Time is strange even when you aren’t injured. It becomes even stranger when you are. I had never bothered to fill the prescription of pain pills prescribed by the hospital in Quincy. I’d spent weeks doped up, slipping in and out of reality depending on whether I was going up or coming down. I hadn’t wanted more of the same when I got home.
Yet, I had gotten it. Some days were normal enough. I got up, piddled around all day long, being checked on by different people. Once in a while grabbing a nap in the afternoon and then staying awake until bed time.
Some days were not as normal. Some days, I’d be puttering along and fatigue would hit hard and fast. Making it to my bed was an effort. It always started in my legs and worked its way up. Xavier kept checking my circulation and it was fine. He would shrug and tell me it must be the healing process.
September was coming to an end. My back still hurt. The specialist kept telling me everything was going perfect, more than perfect even. My healing was exemplary. Every time he told me that, I wanted to punch him in the face. Clothing no longer irritated it, but sitting down with my back resting on something was pure hell.
My family had gotten in the habit of visiting, often. At least once a week, my sister-in-law and the kids came over. They fixed dinner and I helped with homework. My mother came over at least once a week, but she didn’t come to fix dinner. She usually brought some delicious indulgence that I shouldn’t have. My migraines should have been getting worse, but the constant pain seemed to keep them at a bay. It was either that or I had one all the time and just didn’t realize it. Nyleena spent Thursdays, Sundays and Mondays at my house, watching football. It wasn’t making me any more domestic, but it was interesting.
The excessive amount of time spent in my house was making it feel like a home. I hadn’t had one of those since I went away to college. Some days, during my killing time, I’d find something I’d never seen before. It was usually something decorative, courtesy of Trevor, but it was still interesting.
So what did sociopaths do when they couldn’t work? I watched a lot of TV. I’d found a new TV show that kept me entertained. I played a lot of video games. I did books of puzzles in a few days. I read often, sometimes two or three books in a day. Every couple of hours, I made myself get up and move around for fifteen minutes to keep from getting stiff.
Strangely, my couch was showing wear in one spot. It was the spot I sat in all day, every day. I didn’t venture out very far, just the houses of Lucas and Gabriel. Malachi was too far to walk, by the time I reached his block, my back would burn. The skin might be grafting better than expected, but it didn’t feel like it.
Some weeks earlier, I had discovered that I was indeed a very dull person. My limited hobbies had proved to me that while I might be smart, I didn’t use it for much. The fact that anyone spent time with me was a miracle.
Today though was something new. Nyleena stood beside my bed. Spread out before the two of us were several suits. It was her goal to see me wearing one of them within the next hour. It was my goal to not be seen in any of them.
I had court today. Not trial court, but sentencing. It seemed there were some issues with the jury putting our mad bomber into The Fortress because he had a tendency to talk to himself. It had fallen to the SCTU to prove that just because he talked to himself, didn’t mean he should be put somewhere other than the first SuperMax prison ever built in the US. The Fortress was more inescapable than Alcatraz had ever thought to be. The accommodations were a little nicer, but only because each prisoner had their own cell. On the flip side, TV was limited to PBS and Create, and movies followed a very strict guideline of being only Masterpiece Theatre and putting all those killers in the same room for any length of time was risky, meaning it happened twice a year. A few civil rights groups had tried to get conditions changed, but it had fallen on deaf ears. We’d gotten rid of the death penalty, PBS and Create seemed like a fair trade off.
“Definitely the green one,” Nyleena said.
“Or not,” I pointed to the blouse. “My back cannot take something that requires two shirts. We have to find something nice that doesn’t require a jacket or an undershirt. Materials should also be considered. Why are you doing this? Why isn’t Trevor magicking up something for me to wear?”
“Because he is trying to magic up something for Lucas to wear.”
“Oh,” I sighed. “How about the green one without the jacket?”
“The jacket is required for the green one.” The green one was very Jackie O. style. I liked it and in any other situation it would have been my first choice.
“Why don’t we go back to black slacks, short pumps, and the silky shirt?”
“It’s polyester,” Nyleena informed me.
