"But for pain words are lacking. There should be cries, cracks, fissures, whiteness passing over chintz covers, interference with the sense of time, of space; the sense also of extreme fixity in passing objects; and sounds very remote and then very close; flesh being gashed and blood spurting, a joint suddenly twisted - beneath all of which appears something very important, yet remote, to be just held in solitude."
― Virginia Woolf, The Waves
Die But Once
"It's okay, it's okay." You don't know who you are reassuring here anymore by repeating these words, her or you or both of you, because fucking hell, the adrenaline of staring down the barrel of a gun is causing the blood in your ears to rush, blocking out all noise. You think she is still apologising, but you are not quite sure, because God damn it, a gun, your girlfriend just pointed a gun at you. Shit just got scary. Your heart is beating so fast you think it must be jumping out of your chest as you try to concentrate on her and not the memory of the dark metal, the way your focus zoomed in immediately on the weapon and you could almost hear the shots in your head, and the only thing that kept you reacting quickly, appropriately, was years of training and experience. Not that she would have shot you either way. She would never…she wouldn't have…she wouldn't… The memory of her face, frozen in uncertainty, her inability to lower the gun, sits uneasily with you. She wouldn't have shot you, knowing it was you. It's not her fault. Nothing happened. It's all right.
She hangs on to you for dear life, mumbling something incomprehensible, and she feels stiff as a board in your arms, still in her hypervigilant state. She is frozen. She was not frozen, but she is now. She acted as she didn't last time, and she most definitely didn't freeze, not until it was you, or maybe not you. It registers with you that what she keeps saying is "sorry" over and over.
"Here, let's…" You decide you can't stay like this forever, so you maneuver both of you over to the sofa in a half-embrace, and you don't know how you manage with your feet like lead beneath you, but you do. She comes to rest rather awkwardly half on top of you, her head on your chest, and you notice that she has started shaking slightly, the shock of the situation sinking in. "You're okay, you're safe, nothing happened" you reassure her as calmly as you can manage, and in a weird way, saying it out loud settles you somewhat, kicking you into crisis management mode. Because as weird as it seems, this is the kind of crisis you do know how to handle. There is a de-escalation script for these situations if you can leave your heart out of it.
She has gone quiet and rigid except for how she clutches your shirt, and you know it's because the flood of terror blocks all speech. You have just officially become a trigger.
"Babe, we're here at our apartment, okay? Try to focus on that. It's…" You are grasping at straws, struggling to find something to describe. "There are groceries on the counter that I guess you bought. Looks like the paper bags from down around the corner." You ramble on about anything, anything at all that is not dangerous territory.
"I'm so sorry" she whispers again.
"It's okay. Don't worry about it."
"I thought…"
"I know" you reply quickly, before she has to put it into words. Of course you know what she thought, and it absolutely horrifies you. "It's not your fault."
"I wouldn't have sh- shot…oh God, Brian…" She is starting to panic as she comes out of the momentary shock. "…you…"
"Hey, no, you didn't shoot anyone, I'm fine. I know you wouldn't do that. I'm sorry I scared you, is all. I shouldn't have…I'm sorry, too." The guilt hits you like a ton of bricks. You shouldn't have snuck up on her like that. You should have known better. You should have texted her to let her know you would be home early. You should have paid closer attention. But you expected her meeting with Barba to take ages, you expected her to call you when she was done as promised. It is so stupid, the simplest of misunderstandings that somehow ended up with her pointing a gun at you, and you could break it down into a million tiny steps that could have gone the other way. Hindsight is a bitch.
She draws in a shaky breath, burying her face in your shirt as you stroke her back. "I think I'm going crazy."
"No, you're not, it's just the stress of the trial. You'll get through this, and soon he'll be behind bars for good and it will all be over. He will never get out." That's what you want to believe, anyway. That's all you have to hold on to, all you have to tell her. Because if your positions were reversed, you're pretty sure you wouldn't be as sane as she is. If your positions were reversed, you're not sure you would be here at all. But they're not, and this is all hypothetical mindgames, just like wondering who would shoot whom under which circumstances, and it's no use thinking like that.
