22. ANASTASIA
Chapter twenty-two
B y the time the alarm on the laptop sounded, I’d already showered and dressed and was preparing for what would undoubtedly be one of the most critical days of my life. Sam had brought me a very conservative pink button-down blouse, some charcoal-gray dress pants, and a pair of black flats. I looked more like an accountant than a reckless woman who had broken into a home and stolen a car. My hair, which I usually wore down, needed to look tidy. So I brushed it back into a sleek, low bun, securing the stray strands with a light hairspray. This style not only kept my hair off my face but also lent an air of professionalism and modesty to my appearance.
With that done, I sat and looked out the window, nervously waiting for the day to begin and wishing I could disappear. Within a few minutes, Samantha breezed into my room. Atticus followed, his expression serious but kind as he carried an empty duffle bag.
“Morning, Angel!” Samantha said, taking the bag from Atticus and setting it on the foot of my bed. “Today’s the big day, huh? We’ll take your stuff to our place and then meet you for your arraignment. Let’s put anything you haven’t already packed in this bag.”
“Thanks, Sam. I don’t know what I’d do without you guys,” I said, swallowing hard.
There wasn’t much left to pack—just some toiletries, the clothes I’d slept in, and the laptop. It was all I owned in the world, and it wasn’t much. But it was better than the nothing I’d come to the hospital with.
Atticus stepped forward. “Okay, let’s go through what’s going to happen today. In a few minutes, a nursing tech will roll you in a wheelchair to the patient pickup area downstairs. That’s where the police will take you into custody. Don’t worry; it’s all standard procedure.”
My heart thudded uncomfortably at the mention of police custody, but Atticus’s calm demeanor helped dampen the spike of panic. “They know about your condition and have been briefed to handle everything smoothly,” he said. “So you don’t need to worry about that part. Just follow their lead, okay?”
I nodded, trying to muster a smile. “I’m just nervous, you know?”
Sam reached out and squeezed my arm. “We’ll be right behind you. I’ll make sure to be at the courthouse before you even arrive.”
Atticus continued, “You’ll ride with them to the station. They’ll process you—fingerprints, mug shot, the usual—but remember, it’s just a formality at this point. ”
The thought of the handcuffs and the police car made my heart race. Nervously, I scanned their faces, trying to find some courage. “What if things go south?”
“Hey,” Samantha said in a sharp tone, a flash of her sass showing. “You’ve got the best friends in Tacoma. We won’t let you down.”
“Yeah, we get you’re nervous,” Atticus said, giving me a crooked grin as he picked up the duffle and one of the suitcases. “Keep in mind, this is a process you have to go through, and it’ll soon be over. Plus, I’ve wrangled tougher situations over breakfast. This is just a walk in the park. The moment it’s over, we’re heading straight home. Sam’s got a big dinner lined up.”
“Home,” I said, trying out the word. Would anywhere ever truly feel like home if my memories never returned?
The police officer standing guard leaned in the door. “All right, folks, it’s time to go,” he said.
A tech rounded the corner just then, pushing my ride. “Time for your grand exit,” he said with a smile, helping me into the wheelchair.
I sat motionless while we made our way through the hallways and down the elevator. My stomach churned with anxiety. The moment of truth was approaching fast, and there was no turning back now.
When we approached the hospital’s main doors, cameras started flashing, and the murmur of the crowd grew louder. The officer led us to the doors, somewhat blocking me from the sight of those waiting just beyond.
“Ready?” the tech asked, giving me a sympathetic glance.
I nodded, my throat tight. There wasn’t really a choice.
As soon as the doors swung open, I was inundated with the roar coming from the mass of people waiting outside—shouts from reporters, calls for my attention, camera shutters clicking wildly. I squinted against the bright sunlight. The humid air immediately blanketed me, a striking contrast to the recycled coolness of the hospital. I was momentarily disoriented.
“Miss, can you tell us who you are? Can you tell us what happened?” a reporter yelled, edging closer.
“Why were you at the Volkov estate? Are you involved in some sort of criminal activity?”
“Where is your family?”
“What’s your name?”
So many questions to which I had no answers.
Several additional police officers promptly appeared at my side, forming a barrier between me and the cameras. One officer, a tall woman, stepped in front of me before addressing the crowd, saying firmly, “Please, give her some space.”
