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He pivots to face the judge, his narrowed eyes sweeping me. “No, Your Honor. I don’t care to play into courtroom theatrics.” Then to me: “I fail to see how attempting to disgrace me proves your evaluation of Charles Reker was thorough, Dr. Noble.”
I shift my position, alleviating the throbbing pressure at the base of my back. I’m officially tired of sitting here. “A crime of passion suggests an act of immediacy. Charles Reker, after careful analysis, proved to be aware of his wife’s infidelity for over a year. Like you, Mr. Hatcher, Mrs. Reker was obvious in her attempts to hide the affair. So if you’re suggesting that an affair alone is motive enough for murder…then I would be very wary of going through with your weekend plans.”
At his intense silence, I add, “My findings and diagnosis are all documented in the files I sent to your paralegal.” I nod to the mountain of files on the prosecution’s desk. “If you’d been as invested in this case as you are with your extra curricular activities, you’d have read my reports, and not presented such a weak case for the prosecution.”
A flash of anger stains his face, then he takes measured steps to his table. “I’m done, Your Honor. No more questions.”
Judge Gellar shakes her head. “I agree there, Mr. Hatcher.”
An hour after my testimony, the trial concludes, and the jury is sequestered for deliberation. High profile cases can’t be kept out of the media, unfortunately. Judge Gellar is doing what she can to give Charles a fair trial.
I’m confident I was able to help the jury see past the grisliness of Charles’s crime to the sick individual beneath. And, Mr. Hatcher won’t ever call me to the stand in the future, I’m sure. Which I consider a double victory.
The crisp scent of spring greets me as I exit the courthouse. Maine is so fresh in the spring, as if everyone is given a clean slate. I inhale the jasmine in the air, letting it cleanse the trial from my system. I head down the steps, careful not to trigger another flare-up, and pain lances my arm.
It’s acute and not the norm. As I spin around, cold liquid douses me—the shock of it stealing my breath. I drop my briefcase and wipe at my face, clearing away the thick substance.
My hands are covered in red.
“You got a murderer off!” a woman shouts. She throws a metal bucket at me, her aged features creased in anger. “That devil killed my sister. He burned her alive and hacked her up. Her blood is on your hands, you animal.”
My mouth pops open, and is immediately filled with the metallic taste of blood. I gag. I’m only given a moment to process what’s taking place before she flees down the steps at the sound of sirens.
2
Blood
London
Pig’s blood. According to a pathologist friend who was gracious enough to test a sample at the station, Margo Reker’s sister doused me in pig’s blood. I suppose to her, I’m as bad as a cop. Because that’s the only correlation I can conceive as to why she’d select the blood of a swine.
That, or she owns a pig farm…
Which isn’t bringing any good conclusions to mind, so I’m going with the cop theory and easy access to a butcher’s shop.
In the end, I didn’t press charges. No reason for that family to suffer any more than they already have. And by foregoing the lengthy process to press charges, I was able to salvage my afternoon sessions.
Two hours of showering and then soaking, and showering some more, and I still feel as if there’s a filmy layer of pig membranes coating my skin. No use
trying to salvage my designer suit; it’s trashed, right along with my dignity. And I really loved that suit, too.
Even ten years later, the thought of how much money I spent on the brand-name label, only to toss it out, drops heavy in my stomach like a lead weight. Thud. The sinking, ill feeling is a testament to our roots—the way we view ourselves so deeply ingrained that no amount of money can change self-image.
Although I do a fine job of dressing the part, when I look in the mirror, I still see that same poor, small-town girl. Her washed out skin, her sullen, sunken eyes, and badly bleached hair.
I toss my rich dark locks over my shoulder now as I pull open the door of my building. I’ve spent years helping others rise above, to embrace a future free of their past, so you’d think this knowledge would benefit me. Yet, I still struggle with my own personal psychologist to move beyond that deprived girl from Hallows, Mississippi.
And being doused in pig’s blood sure as shit doesn’t help me forget.
On the elevator ride up, I use the few seconds I have alone to pin my hair and pop a muscle relaxer. The repeated showering didn’t help my flare-up. Hot water only serves to aggravate the inflammation. So much so that I turned the lever all the way to cold in a fit of anger.
It was a poor substitution for my morning routine of hot and cold therapy, which was already disrupted with the trial. What’s a little pig’s blood to top it all off? I’ll make sure to have Lacy schedule an appointment with my chiropractor.
The elevator doors open to the sixth floor. My floor. Reclaimed hardwood meets each step, my nine-hundred dollar pumps clacking against the refinished surface. The walls of my practice are a soothing gray. Decorative art hangs strategically at eye level to keep my high-paying clients from staring at the shackled criminals in the waiting room.
I should’ve remodeled after I leased the floor, designed a separate waiting room—one where the ward could stow the eyesores—but doing so would’ve felt like acceptance, enabling me to continue in a direction I no longer wish to pursue.
I shrug off the morning as I approach the reception desk. “God, are you all right?” Lacy asks in way of greeting. Obviously, gossip has already spread. “It was on the news,” she answers my unspoken question. “I’m so sorry, London. Why didn’t you take the day off?”