You have been sitting in silence for the past twenty minutes as both of you pretend to eat the salad you made, poking around in it listlessly while the dressing soaks the leaves, turning them lank. Silence is easier than conversation, which is like walking through a minefield with her today ever since you committed the deadly sin of asking how it went. You've attempted to make some unrelated small talk, telling her something trivial about your work day, and she pretended to listen while her absent expression made it clear what she was really thinking about. So you gave up on that, too.
She stabs a tomato with her fork, looks at it skeptically, then lowers it again. "That fucking asshole."
"Him?"
She shoots a deathly glare your way. "No! Not everything is about 'him'."
That doesn't even make sense, because of course it's all about him and that language was pretty strong for her to use it on anyone else. But there's no point in arguing about that. "Who then?"
"Never mind" she grumbles sourly.
"Well, excuse me, I can't read your mind." You know it's a bitchy thing to say and will only serve to escalate things. You know you're supposed to be the calm one and not take it personally and not jump at the bait, but you are at the end of your rope here and jury selection hasn't even finished yet. And maybe a part of you is pushing things to escalate, because fighting will be a relief from all this simmering. Not for the first time, it feels as if she's angry with you for something, except that you have no idea what. She can't tell you she doesn't want you in court, then get pissed at you for not being there. That's not how it works. How are you supposed to know when she means it and when she doesn't, when you are supposed to respect her wishes and when you aren't?
"Then don't assume. You're all acting like I spend every waking moment thinking about Lewis, but if you bring up his name, I'm gonna break down or something. I've sat in a courtroom with him!"
"I know. Which is why it would make sense for you to be pissed at him." You were desperate to be there today, desperate to see the man behind all this yourself. However, she is determined to keep up this charade of you not knowing anything, being somehow unaffected by all this as long as she can simply keep you out of the courtroom. Because it's not like you hear things either way, it's not like people will be drawing conclusions about your absence. The longer she keeps up this lone martyr thing of hers, the more it irks you.
"It's not him." She glances down at her plate in something close to disgust, which you will also not take personally, and pushes her plate away. "It's his lawyer."
"What about her?"
Now she is looking at you like you are an idiot. "The fact that she's representing him should be enough, don't you think?"
"Even the worst guys get lawyers. You know that. She's just doing her job."
"Doing her job?! Do you know what happened to his last lawyer's parents?"
"Yeah, I haven't forgotten." You know the chilling story back to front, every detail of it that has been covered in the media, you even know an abridged, fragmented version of it from her, since somehow, talking about what happened to other people is still more possible than talking about what happened to her. When she told you the rough outline, haltingly, she told it impersonally, as if she had observed it from a bird's eye perspective, not as if she had actually been an agent in the story. Not where she was in all this while it happened.
"So clearly, she should pick a different job, one that doesn't entail playing up Lewis' supposed disability."
"He's probably playing her, too."
"You're on her side?"
"No, I'm not" you groan. "Of course I'm not."
"Then don't defend her."
"Fine. That bitch. There, is that better?"
She shakes her head as if you have just confirmed something she knew all along, as if she is saying "typical Brian, so clueless" for the audience, because you're pretty sure you must be stuck in some sort of absurd play here. "You have no idea."
"Because you won't talk to me. You can't not tell me anything, and then be pissed I don't know."
"I don't want to talk about it, how hard is that to understand?"
"Easy, except for the mixed messages."
She pauses to down the rest of her glass of wine in one gulp on a virtually empty stomach. "I'm sorry I'm making things so awfully hard for you. Tomorrow, I'll do my best to eat this salad you've so lovingly prepared and smile and play house and pretend that it's all going to be okay."
