Chapter 17
Charlotte
David scurries into the conference room, looking around to verify that we are the only occupants. We sit at the large table. He spreads out tons of documents along its surface, arranging them in a way that must make sense to his chaotic brain because it sure as hell doesn’t make sense to me.
“Okay, let’s go through it again.” He declares.
After going through everything a bazillion times, he finally decides I’m ready for the real deal. He gathers all his documents and stuffs them haphazardly into his pristine briefcase. The man is a fucking enigma.
We enter the courtroom, and shock hits me right in the gut. This is nothing like those court shows on TV. Everything is… more .
You could fit the entirety of RHS’s graduating class of 2006 in the gallery. The judge’s bench is huge, at least one and a half of my body tall and at least that wide.
The jury box sits regally in two neat rows of six. A line of windows aligns the top of the wall behind them. Letting light shine upon the dark cloud that seeps into this room.
All of this grandeur for a scumbag like Priest. I shake my head in annoyance. Taking a deep breath, I scan the expanse of the space, slowly letting it out as I look around the area. My heart stops at the tripods set in each corner behind the gallery. Large news cameras are placed on top of them, pointing at the front of the courtroom.
My heart beats like an out-of-control metronome with no rhythm to be seen. My lungs seize, not letting air in freely. An iron grip locking down my chest, making inhaling nearly impossible.
“Hey, hey. It’s okay, Charlotte. You’re ready. We’ve gone over this time and time again. You. Are. Ready.” David assures me while holding on to my arms, his face level with mine.
I shake my head, hoping that if my body agrees first, my mind will follow… eventually.
David takes my arm and leads me to the prosecutor’s table, where the DA will sit. I have the option of sitting behind him throughout the trial or waiting in the conference room and only being led in when it’s time for my testimony.
I’ve debated this for so long, but I’ve finally decided that I want to be here the whole time. I want to see Priest’s face when his crimes are laid out before him in front of a jury of twelve of his peers and broadcast nationally for everyone else to get a glimpse of this waste of skin.
I settle into the hard wooden pew, brushing the nonexistent lint off my knee-length black skirt. My hands glide down the length of my white blouse. I don’t want a single crease in the material. I promised myself there would be zero signs of weakness from me today. Priest doesn’t get anything else from me. Not ever again.
I lift my right leg and gently bring it over my left, letting my ankles cross over one another. The immaculate, shiny material of my black Mary-Jane’s reflects the area around me in a warped, dark echo of reality.
Armor in place.
Shoulders braced and straight.
Hair and makeup on fucking point.
Let’s do this shit.
* * *
I fantasized about this moment long before Priest was arrested.
I also… had nightmares about it.
In my fantasies, he’s led in wearing full-body chains. His feet shuffle in tiny steps, reminiscent of an elderly man. His head drooped in shameful remorse, and when his eyes met mine, fear shone brightly in the reflection of the tears pooling in their sockets.
He knew I would be his undoing. The power was mine. The control was mine. I had control of him, for once.
But in my nightmares… He strolls in, untethered, bumps fists with the guards, nods at the prosecutor, smiles at the judge, and when his soulless gaze lands on me… he winks. He takes the stand, points at me, and says, “She’s lying. The drugs were hers. Ask anyone around. Charlotte would say and do anything to score. I fell for it… Fell for her, and she turned everything against me. She should be locked up, not me.”
I scoff to myself when he spouts out the clear bullshitery, but my amusement quickly fades when I realize that all eyes are now on me. They fucking believe him.
When I look down, my cute black pantsuit fades into a hideous orange jumpsuit. The row of multicolored rubber bracelets lining my delicate wrists is now replaced with a more bulky metal restraint– not the fun kind, either. When I glance at the judge with a pleading look, he simply points at me and tells the bailiff, “Lock her up, Steve.”
I usually wake up around the time that I’m thrown into a small cell with a tattered cot and a fully metal toilet. When I reach out for a guard, the cell door is slammed in my face.
David plops down beside me and pats my knee in reassurance, “It’s just this one last time, Charlotte. We’ll nail the bastard, and then you and the rest of the town can rest easy knowing he’s locked away where he can’t hurt anybody else.”
The words are meant to be comforting, but the dark cloud widens around the room. Thinning the air to mountain peak levels. My teeth gnaw into the soft skin of my bottom lip, and my right leg begins to shake. Nervousness exudes from my body. This isn’t what I wanted. Get it together, Charlie!
A creaky groan is the only heads-up we get just before people start flooding into the courtroom.
Spectators fill the pews. Neat rows of nameless strangers, relation to the situation unknown, to me at least. All I know is these are strangers to me, and yet they get to be privy to the most humiliating experience of my life. They get to listen to the details of the months of horror I experienced at Priest and his buddies’ hands and other body parts.
The contents of my stomach slosh about violently, my hand immediately cupping the middle of my abdomen to soothe the revolt happening below.
A hand lands on my shoulder, and I let out an unfortunate squeal of shock. “I’m sorry honey, it’s just me,” Mary whispers into my ear. My hand immediately goes to cover hers. I’m sure she can feel the trembles that I’m trying desperately to hide. “Your dad is here as well.”
