Chapter 16 Elior #2
My outfit was similar to the one I wore the day before in the way the fabrics were soft and gentle on my skin. I was glad Daddy had bought me several options.
Yesterday’s was a silky, loose emerald-green long-sleeve blouse and stretchy black dress pants.
Today I had on khaki dress pants that were a little roomy.
My top was this pretty, boxy cream sweater with beads that looked like pearls.
I liked them because I could fidget with them a little without them popping off.
My cube didn’t fit in my pants pocket like the worry stone had yesterday, but I didn’t have as many people staring at it as I thought I would.
I felt prepared—definitely a bit scared—but prepared.
Father’s defense attorney, a balding man in a fancy suit, made frequent eye contact with me from across the floor. When it was finally time for him to begin, I was more than a little uncomfortable.
The man stood confidently, as if he wanted the room to feel how much control he believed he had.
He buttoned his jacket, adjusted his cuffs, and offered me a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Ransom—the younger,” he said.
“Good afternoon,” I replied.
He stepped closer to the lectern. “You understand that my role here is to ask you questions, correct?” The look on his face reminded me of Father when he was repeating instructions because I hadn’t understood them the first time around. I really didn’t like it.
“Yes,” I answered, trying to keep my voice as calm and polite as possible.
“And you understand that I may ask things you don’t like.”
I squeezed the cube once—hard. The resistance grounded me.
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Good. Let’s begin with something simple. You testified yesterday that you were raised in what you’ve called a secluded religious community. Is that accurate?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And despite living there for your entire life—nineteen years—you claim you never noticed any criminal activity beyond what you personally experienced?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“Despite being the second-highest ranking member of the community?”
I frowned. “I didn’t hold any power. I was just a figurehead, sir.”
He seemed to ignore my answer, moving on to the next question with hardly a pause between. “You testified that the Covenant educated its children internally. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“No accredited teachers?”
“No.”
“No standardized testing?”
“No.”
“So no outside benchmarks for what you were taught—or what you weren’t taught.”
I thought about it, then nodded. “I suppose not.”
He smiled faintly, like he’d just placed a chess piece.
“So your understanding of the world was limited.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. I didn’t argue it. It was true.
“And your understanding of morality came exclusively from your father.”
My cube creaked under my grip.
“Yes,” I said. “Or at least adults teaching us Father’s words.”
“Exactly,” the attorney said. “So when you describe punishment—‘whipping,’ as you called it—you’re filtering that experience through a belief system he gave you. One that framed discipline as divinely ordained.”
Huh?
“It didn’t feel very divine, sir.”
A few people in the gallery whispered.
He raised his eyebrows. “Feelings are subjective, Mr. Ransom. Pain is subjective.”
I focused on the beads of my sweater, rolling one gently between my fingers.
“You volunteered for the first punishment, did you not?” he continued.
“Yes,” I said. “To protect someone else.”
“So no one forced you.”
I shook my head. “That’s not—”
“No one physically forced you,” he corrected smoothly.
My mouth felt dry.
“No, but it was either I volunteered, or someone else got hurt.”
He tilted his head. “Did you seek medical attention for your injuries?”
“No.”
“I see,” he said, voice mild. “And did you at any point think to call 911 or seek help from professionals?”
“I didn’t have a phone, and I didn’t know what 911 was until I was off the compound.”
“You could have run to the nearby town.”
I closed my eyes, and sucked in my lips, willing myself to calm down—to not let his words get to me.
“No, I couldn’t have,” I muttered.
“You have two working legs, do you not? Or did you not seek help because you were complicit in your father’s crimes?”
The judge looked up sharply.
I opened my eyes slowly, their edges burning with tears, and looked at Father’s attorney.
“I do have two working legs. But never once did it occur to me that I could use them to live a better life. Never—” A quiet, strained whimper escaped my throat.
“—once did it occur to me that I could be saved, because—because I thought that that was just how life was. Every time Father was disappointed in me, frustrated that I wasn’t perfect enough—inhuman enough, I thought I…
I thought nothing I ever did would ever make him love me. ”
As my face scrunched up from my desperate attempt to hold in a sob, the man said, “A father not loving a son is not a crime, Mr. Ransom.”