Her words cause a surge of resentment in you, an irresistible impulse to yell "what did I ever do to you?!", but you don't. You don't, because the dead look in her eyes gets to you, the look that tells you that she is not just saying this to hurt you. This is her being honest, perhaps for the first time in a while. None of what you are doing here means much anymore, no amount of good will ever make up for the bad, and neither of you will ever be the same again. And maybe it's the moments of good you've had that were just an act, when you were able to hold it together enough to pretend. It's all coming undone now. "I don't care about the fucking salad."
"Go to hell." She pushes her chair back and gets up, storming towards the bedroom without another word.
"Won't be a long journey from here to there!" you call after her, because you have to have the last word.
"Let's try this again, Loretti." You open the file in front of you dramatically, although there is nothing in there you need, folding your hands on the table. "Seriously, explain to me once more how half a million ended up in your account, deposited in installments, because we'd love to hear that story."
"I bet you would, it's not like you've ever seen that kind of money!"
"That's right, so you better rethink that explanation." God, is this guy a complete idiot?
"You got nothing on me, nada, otherwise we wouldn't be having this nice little chat." He is chewing on a piece of gum obnoxiously, and you wish you could shove it down his throat. You hate smug little pricks like this guy, and you hate him even more so today, him personally. He represents everything that is wrong with this job, with the force, with the world. "You had no business going into my account, this is harassment."
"Harassment?! Shit, do you know what you signed up for with this job?"
"Where the hell did that partner of yours go, anyway?"
"Stop deflecting. See, here's what I think-" You are interrupted by a loud rapping on the one-way mirror.
An amused grin spreads across Loretti's cheeks. You want to wipe it clean off his face. "Ooh, are you being called back like a good little watchdog?"
Fuck him. And fuck Tucker for interrupting now, right when you want to punch Loretti, because there's no way this isn't Tucker. Your boss seemed to think from the start that you shouldn't handle this interview, but then told you that if you were going to be at work, then you had to fulfill all parts of the job professionally. "I'll be right back. You better have a good story then."
You get up as casually as possible and leave the room to be faced with your very favourite commanding officer. "Seriously? I had this. He was right about to get caught up in another one of his lying tales."
"He was about to walk out" Tucker deadpans. "Where the hell is Lamar?"
"Bathroom break." In truth, you sent him out for a smoke because you wanted a minute alone with that bastard in the other room.
"Not anymore. You're off the case."
"Lieutenant-"
He raises his hand to silence you. "Not because of this. I'm sending you home, take the rest of the day."
"What? You have no-"
"Your girlfriend just called. You should go home." You don't know what's weirder, the idea of Liv calling Tucker or the fact that he just referred to her informally as your "girlfriend". An instant dread fills you as your stomach drops by about five inches.
"What's wrong?"
"I wouldn't know. It sounded urgent." His facial expression betrays nothing, stoical as usual, but he isn't a man for dramatics. When he says "urgent", he means "urgent".
"What did she say?" You are already fumbling for your phone in your pocket, where it has been switched to silent. Five missed calls. No messages. Damn it.
"She didn't say much. Just go, Cassidy. And tomorrow, be here or stay home completely, okay? We don't do half and half."
His last few words barely reach you, because you are already halfway out the door.
"Bri?" A barely audible syllable.
"Liv! Thank- what's wrong?"
A few gasping, half suppressed breaths.
"Talk to me, babe."
"His lawyer, she…h- he…" The last word is swallowed by a choke.
"Okay, take a deep breath…are you at home?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"Yes."
"Okay. I'm on my way, just stay where you are, I'll be there soon, I promise."
You walk in after calling her and knocking – in spite of your panic, you don't fancy looking down the barrel of a gun a second time. "Liv?"
The first impression that registers is that your kitchen is an absolute mess. Objects have been pulled out of their cupboards left, right and centre, some put back in a different spot, others left out as piles on the counter. Your wine glasses have been moved up onto a higher shelf, your soup bowls brought down. Your super-secret-not-so-secret coffee jar that contains a set of spare keys, some change and a bit of emergency cash has been left open on the counter. You are too focused on finding her to process what any of this means. "Liv!"
