Author's note: Here we are, Chapter 8. Things get unpleasant here…not gory per se, but unpleasant.
The courthouse was quite distinguished, Dr. Lecter thought. It was a vast old building in a part of Buenos Aires he had quite grown to like. The courtrooms were spacious. Too bad he was a defendant in the dock here. Still, there was something to court: it was the only place where he was not locked in a cell or kept in chains.
He sat at the defense table with his attorneys next to him. Today was the day. Dr. Lecter was not terribly hopeful. According to the papers he'd been able to cadge from the guards, when they felt inclined to be nice to him, Argentina was hopeful for loans. In order to get their money they would toss him to the Americans as a show of good faith. He swallowed nervously as the judge came in and headed for his seat.
His court-appointed translator nudged him. He'd asked for one, largely to annoy the authorities. After eight years in Argentina his Spanish was excellent.
"Please rise, Dr. Lecter," the translator told him. Dr. Lecter turned and observed the man. He was an older, quiet man. An expatriate American, who had lived down here for many years. He was reasonably polite and civil to Dr. Lecter, who appreciated this.
The judge sat down and said something in Spanish. Everyone else sat down, so Dr. Lecter did too. He tensed his hands nervously. Dr. Lecter did not think of escaping. There were several burly guards standing around. The Argentines were anxious to prove that they, too, could hold Dr. Lecter securely. Trying to escape would simply get him a faceful of pepper spray.
"Good morning," the judge said. The translator kept up a running translation into English for him, but Dr. Lecter could understand the judge perfectly well. "I'm going to rule today on a motion from the prosecutor, supported by the American Department of Justice. Specifically, the argument states that as a warrant has existed for arrest for a number of years, as well as the fact that the defendant has no legal status or right to be in Argentina. Therefore, the argument states, Dr. Lecter's nationality is American, without question, and he should be turned over to the Americans without delay."
The judge cleared his throat. Dr. Lecter sighed. This was not going to be to his benefit.
"It is without question that the defendant is American," the judge continued. "Fingerprints and DNA testing have verified that the defendant is Hannibal Lecter. Moreover, the defense has not presented any type of legal proof that Dr. Lecter possessed any legal permission at all to live in Argentina. Instead, the defense has largely focused on the fact that Dr. Lecter might be subject to the death penalty in an American trial. While it is true that Argentine law does not permit that, we simply do not know if Dr. Lecter will be given the death penalty or not. In fact, the conditions for Dr. Lecter's legal confinement in a psychiatric hospital exist already without any type of trial being necessary. We cannot justify holding him back from justice based on maybes."
No, Dr. Lecter thought, but you'll ship me back to the Americans based on money.
"After due research, I have concluded that this reading is correct. Dr. Lecter is to be extradited to the United States of America immediately. According to the terms of the extradition order, Dr. Lecter may be held in Argentina for such time as is necessary to make logistical arrangements for his secure transport back to the United States. I will authorize Dr. Lecter's further detention for seven days in order for this to take place."
The gavel slammed down, sealing Dr. Lecter's fate.
His attorneys urged him to his feet. The guards came to behind him in order to shackle him and bring him back to his cell. Dr. Lecter said nothing: not to the tabloid reporters who thronged the steps of the courthouse, not to his attorneys, not even to his guards who took him carefully to his cell in the depths of the dungeons.
This was not good. Hardly at all. He had his own plans, but he wasn't ready yet. And once he was in the United States, then he would be lost. They would not make any of the same errors this time.
Dr. Lecter shook his head. No, he had a few tricks up his sleeve yet. But he needed just a bit of time. Perhaps he could manage to do what he had once done before. He would have to see.
A rat squeaked at him from where it was eating the remains of his breakfast. Dr. Lecter looked at it and sighed.
"Hello, little fellow," Dr. Lecter told the rat. "Would you like to come to the United States with me?"
The rat eyed him with beady eyes as if not trusting this promise.
"I'm more worried about Clarice than myself," he explained to the rat. "Mr. Crawford's games are not fun to play, unless you're on his side."
The rat appeared unconcerned about Mr. Crawford. It held the crust of bread between its paws and nibbled at it as delicately as any of Dr. Lecter's dinner guests ever had. Dr. Lecter sidled a bit closer to it and reached out for it. Its fur was surprisingly soft and clean. Dr. Lecter petted the rat a few times calmly. It was the only being in his world, he reflected, that didn't seem to have negative plans in store for him.
…
For Clarice, things were looking slightly better. Yesterday, a few other headshrinkers had come down to see her. Amazingly, they didn't begin every sentence they said with Isn't it true that. That alone endeared them to Clarice. What had endeared her further to them was that they were interested in reviewing her security classification. So she'd gone into the room with them and answered their questions.
They'd offered her a medium security classification. She would be allowed to live upstairs with the other inmates. She would have TV privileges and be allowed to stay up an hour later. She would be allowed to socialize with the other unfortunates who had fallen into this place, so long as she behaved herself. There were three things that Clarice found more to her liking, and that was why she had been interested. She would get three phone calls per week instead of only one. Ostensibly she would still be limited to ten minutes, but from what she'd heard from the orderlies they usually didn't hold to that unless someone else wanted to use the phone. Having access to a phone was good.
The second thing was also important. She'd get to move out of the basement. The rooms upstairs were less cell-like. It would be a more comfortable living environment, and less secure. She wasn't planning on escaping immediately, but she did want the chance to spy out the land. She wasn't getting out of max, but she might be able to get out of medium.
