The warden stands and pulls his cheap suit jacket closed. “Hello, Dr. Noble. I was sorry to hear about the unfortunate incident at the courthouse earlier,” he says, his smug expression contradicting his sentiment. “I had hoped it wouldn’t affect your sessions this afternoon, but I do understand if you need?—”
I hold up a hand. “Where’s Riley?”
Irritated by being cut off, he purses his thin lips. “Riley has transferred out. He wasn’t making any progress in the program.”
I dig out the key from my briefcase and turn toward the warden. I could make an argument on Riley’s behalf, claim we’d eventually see a breakthrough, but this morning has left me drained and lethargic. Riley is a prime example of failed rehabilitation.
Considering this, I glance between the two inmates seated in my waiting room. One gawks openly at Lacy, a devious, disgusting glint in his dark eyes. The other simply stares at the hardwood floor.
I feel a sardonic laugh bubble up. “Oh, no,” I say. “Absolutely not. I’m not taking on two new patients.”
The officers move to escort the convicts out, but Marks halts them with a stern glare. “Listen, London,” he says, the informal use of my name delivered in his nasally, chastising tone. “Funding requires that you meet your minimum caseload. Now that Riley is gone…”
As he drones on, I tune him out, feeling a headache coming on. “All right,” I say as I press my fingertips to my forehead, annoyed by the mounting pressure at my temples. My private clients alone keep my practice more than profitable. Funding getting pulled isn’t the threat Marks thinks it is, but I’ve resolved to see this through for the next year.
“One inmate,” I state, holding up a finger to stress my point. “I’ll take on one. We can discuss an alternative resource for the other. I can’t take on any more patients and be within regulations.”
This is technically true.
With a resigned sigh, the warden nods to the officer nearest the convict still eyeing Lacy. “Bring in Billings.”
“Wait.” I do another cursory sweep over the two inmates. “Not him—him.” I point to the dark-haired man who hasn’t looked up once during our conversation.
The warden chuckles. “I assure you, if your workload is that hectic, you don’t want Sullivan here. He’s a lost cause. Only here as a last resort before he’s transferred to a maximum security penitentiary in New Castle.” His gaze hardens on the inmate. “He’s being tried for capital punishment. Lethal injection.”
I glare at Marks, eyebrow arched behind my glasses. “And yet, you were so eager to waste my time.”
He shrugs. “I have my own pushy caseworkers to answer to.”
As one of the corrections officers escorts Sullivan toward the elevator, I glance at Lacy and frown, deciding a hopeless case has to be better than her being uncomfortable for the next several months.
“I do like my challenges,” I say, turning to unlock the office door. “When is the trial date?”
Marks clears his throat. “Three months from now.” He watches me closely, head tilted. “You’ll be required to speak on his behalf. Are you sure you want to do that?”
“I’m required to give my honest testimony. Which I always do,” I say as I step inside my office. “Bring him in. I’ll start the paperwork.”
I flip the switch along the wall, and the overhead track lighting bathes the room in a soft glow. A diffuser in the corner emits the scent of sandalwood, a calming fragrance to enhance the saltwater fish tank built into the narrow hallway that adjoins my therapy room. The whole space is styled in soothing cool tones, but is otherwise devoid of details.
I find it’s best to keep the inmates as calm as possible duringsessions, and the blank space is intentional for this purpose, designed not to trigger any unwanted memories or episodes. My private clients appreciate the ambiance, as well.
After I tuck my briefcase away in my desk drawer and lock it, I lead the men into the therapy room, where I eye the rug beneath the contemporary leather chair. The officer knows the drill. He pushes the chair aside and removes the small area rug, revealing a bolted manacle in the floorboard.
The custom installation wasn’t cheap, and it came out of my own pocket, but the solution to conceal a floor restraint was more appealing than having a restraint bench in the middle of my therapy room.
As the officer shackles the inmate to the restraint, I get my first close look at him. He’s tall—over six feet, towering over both guards—with a leanly cut, muscular build. Yet it’s the intensity of his silence that stands out, humming stronger than the saltwater tank.
Once the forms are completed, Marks hands over the inmate’s file, and the officer has my newest patient shackled to the floor. He’s only allowed enough slack to stand near the chair. No roaming during sessions.
As an extra precaution, all pens and sharp objects are locked inside my desk. A prisoner once made it out with a pencil that he promptly lodged in an officer’s neck during an attempted escape.
When it comes to violent offenders, there’s no such thing as being too vigilant.
The warden heads toward the short hallway. “I feel the need to warn you that Sullivan is a level three inmate.” His brow furrows as he watches for my reaction. “I’ll be leaving Micheals with you.”
I toss my blazer over the back of my chair and pull it up to the marked line, four feet away from the restrained man in the center of the room. “While I appreciate your concern, I’m aware of the risk. That’s why there’s a waiver. I don’t conduct sessionsthat way. Officer Micheals can wait outside the office, as usual.” I meet the warden’s narrowed gaze. “If Sullivan posed too much of a danger, you wouldn’t have brought him to my practice. Correct?”
Something hesitant flashes behind his gaze before he nods. “Of course, but there’s always the option to conduct sessions at the facility where?—”