I instantly whip my head around, searching for those treacherous brown eyes that match mine. I narrow my eyes at him. His shoulders sag, and his once handsome features have been battered with emotion and avoidance.
I almost let myself feel sorry for him. My face softens at my sperm donor’s silent plea for connection, and then I remember what he did to our family. The once soft expression hardens to stone, connection denied motherfucker.
I loosen my grip on Mary’s and give it a squeeze before pulling away altogether. Dejectedly, she shrugs a shoulder like, “Okay, well, I tried” , and leans down to kiss the top of my head before making her way to Homewrecker Harry back there.
The pews are mostly full. News crews have taken residence along the back wall of the room, all standing. Voice recorders in hand, ready to immortalize my harrowing history for the world. The greedy bastards ready to sip the pipping hot tea born of my pain.
The crowd’s murmur dims all at once. Confused, I look around for the source of the change. A haughty man, maybe in his late forties, comes strolling through the door. Wealth seeps from his pores. He seems the type to wipe his ass with hundred-dollar bills.
At least ten years his junior, a breathtaking blonde trots in behind him. She’s dressed to the nines. A high-neck, skin-tight, beige bodycon dress is worn like Mr. Vuitton himself stitched on it.
Behind the stunner is the sharp jaw only a TV villain should have. Dark hair perfectly coiffed. Suit pin-straight. Cold, calculating eyes scan the room as his languid gait echoes his father’s.
When his gaze lands on me, a slow smirk curls up his lips. Entitlement oozes out of him, stinking up the air with false prominence and submission as he joins his family at the front pew directly behind the defendant’s table.
When the defense attorney takes his place at his table after shaking Erick’s dad’s hand, it begins to make sense.
Poole money paid for his representation, and he’s a damn good one. Not like the ones listed on the back of the Gas’N’Go’s receipts.
Fuck.
A throat clears from directly behind me, drawing my focus to it.
Dr. Turner.
He came. I smile softly at him when our eyes meet. He nods in hello, his lips quirking up in a delicate wisp of a smile. My lawyer looks back to see who caught my attention and eyes Dr. Turner quizzically.
Dr. Turner pulls out his notebook and begins reading over its contents without acknowledging David. He seems almost… embarrassed. Why would he be?
We both turn back to the front, where the prosecutor has now taken his position and is sorting through several papers, making neat stacks along the tabletop.
A whoosh of air coasts over me as a body lands in the seat beside me. Startled, I jerk my head at the newcomer. A girl with short black hair, wearing a knee-length satin black dress, black tights, and black flats. She looks like she should be attending a funeral.
She’s young—maybe fourteen or fifteen—but her eyes and haunted expression age her far beyond that. I peek around for the adult who will inevitably join her, but after a few minutes, no one comes.
The jury is led in, and Judge Appleton takes his place on his grand throne of justice.
And then it happens.
The side door opens. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly as soft murmurs fill the room. I know what or rather who I’ll see when I open them.
Barely audible, humming reaches my ears from behind me. A tune I recognize as the one I chanted in his office during the last time I kicked his ass at Tic-Tac-Toe. It’s his way of telling me it’s okay. That he can’t hurt me. That I will make it through this. That Priest will finally get what he deserves. At least, that’s what I choose to believe the hymn represents.
Priest looks different. Obviously, he doesn’t have access to his nice clothes and fancy products, but his presence is just… less. Less than it used to be. Maybe it’s because there are several armed guards between us, giving me false confidence. Maybe I’m just stronger than I’ve let myself believe.
The thing that captures my attention most is his jumpsuit. Huh. I thought they were orange. But no, his is a denim-washed blue hue with a small pocket on his left pec and, just above that, a small strip of white with numbers on it.
I feel slightly victorious that he is indeed in both ankle and handcuffs. A wave of giddiness skims over my body when the bailiff latches him to the defense table like an animal.
I can do this.
Fuck this guy. He can’t hurt me anymore. I refuse to let him. This is when I take back the pieces of me that he stole. The pieces that he ripped out of my bruised and battered body. They don’t belong to him. I don’t belong to him.
The girl beside me is vibrating with ragey energy. I wonder how she knows Priest.
I look over at David, who gives me a knowing nod. Yeah. We got this. It’s all going to be fine.
The crowd settles as all parties take their places and are ready for the trial to begin.
Unease seeps into my skin. Pricking up my body and coiling around my lungs, a boa of malevolent energy stealing the air I desperately need.
My eyes search for the cause of the sudden dread filling my body.
Dark, demonic eyes are watching me. The same way they’ve always watched me with sheer hatred and apathy.
Priest nods in my direction, “Astra.”
The word is a simple one, but the tone behind it says everything he can’t at this moment.
Keep your mouth shut .
I own you.
I’ll come for you.
You will never be free of me.
Terror fills me even still when he averts his attention back to the front of the room.
All sounds are muffled as the cloud threatens to overtake me.
I don’t hear the swearing-in or Judge Appleton’s instructions.
All I hear are the last words he said to me before sending me to my death, “Fuck, what a waste.”