But this time, the gray feels heavier. The cell feels smaller. I catch myself listening for her and I can't stop.
The fog starts to thin on what must be the seventh day. They pull me out of solitary, cuff me, walk me to the visitors' room. I know the route. I've walked it twice a year since they put me here—every time Kent Ashton decides a phone call won't cut it.
Kent sits across from me with his hands flat on the table, his suit jacket buttoned and his hair pulled back tight. I've seen this face before. Cross-examination mode—composed and furious underneath it.
I've been upright for six hours. Long enough for my hands to close on command. Long enough for the room to hold still. My mouth still tastes like aluminum and my left eye won't track right, but I can sit in a chair and that's what Kent needs from me right now.
"How many days," I say.
"Seven." He doesn't move. "Seven days, a full punitive stack, and a guard in surgery. You dislocated Dane's shoulder and broke four bones in his hand."
"Three."
"The hospital counted four."
I don't argue. My count might be off.
Kent leans forward. His fingers press harder against the table. His knuckles are white.
"Every incident goes into Hudson's file," he says. "Every Code White is a justification for escalation. You know this. I've told you this a hundred times. You're giving him what he needs to bury you, Jude. Stop being such a fucking idiot. You're working against me trying to get you the hell out of here."
"Dane put his hands on me."
"I don't care."
I hold his gaze. Kent holds it back. Twenty-five years and he's the only person alive who doesn't look away from the man I've become.
"He talked about her," I say.
Kent's brow creases. "Who?"
"The monitor."
"The court-appointed monitor." He says it slow. He filed the motion that put her there—he knows exactly who she is. What he doesn't know is why I care. "Hope Turner. That's what this was about?"
I don't answer.
Kent leans back and studies me. I've known this man since we were six years old and I can count on one hand the number of times I've caught him off guard. This is one of them.
"She isn't scared of me," I say. "Everyone in this building is afraid of me. She isn't. She sits in there and asks me how I slept and writes down everything I say. No matter what I do or say to her, she doesn't show any fear."
That's more words than I've given anyone in months. Kent knows it.
He's quiet for a moment. Then he moves on.
"Her access has been suspended. Pending review of the incident and your psychiatric evaluation. Hudson pulled the sessions the day they put you in the box." He pauses. Lets that land. "She can't come back until you're cleared for standard monitoring. Kennedy has to sign off. Hudson has to approve. Every day you're in here is a day your new little obsession isn't."
I don't move. My hands stay flat on the table, mirroring his without meaning to.
"You understand what I'm telling you," Kent says. "Her reports are the only counter to Hudson's file. Every time she walks into your cell and writes down what she sees, it goes to the court. The court sees a man who is stable, lucid, and over-medicated. That's the case. That's what gets you out of here." His voice drops. "When you break a guard's hand, Hudson doesn't see a man defending himself. He sees a patient who proves every dosage increase was justified. And the monitor who was documenting otherwise gets locked out."
"She'll come back."
"Not if you keep giving them reasons to pull her." He leans in. "Listen to me. This facility is one incident away from a sedation protocol that puts you in a permanent chemical hold. I've seen the draft. Hudson has it written. Continuous infusion, round-the-clock monitoring, a dosage that makes the stack look like aspirin. It goes into effect the next time you trigger a Code White, and once it's in place, no court motion I file will move fast enough to undo it before the damage is done."
Neither of us talks for a while.
"You want her to keep coming?" Kent's voice is flat. "Give the court a patient worth releasing. A cooperative patient is a patient worth observing. More sessions. Longer sessions. Sessions outside a cell. Every privilege expands with your behavior andcontracts with your violence. That's how this works. You just haven't cared enough to play the game."
