Note: Late. AGAIN. (cry) I typed practically all of this on Saturday so it might be rough and unpolished but I've been getting distracted lately by a certain person who thinks he can monopolize my time, SO I'm doing what I can. The story's winding down, guys. Dunno how much longer we're gonna have. (Soooo excited!)
And thanks to kelly28, who corrected me for my erroneous portrayal of a psychiatrist on the stand. Apparently they can reveal nothing without the consent of their patient. Therefore, The Scarlet Sky needs to be better about consulting the internet, courtroom novels, and Phoenix Wright for her writing material. She apologizes profusely for her inexperience and hopes no one will attack her with tomatoes.
Chapter Twenty-Six: Rising
"We haven't seen this much business in all the years I've been working the inn." Doug wiped his nose and grunted, all the newly washed plates in front of him enough to supply a small army. "Maybe we should have court cases more often, eh?"
"That's not funny, Uncle Doug."
"I wasn't trying to be."
"Well, either way." Gwen rubbed her hands raw with a towel, all the soap and suds soaking her work apron. Her red eyes narrowed in like jewels on the clock, her little heart beating like a hummingbird's wings. "Do we have that new room ready?"
"For the new tenant? Absolutely."
"Huh." Gwen nodded. "That's good."
The innkeeper ran his hands through his red hair, at a loss. His niece had fallen silent, a habit becoming more frequent of late, and she'd begun to stare at the clock with an obsession that frankly bothered him. Immensely. