(Much love to everyone who read and enjoyed this story, and special thanks to all who reached out!)
***
One Month Later
"Do you believe you are susceptible to forming any judgements based solely on a person's race, color, creed, national origin, ancestry, gender, gender identity or expression, age, disability, or sexual orientation?"
"No."
"Do you have any preconceived notions against the psychiatric profession that would impede upon your ability to be objective in a trial?"
"No."
"Is it just me or is it kind of hot in here?"
"Huh?...I, um...come to think of it--"
"Perfect, thank you, sir. Please wait over there, we'll call you back shortly so the judge and prosecutor can see you."
The Angelos dream team sat in a tight circle of three in the state courtroom, a grand, windowless room paneled entirely in various wood finishes. They looked up at each other in tandem, knowing smirks gracing their faces as the potential juror arose.
"For a guy who's been away from the courtroom for, like, ten years, you're a beast," one of them muttered, snickering and shaking his head.
The team's head lawyer remained focused on the paperwork in front of him and smirked.
"Voir dire's a bitch, Harrison," he said, noting the potential juror's name on his clipboard with a bold check mark. "And I am her master."
***
Another Month Later, Friday Morning
The months leading up to the trial had been particularly unkind to him. As her influence receded from his mind, it became painfully clear that it had left in its wake a gaping void, his struggles even worse than before--not in severity, only that what suited him just fine beforehand now felt cruel.
But that was over now. The void slowly but surely had to be filled. He'd been on his own for decades. He could do it again.
Detective Berman's chin sat idly in his hand, only half tuned into the trial's dry opening statements. Despite the stress involved in preparing for them, trials themselves were usually rather boring. There were few surprises, if any. In stuffy courtrooms, opening statements flowed into testimonies flowed into presentations of evidence flowed into verdicts. And days, weeks, occasionally months of work culminated in just a few monotonous hours of jejune, categorical presentation.
Collecting usable intelligence was sometimes the hardest part. Sometimes, those who most deserved restitution were most afraid to do what was necessary to secure it. To the detective's frustration, only two of the doctor's patients named in James Walter's letter were courageous enough to testify. From the powerful to the nobodies, everyone's reasonings for remaining silent ran the gamut--doubting their memories, feeling guilty about the prospect of testifying against her, feeling outright fear. They were, curiously, unable to verbalize why.
The detective had done his best, or so he'd thought--scrutinizing every loose end, pulling warrants and subpoenas, leafing through various etceteras. Per his job description, it was quite rare that he lent assistance to his cases after indictments, but his personal stake in the matter necessitated it. That was beside the fact that it was just about all he could think about, his other cases having somewhat fallen by the wayside.
At this point, he'd be relieved just to put the whole mess behind him. It sufficed to say she was making that particularly difficult today. There she sat at the defendant's table, donned in a long, form-fitting black dress, turtlenecked with long sleeves. Her neck was adorned with a sparkling crystal pendant that he found pretty and decidedly apropos for the occasion, if a bit uninspired. She exuded her usual charm while still, in a way only the detective could tell, putting on a show. After having been away from her for so long, watching her today felt akin to watching her in one.
She sat perfectly postured in her chair, eyes dancing about when they suddenly came to rest upon his. She gave him a warm smile. Taken aback, he immediately averted his gaze. Though part of him thrilled, her smile was the last thing he needed. He had a testimony to give.
It wouldn't be terribly difficult to delineate the extent of her manipulation as he saw fit. He planned to disclose that he'd been subject to her patter in her office, that he'd been made to forget it, that it had distracted him from investigating the case, and nothing more. Part of her indictment included obstruction of justice for that very reason.
But he planned to keep their affair and its more sordid details to himself. For some reason, the very thought of laying bare before the general public his tranquil descent into loving trance and his subsequent excruciating wake-up call nauseated him. Probably wouldn't have swayed the jury, anyway. Probably would've only served to make him look ineffectual, weak-willed, and incompetent.
Probably would've made her laugh at him.
***
Opening statements and plaintiff examination went as planned. The case's prosecutor, District Attorney Damon Johnson, was competent and thorough. A man with sartorial flair, today his warm umber skin stood out from his light beige suit, accessorized with a dotted burgundy tie and matching pocket square. His short, curly hair, jet black in his younger days, was peppered with gray throughout.
The facts--at least, as presented--were established: two of Doctor Angelos' patients, a man and a woman, claimed she exploited her methods to engage in sexual relationships with them. They were convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that she was capable of bending their consent to her whims, making them do things they wouldn't ordinarily. A follow-up expert testimony from a board-certified hypnotherapist confirming the possibility of such a thing legitimized the presentations.
Then, of course, they were promptly eviscerated by none other than Marcus Chiang.
In top form as the head of Doctor Angelos' legal team, he who himself spoke so compellingly, who, too, seemed to lack any qualms manipulating those around him to his heart's content, indeed stood before the courtroom relentlessly cross-examining the witnesses.
Somehow, Detective Berman was both shocked and not.
Marcus mercilessly poked holes in their recollections, questioning them, clearly taking advantage of the fact that their memories to begin with were shaky at best. He spoke clearly, concisely, exhibiting a nigh preternatural confidence and fluidity, each phrase carefully calculated and structured. Fastidiously poised, his hair was perfectly groomed and his suit fit him to perfection, his movements graceful, choreographed, powerful. The cadence of his words was entrancing in its own right, though not in the sweet, lulling way of the doctor, moreso in that he commanded a room, forcing one to listen despite their best attempts to the contrary.
"If you thought my client even
possibly
had you do things in the sexual realm, then why hadn't you ever thought of pressing charges?" Marcus asked, stalking up to the stand like a leopard toying with its dinner.
The mousy, blonde-headed woman blinked in surprise.
"Me, pressing charges?"
"Well, you're here now. According to your testimony, you had relations with her, of which your memory is, to your own admission, dubious, and you claim her therapy made you feel a degree of loss of agency."
