted your director about my suspicions. Your director also has the outline of my ongoing protection of the client. If you need me, call my office. They’ll know how to reach me. Or better yet, contact your director.” Artie glared at the FBI agent as he flared his nostrils. Her security detail quietly stepped into the room. The FBI agent understood the gesture.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said before leaving her room.

“Thanks for the backup, guys,” Artie said as they retreated to the entrance to her room.

Smythe wearily arrived at Artie’s bedside a few minutes later, after spending the last few hours holding vigil in the surgery ward waiting for word of Dennis’s condition. She was followed in by Artie’s ER doctor shortly afterward. Smythe immediately recognized the doctor as the same one who tended to her father before he died.

“I remember you—you spoke to my mother and me when my father suffered a massive stroke.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” the doctor said, concern etched across her face. “I see so many patients and families. How long ago was that?”

“Don’t be sorry. I completely get it. It was earlier this year—around February. You said he would not recover. He died about three days later.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Smythe nodded.

The doctor turned her attention to Artie, confirming she had hairline fractures on two ribs.

“You’ll need to reduce physical activity, ice the rib cage, and use pain medication as necessary.”

“How long before the ribs heal completely?” Artie asked.

“Given that you have had recent trauma to the ribs already this year, it will take you roughly 6-8 weeks before you can begin work again. My recommendation is that you sit behind a desk.”

“Given my line of work, Dr. Goben, sitting behind a desk is not usually an option. My work requires hands-on involvement. There are times, like today, that my presence requires a more physical presence. But I’ll do my best,” Artie said, nodding her head in all seriousness.

Smythe scrunched her face at Artie.

“You just lied to the doctor by agreeing with her. I’ll do my best—what is that?” Smythe said as she turned to face the doctor. “Don’t trust a word she says, doc. But I’ll see to it. Thank you.”

The doctor smiled and nodded. Once the doctor left, Artie gingerly stood up from the ER gurney and smiled at Smythe.

“Baby! I knew you were a badass. I just didn’t know to what extent. You followed my directions and then you held off my team with my weapon. I think I have a slot for you on my team, if you’re interested.”

“When it comes to you, I’m not playin’. What now?”

“We go see Dennis.”

“Just so you know, I have questions.”

“I have answers, but not here.”