"Yeah?" Her voice sounds small as it comes from the other side of the counter you are currently staring at. It makes you jump nonetheless as you had assumed she was in the bedroom or bathroom. This voice from a hiding place doesn't bode well.
"I'm coming into the kitchen" you explain your next, obvious move, rounding the counter in trepidation. Your heart sinks as you spot her huddled in the corner, knees drawn up to her chest, her head resting on her arms. You move towards her, but something crunches under the soles of your shoes, distracting you and making her raise her head. "I broke a glass" she explains matter-of-factly, adding "one of our new ones" as if that is your key concern right now. Her face is a stony mask.
"It's okay. Doesn't matter." Your eyes follow the shards on the floor to a wet spot on the far wall, which indicates that this wasn't an accident. You crouch down beside her, reaching out to draw her into your arms.
"Don't" she says sharply, wiping her cheeks with her hands. You let your arms drop. The surprise must show on your face, because it prompts her to qualify the objection.
"It's just gonna make me…I'm okay now."
"There's nothing wrong with crying."
She closes her eyes momentarily. "Just don't say anything. Don't ask questions. Please."
Shit, she is making this hard. You take a careful look at the floor, checking it for bits of broken glass before lowering yourself onto your behind, leaning against the counter beside her as your right knee doesn't love crouching. "I was worried about you."
"Sorry, I shouldn't have called Tucker."
"No, I'm glad you did."
Her face contorts and she bites her lip, turning away. "Fuck…"
"I…what would you like me to do?"
She shakes her head, unable to speak with the pressure of holding back. Her cheeks redden.
"Hey, breathe." You touch her forearm lightly enough so she can pull away.
A strangled sob comes out of her mouth as she puts her head down on her arms again. Her shoulders begin to shake, and there is an incredible rage in it. These aren't tears of sadness. You aren't sure if they are tears at all anymore. She is so angry a million broken glasses won't be enough.
"Liv…" You put your hand on her upper back, moving it up and down in a gentle rhythm, because this much is usually okay.
"Bastard…h- he…deal…playing…" You can't make out more than individual words in this mess of choked admissions.
"It's okay, you don't have to tell me now." You let her cry, watching helplessly. It's all you can do. This has got to be rock bottom. But every time you thought you had hit it so far, you ended up sinking even lower, as if you were being sucked down a drain. There is always a lower level. Things disintegrate further and further and the sand trickles through your fingers.
Eventually, after what seems like an eternity, she goes still, and you can't shake the feeling that it's because there are literally no tears left. You know you should probably just sit with her for a while, but something makes this impossible for you, keeps you needing to act to fix things one step at a time. The next logical step is to clean up the mess, to remove the threat of injury from that floor. So you get to your feet and grab some kitchen roll from the counter, handing it to her wordlessly, because you have no idea where you actually keep tissues and if you have any. You then proceed to pick up the larger of the pieces of broken glass, cradling them in your palm with your back turned to her to give her a moment and take some of the pressure off.
"Leave it" she requests sharply. "I'll clean it up later."
"No, it's fine, I'll do it."
"You're gonna cut yourself."
"If I leave it, someone's gonna step on it and get hurt."
"It's a little late for that, don't you think?" You know she isn't talking about the glass anymore.
"These things always create collateral damage." You drop some shards into the trashcan and look around for the small, handheld vacuum cleaner that you normally keep stored away behind it.
"Just leave it for a moment, Bri." Something in her voice makes you turn around in your crouched position. She is watching you guardedly with red eyes and smeared mascara, as if you are a ticking timebomb about to go off, and you have no idea what you have done now. And something keeps you from asking what happened, not because she told you not to, but because you are not so sure you want anything added to this. Throwing glasses is better than silence, but you can never piece a broken glass back together in a foolproof way.