And the third thing. Limited outside privileges. She'd be escorted by a member of the staff and was not allowed near the fence. But still, she'd get to be outside. She'd get to feel the sun on her skin. Perhaps even the wind on her face. For Clarice Starling, who had been locked away for the past few weeks, the idea was very exciting.
All she had to do to get it was to agree to continue with therapy. That was easy. She could fake it for McQuerry's benefit. So she'd agreed, and they had let her move her meager possessions to a room upstairs. Yesterday she'd gone outside for the first time since she'd been brought here. Raul had gone with her, and she liked Raul. He had made her a deal – he wouldn't hold onto her arm as long as she didn't try to escape. If she did, he advised her, he'd have to tackle her and bring her in. She'd been good. It had been wonderful just to have the sun on her face.
Now, she was sitting in the TV room with the other women. All except for the one who was still down in maximum security, she had to allow. She felt sorry for the other woman. Locked down there in the depths, without even the chance for freedom for months. But she was here and it was a lot better than maximum security.
The soap opera was boring, but it was still something to watch. The other women stared at it with glassy eyes. They seemed to eat it up. Clarice suspected they were heavily medicated. She'd tried to engage a few of them in conversation and gotten no luck.
One of the orderlies sitting at the main desk pressed a button. The intercom crackled.
"Starling, get down here. Therapy time."
Clarice sighed. Well, it wasn't like she was that into The Guiding Light. So she got up and ambled over to the gate. Dr. McQuerry stood just beyond the gate. He had two orderlies with him. He seemed to be a bit nervous. What the heck was up? Just another couple hours of Isn't-it-true-Clarice.
"Good afternoon, Clarice," he said prissily.
"Good afternoon, Dr. McQuerry," Clarice echoed. "Is something wrong?"
He began to walk and gestured for Clarice to follow him. She fell into step beside him. Behind them, the orderlies, unspoken testaments to the force available in this institution.
"Well…we're going to try something different. I'm afraid the talk therapy is not producing results as quickly as we might like."
Clarice felt misgivings probe her. "I thought therapy was working well," she objected.
"Not fast enough. You see, we need to move a bit…more quickly."
"It worked well enough to get me medium security," Clarice pointed out.
"Yes." A door in their path rumbled open. Clarice suddenly felt very isolated.
"You see, Clarice, we need you for something," Dr. McQuerry said.
One of the orderlies opened a white door on the left. Dr. McQuerry gestured for Clarice to enter the room.
"And what would that be?" she asked, not entering immediately.
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Please, just go in. I'd hate to have to send you back down to maximum security on your first day out of the box." He smiled humorlessly.
Clarice entered the room and saw a long, narrow gurney with some equipment clustered around it. Her eyes widened. She had a psych background. She knew what this was. Electroshock equipment.
"Whoa," she said. "Hey now. No one ever said anything about anything like this."
Dr. McQuerry closed the door. And locked it. Clarice started. Almost immediately, one of the orderlies grabbed her arms from behind.
"Now, Clarice," Dr. McQuerry said, "I must remind you that conscientious compliance with your therapy is required for you to continue on medium security."
"Screw it, then," Clarice said breathlessly. "Dr. McQuerry, I am not screwing around here. I do not consent to this. I want to talk to an attorney. Now."
"I'm sorry, Clarice," Dr. McQuerry said. "Now, lie on the gurney or the orderlies will force you to."
"No. Absolutely not." The next sentence came out of her mouth before she realized it. "I want to call my niece," she said breathlessly.
"Later, maybe," Dr. McQuerry said. "C'mon, Clarice."
She turned and tried to bolt for the door. The orderly who had her arms clamped down. Clarice jigged right, twisted one arm free, and buried her elbow in his gut. He doubled over with a satisfying groan. Clarice ran for the door and grabbed the stainless-steel knob with all her might.
But the other orderly grabbed her, and the first recovered enough to grab her ankles. With both of them, she was lifted into the air and forced over to the gurney. They forced her ankles down, and Dr. McQuerry strapped them down.
Clarice screamed piercingly, the sound echoing in the enclosed space.
But it was too late. More straps served to pinion her body down. She twisted and struggled as best she could, but eventually the superior force won out. As each leather strap was fastened down, she lost more and more of her own body.
Dr. McQuerry attempted to force a tongue pad between her teeth. It took him a few tries to get it in, as Clarice was intent on biting him if the son of a bitch got close enough for her to catch him. But eventually he did, buckling the strap behind her head.
She tried to yell Son of a bitch, but the tongue pad rendered it noise. Dr. McQuerry ran a hand through his curly hair and attached an electrode to her temple.
This wasn't therapy. Modern electroshock took place with the patient sedated and unconscious. This was sheer, fucking torture. Something out of the Inquisition. What the red fuck was all this about? Son of a bitch goddam motherfucker when I get my hands on you—
Dr. McQuerry cranked the dial on the electroshock machine all the way over. Clarice's eyes flashed at him. For a moment, her eyes telegraphed fear instead of anger.
"Dnt dddd thss," Clarice said.
McQuerry sighed. "Clarice, for what it's worth, I'm sorry," he said. "It's not how I would have done this. But this…this comes from higher authority than me. My hands are tied."
Clarice's eyes widened. She wriggled fruitlessly on the gurney she was bound to.
Dr. McQuerry pressed the button on the shock machine. A muffled scream arose from the tongue pad. Clarice's body arched. Overhead, the lights dimmed. Her eyes flew wide open. Her body bucked against the straps.
A few minutes later, Dr. McQuerry hit the button again. And again. By the fourth time, Clarice had lost consciousness.