But I am deep down ... and I do not make ... a sound ...
- River Tam, The R. Tam Sessions
The bars make little metal sounds as I drag my fingernails down them. They all have the same tone. I walk back and forth, aimlessly, listening numbly to the sound. I have no cellmates to talk to, no one close enough to yell back and forth. Without an audience, I'm beginning to wilt.
Okay, I'll be honest (ish). Without an audience, I'm beginning to think.
I know I didn't do it. Gibbs knows I didn't do it. The team knows I didn't do it. Fornell knows I didn't do it. But there's nothing any of them can do about it until they can explain away a bite mark, a fingerprint inside a glove, drops of my blood.
I sit down on the cot on which I pretended to sleep earlier. I put my head in my hands and try not to think. It doesn't work.
My imagination paves the road from my arrest to my conviction to my imprisonment. My job is not going to help me here. I deal with twisted people all the time, they'll say; the stress is high. Some people just snap. And isn't there a history of mental illness in his family? Not acknowledged, no. Just demonstrated. Two drunks for parents -- oh, alcoholics, excuse me, alcoholics, it sounds nicer, doesn't it, no, not really ... His mother. Oh, his mother. Dressed him like a sailor until he was ten years old. Why? We don't know ...
The warm smell of pizza teases my nose. At first I think I'm just imagining it, but then I realize that the footsteps approaching are those of my boss and he's carrying a pizza box.
He pauses in front of the bars a moment, then puts the box on its side through the bars.
I stand, feeling a little dizzy. "Smelled you coming, boss," I try to say casually. He pushes it farther through the bars and I take it. "Pepperoni, sausage ... extra cheese. My favorite," I say, admiration for his memory coloring my words.
He shrugs, looks away and half smiles.
"Thanks." I toss the box down onto the bed and walk back to the bars but not so fast I look as anxious as I am. "Save that for later," I explain unnecessarily. Like when my stomach isn't in knots. "Y'know, I've been thinking ..." I lean forward a little and lower my voice. "I'm a federal prosecutor's dream." Gibbs looks steadily back at me and I turn to look at the cot as if I'm the prosecutor, looking calmly at Anthony DiNozzo, Jr., on trial for murder.
"You do tend to date a lot, don't you, Mr. DiNozzo?"
I picture myself as the jury will see me, twitchy and grinning and laughing from nervousness and possible insanity. "Heh-heh ... heh-heh ... Yeah, I do 'tend' to date a lot, but, where's it say that dating, y'know, a new girl every week is a crime?" He looks around the courtroom, looking for agreement. Nobody nods.
"No, it's not," replies the cool prosecutor. He probably didn't bother to wear his lucky suit because this case is so open and shut. "But it does speak to your deep seated psychological problems and ..." He glances at the jury. "... commitment issues."
"Really. So, you're saying my ... intimacy issues stem from -- my mother? Who dressed me as a sailor until I was ten years old?" His voice has been climbing higher throughout this confession, and peaks as he grins manically and says brightly, "Maybe!"
The prosecutor looks at the jury again, almost apologetically, sorry for them that they have to deal with this ... this ... He shrugs a little, clears his throat, and begins to walk back and forth in front of the jury box. "Well, I guess it might explain why you ... objectify women, treat them as sexual objects," he continues, his voice soft. "While you're being so ..." The prosecutor glances at the jury, running a hand through his hair, "... forthright, and insightful, Mr. DiNozzo ..." He glances once more at the poor twelve men and women who have to listen to this creep, telling them with that glance that the question he's about to ask and the answer following will be very interesting to them. He studies the poor example of humanity in front of him, the product of his own destruction. "Why did you sink your teeth into the victim's leg?"
The answer is quick in coming. "Because I'm angry, and I'm immature, and I like control!" He sits back, looking almost pleased with himself.
"You have no alibi," the prosecutor reminds him, still speaking quietly, but he's driving cold nails into the coffin.
The sick puppy laughs. "Alibi!" Then suddenly he gets angry and begins to shout. "How can I have an alibi, when the murder doesn't even have a time, or a date?!"
The prosecutor doesn't find this troubling. "That's interesting. What about means? Latex glove ... Scalpel ... You could have gotten these things from ... work." He raises his eyebrows. "No?"
"Right. Of course!" He laughs again. "Yes. I ripped a glove at the scene." He leans forward a little. "It seems a little sloppy, for a federal agent -- who investigates crime scenes, but --! Those are the breaks when you're a homicidal maniac, dumping butchered woman's remains out in the woods in the middle of the night, right?!"
Suddenly he is me, I am back in the jail cell, my heart pounding, my breath coming short, my head spinning. I lean against the wall, feeling the doubt and the anger and the fear and the despair wash over me, close me in like they will close me in the coffin. Soon I will be buried in prison and I will never see daylight again.
"I'm not getting out of this one, am I, boss."
The question hangs in the air only a moment when he beckons with a single finger for me to approach the jury box.
I swallow, and sigh, and stand up, and walk slowly over, feeling like weights are on my feet, on my head, on my heart. I raise my head to look at him.
His right shoulder dips, and before I can react he slaps the back of my head. The despair halts, uncertain.
"Thank you, boss," I whisper, feeling slightly hoarse. He half smiles, and nods as if to say 'don't mention it'.
Then he reaches through the bars again, and taps me under the chin, gently. He turns to leave but not before telling me -- with a look -- to keep my head up, it's going to be okay.
I don't want him to leave, but at the same time I'm glad he's gone, because my throat feels closed and my eyes are burning. I turn and sit down on the cot again, rubbing the back of my neck.
Talking about my parents reminds me of the nights I spent behind the stair railing, the railing of the stair, watching them fight. And that memory still imprinted in my head, of playing zoo. Only this time, I realize, our roles are reversed.
I am still behind the railing, but I am the one trapped. I am the one shouting, and saying words that make my stomach knot, and remembering out loud the terrible things that have happened to me.
And Gibbs is behind the posts, silent and listening, saying so much without saying a word. Only he isn't frightened. I am the one shouting, and I am the one frightened. I am the one saying I am trapped, but behind the bars he is telling me, silently, that I will be free.
The despair does not disappear. It won't until the charges do. But it is being held at bay.
I am not hungry for food. But the pizza smells like comfort, and I am hungry for that.