Despite the chaos, her presence was reassuring. She and another officer helped me stand. The discreet click of handcuffs being secured around my wrists was almost drowned out by the clamor. My hands were gently but firmly secured in front of me, and a jacket was draped over my shoulders, hiding me from the eager cameramen.
“We’re going to walk straight to the car,” the female officer instructed, her tone low and calm amid the cacophony.
People swarmed like vultures, hurling questions at me, but I remained silent, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. I was guided toward a waiting patrol car, expertly shielded from the prying eyes of the crowd. I kept my gaze down, watching the concrete move beneath my feet.
Once we reached the car, the door was opened for me, and I was helped inside. “Watch your head,” the officer said. I ducked into the vehicle, the scent of old vinyl and coffee greeting me.
The door shut with a solid thud, cutting off most of the noise from the reporters. The occasional flash of a camera was visible through the tinted windows. I cast a fleeting glance at the curious faces. Their features blurred into a sea of hungry eyes and eager mouths, all vying for a piece of my story.
“Are you okay?” the officer in the passenger seat asked, turning slightly to check on me. “That was quite the zoo. I think everyone’s heard of the mysterious Jane Doe.”
“Yeah, I’m just…overwhelmed,” I admitted.
“We’ll be at the station soon, and we’ll take care of everything there,” she assured me in a kind voice.
As the car pulled away from the hospital, the noise of the crowd faded into the background, replaced by the soft hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the radio. I leaned back against the seat, the fabric cool against my skin, letting the motion lull me into a semblance of calm. What awaited me was unknown, a path as unclear and unnerving as the fragmented memories that occasionally haunted me. But in this moment, all I could do was sit back and watch the world move by, a silent observer of my own life’s unfolding drama.
Soon after arriving at the police station, the door of the patrol car swung open, and the officers ushered me into the bustling environment of the booking area.
“Right this way, ma’am,” one of them said, guiding me to a desk cluttered with papers and a computer that looked like it had seen better days. He sat down and pulled out a form, clicking a pen. He was a middle-aged man with a scruffy beard and an impassive expression.
“We need to get some information down,” he stated, turning the monitor slightly to face him. “What’s your full name?”
I shrugged, my chest tightening at the question.
“They told me you had amnesia, but I still have to ask. Procedures and all. You’ll be listed as Jane Doe,” he said before continuing .
“Date of birth?” he asked, fingers poised over the keyboard.
“I…I don’t remember,” I admitted, and not for the first time, the blank spots in my memory plagued my mind.
“That’s okay. We’ll keep moving through the form, giving you the opportunity to tell me anything you do remember.”
He went through a list of questions, none of which I had answers for, and then hit the enter key hard, catching my attention. “Okay, now that’s done, we’re going to do a quick search, just routine.”
He looked up, meeting my gaze briefly before turning to a female officer who stood ready nearby. “Can you take her to get searched and then to fingerprinting?”
She stepped forward, her face all business. “Come with me.”
I rose from my seat, and she led me down a narrow hallway to a small room, where she had me remove my shoes. After I’d complied, she patted me down with swift, practiced moves. She checked under my arms, around my waist, and down my legs. Her hands were brisk and impersonal as they checked each potential hiding spot for contraband.
“All clear,” she announced, gesturing to my shoes and then for me to follow her once more.
Next came the fingerprinting. Even though my prints had been taken at the hospital, they did it again here. I rolled each fingertip, one by one, over the cool glass as instructed by a young officer, who tried to make small talk to ease the tension. I’d never seen anything quite like the scanner they used.
The mug shot was next. I stood against a height chart, a camera pointed at my face. “Just look straight ahead,” the person behind the camera instructed. It flashed twice, and I blinked against the bright light. A brief memory surfaced in my mind. This camera was the same type as the one that had been used for my driver’s license. I recalled holding the card in the palm of my hand. It had the words New York State printed at the top—a clue to where I was from that I would keep to myself for the time being.
“Let’s get you checked out by the nurse,” the officer said. We moved to a small clinic set up within the station. A nurse greeted me with a tired smile.
“We just need to do a quick health screening and a drug test,” she said. “I’m going to check your vitals and take a small blood sample.” As she explained this, she wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my arm. The pump hissed, and I watched the numbers flicker on the digital display.