“Fine, the polyester shirt.”
“Your holster will ruin it.”
“It isn’t like the wash machine can’t get rid of wrinkles.”
“It isn’t the wash machine I was thinking about. I was thinking about the snaps on the holster snagging the material.”
“Ok, well,” I sighed at her.
“How about the black slacks, the polyester shirt and a jacket?”
“I don’t want to wear a jacket. I don’t want to wear a holster, but holding a gun in my hands the entire time I talk doesn’t sound like a good idea.”
“You won’t be allowed to take it into the court room.”
“Yes, I will.” I informed her.
“No, you won’t.”
“I am not going out there without a gun.”
“You can wear it there, but you’ll have to check it at the door.”
“So, I’m going to be trapped in a courthouse full of felons with no weapon? I think that is a terrible idea.”
“It is a terrible idea, but there is nothing I can do about it.” Nyleena wasn’t involved in this trial. She was going as a spectator. It might be the first time since she had graduated that she had just sat and watched as someone else practiced law. I think a part of her was excited.
“I’ll check my gun without a fuss, if you agree to the polyester.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Nyleena scoffed.
“Hello?” Xavier shouted from downstairs.
“Up here!” I shouted back. Xavier’s footsteps could be heard on the stairs. Soft and quiet, but not as stealthy as Lucas. He knocked. “Come in,” I told him.
“I brought you a gift,” Xavier held out a holster to me. I turned it over in my hands. “It goes on your hip.”
“That’s handy,” I said. “Polyester it is.”
Nyleena sighed heavily. The fact that I wasn’t in a T-shirt and jeans should have thrilled her. I hadn’t thrown a fit about dressing up for court. My pajamas would have been even better.
“Get dressed, everyone’s about ready,” Xavier left the room.
“Just remember to keep that temper of yours in check,” Nyleena said. She followed Xavier out. I struggled into my clothes. The hip holster worked well for the Beretta. I missed having two, but there was only so much a girl could do. I’d have to go with just one gun today.
The drive was very quiet. The five members of the SCTU were loaded up into a single SUV. It was being driven by an agent from the Department of Justice. A second SUV had shown up and loaded a few members of the VCU, including Malachi, since they had been in on the manhunt and capture. I wasn’t sure what any of them would say. The prosecutor had gone over a few things with me. Mostly to keep me from being surprised by any questions the defense might ask. The prosecutor, a Ms. Heidi Klein, had also told me to keep my temper in check. I wondered what this meant for Malachi. His temper was worse than mine.
The Federal Court House in Kansas City had been built after the serial killer laws had gone into effect. Those that worked within its halls were specialists. The prosecutors only handled the cases of serial killers, mass murderers and spree killers. The judges were the same, they didn’t sit on other cases and they could form a committee for any trial. A committee trial meant that for whatever reason, the assigned judge decided they needed support. Usually three judges sat on a committee trial with one leading all the proceedings. My thought was that the other two were there to go drinking with afterwards and have someone to talk to about the things they had been shown during the trial. There were also two full time psychologists in the building that dealt with judges, prosecutors and defense attorneys in need of a little therapy.
The guards were all US Marshals, but like us, they weren’t just US Marshals. They were something else. It was standard practice for the Marshals service to be stationed at federal courthouses, but the Marshals at this court house looked a little more jaded. Their faces had more lines than most and they had a few visible scars. They did hand-offs to VCU or SCTU if the prisoner was sent to The Fortress. If the prisoner was remanded to another penitentiary, they handled it themselves.
The DOJ Agent stopped outside the back entrance of the court house. He didn’t open the doors and no one else moved to do it either. We waited. After a few minutes, Marshals in tactical gear swarmed out of the door. I wasn’t used to an armed escort. Usually I was the armed escort. However, with two SCTU members down, it was considered a necessary precaution. I’d been prepped for it, but it was still bizarre. We were all considered targets, killing us would be a badge of honor for some serial killers. Most of those serial killers wouldn’t do very good inside The Fortress. We brought gifts when we visited and they appreciated it.