She surprises you by holding out her hand palm up, a simple gesture that is enough to bring you closer again, making you sit next to her. You curl your fingers around hers and it's as if the simple contact loosens some brick inside you. "I'm so sorry."
"About what?"
"About everything."
She swallows. "Let's not do that. It's not your fault."
"I know. Still."
You sit holding hands, clueless in your shared solitude until she makes another attempt at speech. "Lewis, uh…he fired his council today."
"He what?"
Her eyes are fixed on that wet spot on the wall as she explains it, quietly and evenly. "He's gonna represent himself. Starting with opening arguments tomorrow."
It's as if the temperature in the room has just dropped by about twenty degrees, and you become acutely aware of the cold, hard tiles underneath. "He can't do that!"
"He can."
"The judge let him?!"
"He has a right to council." You can hear the bitterness in her words as she withdraws her hand from you. "He has a right to everything. It's all about him."
"Barba didn't object? What is that guy even good for-"
"He tried."
"Maybe he should try harder!" You knew this would be difficult, but "difficult" doesn't begin to capture the horror of this show of a trial that is being set up here. "The system" isn't a good adversary to have.
"He promised he wouldn't let it come to that, and now…" She runs one hand through her hair, resting her head in her hands as her elbows touch her knees. "He'll get to cross-examine me and everything."
"Shit…" You don't know what to say. This is the worst possible thing that could have happened. It's worse than anything either of you expected. You try to be rational. You try not to focus on the way your skin still remembers the contact with those shards of glass, the momentary urge to press down on them. "But he can't, I mean…the judge will have to keep him in line, he can't let him use witness intimidation tactics."
"Of course he can, he gets away with stuff like this over and over again! It's what he does best!" Her breathing has quickened again, and you can't tell if it's panic or anger or a hell of a lot of both.
"Hey…" You reach out to touch her arm, but refrain as she flinches at the sudden movement. "He can't physically hurt you, not with everyone-"
"He'll turn the whole thing into a show. I can't believe I didn't see it."
"How were you supposed to know?"
"I wanted to fight. I walked right into it; he knew I wouldn't…" She stops herself.
"Wouldn't what?"
She closes her eyes again for a fleeting moment. "Take. The deal."
"What deal?" You know you are badgering her with questions, but being on the sidelines here is driving you crazy and you instantly know that this is bad news, this is about that salad and things never being good again. Maybe. "Liv, what deal?"
She doesn't answer, and you can virtually see the wheels in her mind turning, having already moved on to something else.
"You never mentioned a deal. Was there something on the table?"
"It wasn't your decision to make!" she retorts defensively.
"What the hell are we talking about?"
"The deal" she emphasises as if you are supposed to guess it. She makes a sweeping gesture with her arm. "The one where he graciously offered to 'spare' me a trial as long as he got to tell the world all about how he raped and sodomised me."
You can feel a bitter taste rising at the back of your throat. "Jesus fucking Christ-"
"Exactly."
"He would have plead guilty?" The betrayal of not knowing is almost nothing compared to the weight of the fact that this could be over already. Lewis could be away for good, out of her life. It could be done. There could be certainty.
"To something he didn't do!" She is watching you guardedly now, observing the enemy at close range. "In case you forgot."
"Does it really matter? With everything else he-"
"He might as well have?!" She struggles to her feet, simply so she can tower over you. "Like it wouldn't make a difference, I'm damaged either way?"
"Jesus, that's not what I-"
"You really think he should get to tell the story, that he should be allowed to get off on detailing his sexual fantasy as a fact for the whole world to hear?"
Here you go again, this conversation has officially become a monologue. And you know you shouldn't have said it, suggesting that it doesn't matter, but there is a part of you that really doesn't get how not being raped can be such a strange victory for her, such an important distinction as if it puts her into a whole different category. She has told enough survivors the opposite. "No. But he gets to tell it either way."