“Blood pressure looks good,” she noted, jotting down the results. “Now for the blood sample.” She took a minute to open what she needed and label the tubes.
“I know they found no drugs in your system on the day of the accident, but we need to do this as part of the booking process,” she added. Gently, she took my arm. The needle prick was sharp but quick, and soon she was applying a small bandage to my arm. “All set here. You’re okay to be processed further.”
They led me to a holding area to wait for my arraignment, and as I took a seat on the bench, the reality of my situation seemed to settle fully. The holding cell was unwelcoming and bleak, the walls a grimy shade of gray. The air was stale, filled with the lingering scent of disinfectant and something less identifiable but equally unpleasant. A couple of other women were already there. Both kept to themselves. One was curled up on a thin mattress in the corner, her eyes closed but not quite at rest, while the other sat upright on a bench, leaning her head back against the wall.
I hugged myself to keep warm, trying not to think about my shitty circumstances. It was a relief when they finally called my name and led me out of that depressing place.
An officer escorted me to a car, which transported me to the courthouse. The ride was short, with the police vehicle cutting efficiently through the city traffic. The courthouse buzzed with activity while they ushered me into a pre-trial holding area—a small room with a table and four chairs. I sat and rested my cuffed hands on top, picking at my nails since I had nothing else to do.
After what felt like forever, but was likely only a few minutes, the door opened, startling me. A well-dressed older man in a suit stepped in. His expression was all business as he approached me, a folder tucked under one arm.
“Ma’am, I’m Marcus Donovan,” he said, introducing himself quickly. He sat down in front of me with a briskness that suggested time was a luxury. “I’ll be representing you today. We don’t have much time, but I need you to understand what’s going to happen.”
He opened his folder and pulled out some documents. “You’re being charged with several serious offenses,” he began, his eyes flicking to mine before he quickly ran through the list of charges. His words were straightforward, his tone professional but not cold. “However, I’ve just received some potentially pivotal information that might help mitigate your situation. Given your circumstances, we have a strong case for leniency.”
I nodded, absorbing his words with a growing sense of bewilderment. “What kind of information?”
Mr. Donovan didn’t bother looking up from the papers he was reviewing. “Let’s just say it could significantly alter the outcome today. For now, just follow my lead in court. Answer the judge’s questions succinctly, and let me do the talking.”
Before I could ask anything more, he checked his watch and stood up abruptly. “I need to go file these documents and prepare. Trust me, I’ll do everything I can.”
He exited the room as quickly as he had arrived, leaving me to process his assurances and vague promises .
When the time came, an officer removed my handcuffs. “You don’t gotta wear these for your arraignment,” he said. After that, he escorted me into the courtroom through a side door. The spectator’s gallery was full of people. The judge’s bench loomed large to my left. Every eye was on me as I was led to my seat.
Mr. Donovan appeared at my side. “Just stay calm,” he said in a voice so low I could barely hear it over my hammering heart. Despite my anxiety, his presence was reassuring.
The room became quiet when the bailiff, a stern-faced man with a voice that commanded attention, called out, “All rise!” We stood in unison, shoes squeaking and clothes rustling, as the judge entered.
He was an imposing figure, an older, distinguished gentleman with white hair and a black robe. His expression was impossible to read as he took his seat at the bench and signaled for everyone to be seated.
An air of formality instantly settled over the room. The judge glanced around with a measured gaze before speaking. “This is the case of the State of Washington versus Jane Doe, and we are here today for her arraignment on the following charges,” he announced. The judge looked off to the side expectantly at a woman standing to his right.
The clerk proceeded to read out the formal charges against me. “The defendant is charged with grand theft, breaking and entering, trespass, reckless driving, evading arrest, and several counts related to the property damage resulting from a motor vehicle accident and break-in,” she stated clearly, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room.
A cold dread settled over me. Each charge was like a weight added to my shoulders. I tried to keep my composure, glancing briefly at Mr. Donovan, who gave a subtle nod, reminding me of the discussion we’d had earlier .
Once the charges had been formally declared, the judge looked directly at me. “How does the defendant plead?” he asked solemnly.
“Not guilty, Your Honor,” Mr. Donovan responded on my behalf, his voice steady and confident.
“Very well. Everyone may be seated,” the judge stated, making a note on the file in front of him. “We will now proceed with the review of the documents and evidence related to this case.”
