Kent walks me to the lobby, already on his phone. Gage walks me to my car. I drive home, make a coffee I don't drink, and wait.
The first hit comes on Wednesday at 2:14 PM. An email from Hudson's office, cc'd to Greenridge legal.
Due to safety concerns raised by clinical and security personnel, your physical access to Greenridge Forensic Psychiatric Facility has been suspended effective immediately. A formal petition regarding the status of your court-appointed role has been submitted to the district court for judicial review.
Short. Formal. No specific allegations, no names, no details I could actually respond to. Just safety concerns—broad enough to mean anything, vague enough to defend.
A formal petition has been submitted to the district court.
Hudson can lock me out of the building. That's within his administrative authority, and I knew it was coming the moment I walked out of that lobby with Kent on the phone beside me. But going to the court means he's trying to undo the appointment itself. Not just closing a door—trying to erase the reason I was ever allowed through it.
I call Kent. He picks up on the first ring.
"I saw it," he says. "They filed this morning. Hudson and Kennedy both signed."
"Kennedy signed it."
"Yes."
"He's Jude's treating clinician. He approved the sedation protocol. He knows exactly what they're doing in that cell and he put his name on a petition to remove the only person documenting it."
"Yes," Kent says again, and the flatness in his voice tells me he's already past the part where any of this is surprising. "I'm pulling the full filing now. I'll have it within the hour."
The second hit comes Friday at 4:51 PM.
I'm staring at the microwave clock when my phone rings and the caller ID shows the Tenth Judicial District administrative office. The same number I've been dialing for months to file status reports and confirm scheduling.
"Ms. Turner, this is Diane Aldiss from Judge Harmon's chambers." Her voice is neutral. "I'm calling to notify you that your appointment as independent behavioral monitor at Greenridge Forensic Psychiatric Facility has been suspended pending judicial review."
"On what grounds?"
"The court has received a formal petition from the facility's clinical director and the treating clinician for the patient under your supervision. The petition alleges that you repeatedly accessed restricted areas of the facility beyond the scope of your court authorization." She pauses, and I hear paper turning. "That you engaged in threatening and intimidating conduct toward clinical staff who raised concerns about your behavior. And that your interactions with patients under your observation caused documented psychological distress and interfered with their prescribed treatment plans."
I grip the edge of the counter.
Every allegation is a lie. Not a difference of perspective, not an exaggeration—an outright lie. I accessed restricted areas because my court order authorized me to observe all patient-facing operations in the facility. I "threatened" staff by asking why the sedation logs didn't match what I observed with my own eyes. And the idea that I caused Jude psychological distress—that Kennedy, who approved keeping him in a chemical fog indefinitely, would put her signature on a document accusing me of harming him—
"Ms. Turner? Do you have any questions about the process?"
"How long does the review take?"
"That depends on the court's calendar. Given the nature of the allegations and the credentials of the petitioners, it could be several weeks. You'll receive written documentation by certified mail, and you're entitled to submit a formal response."
"I will be."
"That's noted. In the meantime, your appointment is suspended and you are not authorized to access the facility or any patient records in any capacity."
The call ends. I put my phone on the counter and stand in my kitchen for a long time.
Hudson went to a judge. He and Kennedy swore, on the record, that I was a threat to their patients and their staff. They took every legitimate thing I did—every report, every question, every time I pushed back on a number that didn't add up—and reframed it as misconduct. My diligence is now evidence against me. My documentation is compromised. My access is gone.
And Jude is still in that cell.
I pick up my phone and call Kent. He tells me not to submit anything to the court until he's seen it, and to have everything ready by Sunday. His voice has an edge to it I haven't heard before—not worry.
Then my phone rings. Gage.
"I just heard." His voice is tight. "You okay?"