"No, he doesn't!" She is pacing up and down the kitchen now, unable to stay still. "Not without me having my say!"
"But it's not about you proving anything, it's about him being locked up and punished for everything he's done!" He could walk. Oh God, he could walk again, and he might not have. Why does she have to be so proud?
"No, no, no! Stop telling me what I need and don't need to do, what it is and isn't about! The deal is off the table now. He does not get to control the situation, no matter what he does, and if he gets off again, that is not on me and he sure as hell won't get far."
"No, of course it's not on you." The deal is off the table. There is no going back. Everything you could do or say about its benefits now will only make matters worse. "And no, there is no way he'll…" You are not quite sure what you are suggesting, because the possibility is too horrible to think about. "There is no way he walks out of that courtroom to continue…" Without suffering a fatal accident.
"He's done it before. And I didn't see this coming, Barba didn't see this coming." She clutches the counter, supporting her weight with her hands.
You finally get up from your inferior position on the floor. "You couldn't have known."
The wheels in her mind are still turning as her lips form a thin line and she jumps to the next best thing. "You can't come to court."
"What?"
"You can't, Bri, I'm serious. Not tomorrow, not if he makes the opening arguments."
You have been at this point a million times before. "I've told you to stop worrying about me in court; it's you I'm worried about."
"It's not your ability to stay calm that's the issue, okay? It's him and what he'll say-"
"There is nothing he could possibly say that would make me-"
"No, no, you don't get it!" she exclaims in frustration. "If he sees you, he'll use it like he does everything, he'll find…some way to bring it up with me later. He has a way of finding weak spots and getting into people's heads. Don't underestimate him."
It's the last thing you would do after today, after the last few months. This is actually a reasonable objection and one you can't quash easily. "You think it would actually make things harder? Harder for you?"
"Yes! And I'll be worrying about it, and that will make it even worse. Just, please, I need to focus, I can't let him get in here as well." She grabs your arm, and there is an urgency in it that breaks your heart. "Not with us."
"He won't."
"You don't know that."
You open your mouth to object and close it again, hanging your head. "Okay. It's your call."
"Thank you." Her hand moves up to your shoulder, then your cheek, briefly, before she drops it again.
"But call me if you change your mind."
She nods absent-mindedly. "I don't know how I'll do this."
"One step at a time. I know it'll be hell, but you're the strongest person I know. You'll do it. You always do."
"This is different."
"You survived the worst possible-"
"I survived four days with him, so I'm gonna survive the trial?" And, just like that, the rage is back. "God, you sound like Lindstrom!"
"Maybe he has a point."
"Brian…" She shakes her head as if you are the most naïve person in the entire world. "I survived because he wasn't done yet, because it was still fun for him. Guess I made it worth his while. Because once you kill someone, hurting them becomes a lot less entertaining somehow. It was never about anything I did, okay, it's not like I had some great fucking plan…you save the killing for last, is all, because you can only do it once. It's not like I had a choice in the matter. If I had…"
"Then what?"
"Never mind. The point is: I was never in control; he was, he still is!"
"No! He's not and that's why he's doing all these ploys and hitting in all directions. But you got away and-"
"Oh, enough with the hero bullshit!"
"No, listen, you survived! You survived, do you have any idea what that means?"
She looks at you with a dead expression on her face. "Yeah. It means I get to do this. Lucky me."
The words hang in the room like a threat that you can't afford to dwell on. Because once upon a time, her survival was all that mattered. That time when you were almost certain you would never see her again, and that things would hang forever unfinished, and the knowledge was like ice water filling your lungs. Now, she is here. But things still are. Unfinished.
Author's Note: Broken record alert! Thank you for your lovely reviews; they bring a smile to my face and I'm not ashamed to admit that I need them like air. The more specific, the better. Stay tuned for more actual trial next chapter, because I will drag this out while I can so the story doesn't have to end quite so soon. And a special shout out to Kate, because her videos got me over a dead end in writing this chapter.