Mr. Donovan sat next to me. His earlier disclosure hovered in my mind as I tried to steady my nerves for whatever came next. He leaned in and whispered, “I’m going to request a meeting in the judge’s chambers. There’s a compelling reason to discuss the unique circumstances of your case privately.”
He stood, addressing the court with an assertive tone. “Your Honor, if I may request a brief recess for a bench conference in your chambers? There are significant developments from the property owners involved that directly impact the proceedings today.”
The judge considered this for a moment, his gaze shifting between Mr. Donovan and the prosecutor. “Very well, Counsel. We’ll have a brief recess. Let’s sort this out in chambers.”
Mr. Donovan gave me an encouraging nod before gathering his documents and departing. The prosecutor, a middle-aged woman, followed suit, glancing over at us with a contemplative expression. Her heels clicked against the wooden floor as she and Mr. Donovan made their way to a large oak door behind the judge’s bench.
The room buzzed quietly with conversation once they were out of sight. As I sat there, lost in thought, the hum of whispered speculations from the gallery barely registered in my ears.
After what seemed like an eternity, the door reopened. Mr. Donovan stepped out first, a subtle but visible relief in his posture. The prosecutor followed, her expression neutral yet somehow resigned.
Mr. Donovan’s smile was the first actual sign that the news was good. “We have a positive update,” he announced as he reached my side. The prosecutor nodded slightly to me, an acknowledgment of the decision reached behind closed doors.
“We’ve all agreed that the charges related to the property damage, trespass, and theft should be dismissed,” Mr. Donovan said. “The statements from the estate trustee and the owner of the property where the accident occurred were very clear. They have no interest in pressing charges, considering your medical condition and the other circumstances. Evidently, the new owner of the estate is extremely wealthy and doesn’t want to waste her time on what she considers trivial matters.”
My brows shot up. I wondered how wealthy the woman must be to not care about me totaling her expensive car.
“And,” he added, “given that the police were unable to find any criminal record, and since you were the only person injured, there’s a consensus that pursuing other charges would not be in the public interest.”
The prosecutor, stepping close to the table where I sat, added in a firm voice, “We believe this is a fair resolution given the unique factors at play here. The state sees no benefit in further penalizing Ms. Doe under these conditions.”
Mr. Donovan turned back to me, his eyes serious yet kind. “This means we’re essentially looking at a resolution that involves some financial restitution on your part but no criminal charges. We’ll need to go back before the judge to make it official.”
The judge re-entered the courtroom soon after, and the formalities resumed, but now there was an air of conclusion rather than contention .
Everyone remained silent as we awaited the judge’s decision. He looked over the documents laid out before him and then addressed us.
“The new owner of the estate, represented by attorney Harrison Tate, has expressed that pursuing charges against Ms. Doe for the trespass, breaking and entering, theft, and property damage is neither worth his time nor effort,” the judge said, his tone measured and clear. “Similarly, the owner of the property where the car hit the tree has stated that, considering Ms. Doe’s injuries and amnesia, further prosecution is unnecessary. He also refuses to press charges.”
He paused, looking down at me from the bench. “Now, regarding the charges of reckless driving and evading the police, this presents a complex issue. Ms. Doe’s fingerprints and DNA have returned no matches in any criminal databases. This suggests that this is her first offense.”
I sat there with my hands clasped in front of me, listening as the judge continued, his voice echoing slightly off the room’s high ceiling. “In light of these circumstances, and with the support of Dr. Atticus Thorin—a well-respected member of this community, who has offered to assist and house Ms. Doe during her outpatient rehabilitation—it seems fair to take a compassionate approach.”
Everyone in the room seemed to be holding their breath as the judge leaned forward, his gaze stern yet not unkind. “Therefore, I am allowing the charges against Ms. Doe to be dismissed. However, Ms. Doe will be required to pay court fees and a sum of five thousand dollars to cover a portion of the costs incurred by the city. This amount will be divided between the Tacoma Police Department and the Tacoma Fire Department EMS to cover some of their expenses.”
He looked directly at me once more. “Ms. Doe, do you understand the terms laid out? Do you agree to these conditions? ”
I nodded, exhaling, allowing my relief to sink in. “Yes, Your Honor. I understand, and I agree to the terms.”