The words landed like a slap.
For a moment, the room went very quiet. Not the heavy, respectful quiet from before—but the kind that prickles, that makes your skin feel too tight.
The State’s prosecutor was on her feet before I could even finish swallowing around the ache in my throat.
“Objection, Your Honor,” she called out. “Argumentative. Irrelevant, and designed to demean the witness.”
“Sustained,” the judge replied without hesitation. He fixed the defense attorney with a hard look. “Counsel, you will refrain from editorializing.”
The man lifted his hands in a placating gesture, though his mouth still held that thin, smarmy smile. “Of course, Your Honor. My apologies.”
He turned back to me.
I could feel my pulse in my ears. The squeeze cube was damp in my hand now, my fingers aching from how hard I’d been pressing into it. I loosened my grip and felt as it very slowly began to reform to its original shape from the mangled mess I’d turned it into.
“Mr. Ransom,” he said smoothly, “you’ve described your upbringing as restrictive, even extreme. But isn’t it true that many religious communities practice corporal punishment?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I didn’t know there were other communities like ours.”
“So you can’t say whether what happened to you was truly outside the norm.”
“I can say it hurt. And that it scared me. And that I didn’t have a choice.”
“That’s your interpretation,” he replied calmly. “You’ve also testified that you were revered within the Covenant. That people listened to you.”
“They listened to Father,” I corrected. “I never spoke to them.”
“But you were elevated above others.”
“Yes,” I said, my voice quieter.
He paused, studying me like he was deciding which thread to pull next.
“You loved your father, didn’t you?” he asked.
The question caught me off guard.
I stared at him. At the curve of his mouth. At the way his eyes flicked briefly—just briefly—toward Father, seated at the defense table.
“I wanted him to love me,” I murmured, digging my nails into the cube.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Yes,” I said, ducking my head. “I loved him. I thought he was God’s chosen.”
“And now,” the attorney said, voice almost gentle, “you’ve been removed from that environment. You live with your… guardian.” He glanced down at his notes. “Jace Ag—Agh-baye-yanee,” he enunciated, completely butchering Daddy’s last name.
“Yes.”
“You’re receiving therapy. You’re being told—by outsiders—that everything you believed was wrong.”
“I’m learning,” I said. “Not being told.”
“Learning,” he echoed. “So is it possible, Mr. Ransom, that your memories are being reinterpreted? Influenced?”
“No,” I said firmly.
He raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“No,” I repeated. “What happened to me happened. Therapy didn’t bloody my body. Therapy didn’t hold my arms down. Therapy didn’t tell me I was filthy for wanting to be held. Sir.”
A low murmur rippled through the gallery again.
The attorney exhaled through his nose. “You’re very articulate for someone with such a… sheltered education.”
I stiffened.
The judge leaned forward. “Counsel.”
The man inclined his head. “Withdrawn.”
He shifted tactics, pacing slowly in front of the stand. “You’ve testified that you were unaware of the bodies found on the property.”
“Yes.”
“Despite living there your entire life.”
“Yes.”
“Despite being, as you said, a ‘Vessel.’”
“Yes.”
“So either you were willfully blind,” he said, pausing, “or you are not as observant as you claim.”
“I never claimed to be observant, sir. I think I was raised not to be. No one was allowed to question Father.”
“Hm. I would like to revisit the subject of your… guardian,” he mused, making me shudder. “Is it true that Mr… Agbayani is a Special Agent in the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”
“Yes.”
“And is it true that he was undercover, embedded in the Covenant? That is how you two met, correct?”
“Yes, sir. I was not aware of his job until the raid,” I answered softly.
The attorney nodded slowly, like we were agreeing on something important. “So you met him under false pretenses.”
“I met him as a member of the congregation,” I replied. “Like everyone else.”
“But he was lying to you,” the man pressed. “Building trust. Gathering information.”
I hesitated. My cube squeaked softly as I squeezed it. “He was doing his job.”
“Ah,” the attorney said. “And after the raid—after your father’s arrest—you went with him? When the rest of your community was sent to either jail or protective services?”
