You come regular like seasons
Shadowing my dreams
*************
He takes one drink for every dream, one more for every night since he remembered smooth skin, soft lips, whispering voice. He takes twenty-eight sips today, twenty-eight days since he remembered touch, taste, smell. He is done drinking for the days. He begins drinking for the dreams.
The dream is different this time; he sees her in an oak-paneled room, sitting high behind the bench, her form hidden in dark robes. Her glittering eyes look through him, the way they always have. He steps toward her, and steps again.
"Innocent or guilty?" she asks, a teasing lilt in her voice, one eyebrow pulling up. She loves this game, like she loves all the others.
"Innocent." He says, jaw set, eyes fixed. On her.
She tilts her head, but does not voice the question in her eyes.
"Innocent," she says. She bangs the gavel. She bangs it again. And again.
Again. He blinks in the morning sun. Again. The banging does not stop. Again -- someone is at his door. He pushes himself up on one arm -- his cheek again scraping across the rough material of the couch. His head spins, he pauses a moment to still it. The banging does not stop.
He crosses to the door, forcing his cramped legs to walk straight. He jerks it open without looking through the peephole. He sees her eyes, her hands, her hair. He has never been completely able to see one without the other. He grips the doorknob harder.
"Sydney, what is it?"
"Do you even know what today is?"
He closes his eyes, the days running through his mind. He can never forget them. He can stop caring.
"Do you think I would forget?"
"Dad, you have to stop doing this. Whatever it is, whatever she did to you, you can't ruin your life like this."
His jaw clenches and his dark eyes glow like fire. They mirror hers.
"This has nothing to do with your mother, and you will do well to forget such insinuations. As for my court-martial, I will handle that as I see fit. When I'm looking for someone to run my life, I'll let you know." He slams the heavy door, the sound throbbing through his head. He closes his eyes and leans against it, knowing she is still on the other side. He will not open it. His words burn his heart, just as they burned hers.
*************
"I believed we were innocent until proven guilty."
"You are. Answer the question."
"No."
"So it is your testimony that you did not remove Derevko's tracking device?"
"I believe I just answered that."
"In that case, how do you explain the absence of the device?"
"Absence is your conjecture. The device malfunctioned."
"Malfunctioned. How?"
"When I attempted to access it, I received no signal."
"And have you any idea what would cause this malfunction?"
"Derevko is resourceful. It's not beyond the realm of possibility she found a way to deactivate the device."
"Or to remove it?"
"It's possible."
"And how is it that you, as her handler, were unaware of this?"
"She was not in my presence at every moment."
"So it is your testimony that she disabled or removed the device while in your custody?"
"The device may have malfunctioned. Someone may have been able to disrupt the signal from the outside."
"Then you are unwilling to accept any fault in this matter?"
"I'm perfectly willing to accept fault if it's proven."
"Yet you're unwilling to aid the agency in investigating the incident?"
"I've told them what I know. I can't help what they choose to do with that knowledge."
"So your testimony is that your ward removed or disabled the device in your custody, or colluded with others to do so, and you knew nothing about it?"
"I've told you what I know."
"Answer the question -- yes or no."
"Yes."
"No further questions."
***************
"Jack Bristow. At the conclusion of these proceedings, this body finds the prosecution has not met the standard of proof required. Absent affirmative findings of guilt, we have no choice but to render a ruling of not guilty. Agent Bristow, you are free to go.
"But if I may indulge the court a minute, I have another word. Agent Bristow, your behavior here has been questionable at best. You have been combative, uncooperative, and unforthcoming. Additional information about your work performance since the Derevko incident is even more disturbing. While we are allowing you to go free, I suspect your tenure with the CIA will not be long if this pattern continues. Hearing adjourned."
The gavel bangs down; the sound is brief, sharp, like the crack of a baseball bat. With that, he is free. Proclaimed innocent for all to hear.
Innocence. Redemption. Expiation. Absolution. The words echo through his throbbing skull, the way they did as a child. He remembers bright Sunday mornings, with pancakes and starched shirts and a red and blue-striped clip-on tie. His mother, pulling back the fuzzy warm comforter while his father sat at the table in his undershirt and said he should listen to his mother, and go every Sunday, and when he was a man he could make his own choices, and perhaps make better ones.
He remembers the words, booming from a pulpit so much more loudly than the boom of a puny gavel. Forgiven. Blameless. Innocent. Free.
He even knew the hard words, grasped them early, words like expiation and exoneration. His mother beamed at the other mothers, with their rustling pastel dresses, said wasn't Jackie smart and wasn't Jackie good.
He didn't smile at the pastel women, he didn't tell his mother what he really thought. That big words were empty, meaningless, that he couldn't feel the grand, free feeling he should have when he said them. That he couldn't boom like the preacher or grin like the Sunday-school teacher. That he could not accept something he could not fathom, or measure, or simply see.
He remembers now. If he had understood then, would a burden lift from his shoulders, shattered by the crack of the gavel?
Exonerated, vindicated, justified. He steps through the heavy glass door, out past the metal detectors. A loose wind whips him in the face, smelling of fresh asphalt. This is freedom. He rounds the corner; gravel skitters from his feet as he crosses the unfinished sidewalk. He can watch them finish it now, watch them work every day with the bright triangles and the flashing safety vests. The thrilling life of a free man.
His feet know where he is going, his body does not resist. The inside of the building is smokier than he remembered, the jukebox more grating, the barstool less clean. That will all fade away soon. He sits heavily down, taking his time, with the measured slowness of a man with a whole life to spare. He signals the bartender, meeting his eyes.
Just one drink, that's all he wants. He'll just have one tonight.
That must be the truth. Surely, an innocent man would never tell himself lies.