“Very well.” He made a note on the paperwork in front of him. “That concludes this matter. Ms. Doe, I trust you understand the leniency being afforded to you today. This is your one and only get-out-of-jail-free card. Make sure you use this chance wisely.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” I managed to say, my voice steady despite the turmoil of emotions inside me.
With the rap of his gavel, it was done. I was free of the charges, thanks to the unexpected advocacy of those who had nothing to gain from helping me. Turning, I spotted Samantha, who smiled supportively, and Atticus, who gave me a nod of approval. Conan sat next to them, looking relieved.
Mr. Donovan leaned in close and said softly, “Atticus has taken care of all the costs. The money the judge mentioned, it’s all sorted. I will complete all the paperwork on your behalf over the next few days.”
I blinked, the words taking a moment to register. “Thank you,” I whispered, turning back to Atticus as tears welled in my eyes.
“Let’s get you out of here so you can have a fresh start,” Mr. Donovan said with a small, victorious smile.
I stood, and the courtroom seemed to spin slightly. My legs felt like they might give out, but Mr. Donovan was right there, quickly taking my elbow and steadying me. Overwhelmed, I reached out and hugged him, surprising him and myself with the sudden show of emotion. “Thank you so much,” I said. He patted my back awkwardly.
“Go on now. They’re waiting for you,” he said, gesturing toward the gallery .
When I turned, the sight of Samantha and Atticus standing there—smiles wide and eyes bright—pulled a laugh from me. I rushed to them, and we fell into a group hug.
“You did it, Angel,” Samantha squealed, squeezing me tight.
Atticus gave me a firm, reassuring pat on the back. “I knew it would all work out.”
Pulling away, I noticed Conan off to the side. He was clutching a big bunch of colorful flowers in one hand and standing uncomfortably, his other hand buried deep in his pocket. He looked up with a sheepish expression, eyes wide and apologetic—exactly like a kid caught stealing cookies but hoping to be forgiven.
He took a hesitant step forward, his usual bravado absent. “Angel, I’m…I’m really sorry for not being around these last few weeks,” he said, his voice rough around the edges.
This man, who was usually so sure of himself, was standing here in front of me looking all unsure and regretful. It did funny things to my heart.
“I had to stay away,” he said. “There were reasons, good ones, I swear. I’ll explain everything once we’re back at Sam and Atticus’s place.” His hand shot out, giving me the flowers.
I nodded, relishing the earnestness in his eyes. “Okay. We’ll talk later,” I agreed. I was unsure what this was all about, but willing to hear him out. For now, the relief that this was all over was enough to keep the smile on my face.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, following behind Samantha as she and the others turned to leave. We walked out of the courtroom and into the hallway.
Before we’d reached the courthouse exit, I nearly collided with a man who stepped directly in front of me. He was about my age, with dark hair and intense light blue eyes that locked onto mine in a way that sent a shiver down my spine .
“Do I… Do you know me?” I blurted out, the words slipping from my lips before I could think. There was something familiar about him. A nagging sensation at the back of my mind screamed I should know who he was, yet the details were just out of reach.
He said nothing, just stared at me, not moving an inch to let us pass. His intense behavior threw me off-kilter. I felt a strange mix of recognition and confusion, but no words came from him. He merely continued with that deep, penetrating stare.
“Hey, buddy, you need to step aside,” Conan barked, ratcheting up the tension, his tone sharp with a protective warning. He stepped up beside me, his presence reassuringly solid.
But the guy didn’t flinch or so much as blink in response. He never took his eyes off me. His expression remained unreadable. It was unsettling, the way he held his ground, unaffected by Conan’s size or the obvious threat.
Conan wrapped an arm around my shoulders and shot a look at Atticus, who nodded subtly, ready to intervene if needed.
With a protective squeeze to my arm, Conan shouldered the man aside—not gently—done with the strange, silent confrontation. The man stumbled a bit but regained his balance. He kept his gaze locked on me while we moved past him.
“Who was that?” I whispered to Conan as we hurried out of the courthouse.
Conan shook his head as his brow furrowed. “No idea, but I didn’t like how he was looking at you. We’ll make sure he doesn’t follow us.”
As we walked away, I glanced back over my shoulder. The man still stood there, watching us leave, a strange, almost pained expression on his face. It was a look that tugged at my heart. But for now, I had to let it go.