“Y-yes. Well, I was in the hospital for a month. But then after that, yes.”
“I see.” He took a few steps closer to the lectern, lowering his voice just enough to feel personal. “Mr. Ransom, what is the nature of your relationship with Agent Agbayani?”
“He’s my guardian,” I said carefully. “He takes care of me.”
“And emotionally?” the attorney asked. “You rely on him, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I trust him.”
“More than anyone else.”
I didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, “Yes.”
He nodded, satisfied. “And would it be fair to say that your relationship goes beyond a typical guardian-ward dynamic?”
The courtroom felt very far away.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” I said, my voice a bit wobbly.
“Let me be clearer. Are you romantically or intimately involved with Agent Agbayani?”
The word intimate echoed in my head, sour and sharp.
The prosecutor was already standing. “Objection, Your Honor. Relevance.”
The judge held up a hand, considering. “Counsel?”
The defense attorney spread his hands. “Bias and influence, Your Honor. The witness’s credibility.”
The judge’s gaze flicked back to me. “I’ll allow limited questioning. Answer only what is asked, Mr. Ransom.”
I swallowed thickly, but nodded, then nervously turned to look back at the man questioning me.
“Yes,” I said as steadily as I could. “We are in a relationship.”
Another ripple went through the room—louder this time. I kept my eyes forward.
“And when did this relationship begin?” he asked.
“I—” My heart sped up. I sent a panicked look to the State’s attorney, who was rifling through papers on the table in front of her and whispering to her colleagues.
“Your answer, Mr. Ransom?”
“At the compound,” I whispered, pressing my nails into the cube again.
“Your intimate relationship with Special Agent Agbayani began during his undercover operation, when you supposedly were not aware of his true identity and agenda?”
“Yes…”
“Interesting. Mr. Ransom, is it correct that since leaving the Covenant’s compound, you have been receiving medical care, mental health therapy, food, clothing, and housing?”
“Yes, sir.” My brow furrowed. I wasn’t sure where he was going with this.
He nodded again, a slight smirk on his face. “And have you paid for any of those things yourself, Mr. Ransom?”
I blinked. “No.”
“Have you paid for any portion of your medical expenses?”
“No.”
“Your therapy?”
“No.”
“Your housing? Utilities? Food?”
“No…” I repeated, my voice quieter now.
“So who has paid for these things?” he asked loudly.
I opened my mouth.
Closed it again.
My fingers stilled on the cube.
“I…” I frowned. “I don’t know.”
The attorney’s eyes sharpened. “You don’t know.”
“No,” I said, confusion creeping into my voice. “I didn’t think about it. There’s been so much going on.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“No, sir…”
He let that hang for a moment.
“Isn’t it true,” he said finally, “that Mr. Agbayani—an FBI agent—has been providing for you entirely since you left the Covenant?”
“I-I don’t know where the money comes from,” I said. “He makes sure I’m taken care of. That’s all.”
“Taken care of,” he echoed, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “By the FBI.”
“I don’t think—”
“Isn’t it true,” he interrupted, “that your continued safety, comfort, and access to care depend on the federal government?”
“I don’t know,” I said again, feeling myself beginning to spiral. “I was never told that.”
“But you understand,” he pressed, eyes glinting, “that the government has a vested interest in your testimony.”
“I-I don’t know.”
“What do you think would happen if you didn’t testify as they wished?” he asked. “If your story changed?”
The judge leaned forward. “Counsel…”
“I wouldn’t change it,” I said, louder than I meant to. My voice shook, but I didn’t stop. “Because it’s not a story, it’s my life. I-it’s my life, sir.”
The room went still.
The attorney looked at me for a long moment, then gave a small, thoughtful nod.
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
The judge exhaled slowly. “The witness may step down.”
My legs felt unsteady as I stood, but I stayed upright. I didn’t look at Father.
I looked for Jace.
He was already there—eyes locked on mine, jaw tight, furious and proud all at once. When I reached him, he didn’t say anything. He just angled his body toward me, close enough that I could feel him, solid and real.
I squeezed the cube one last time.
I had answered honestly.
That’s all that mattered.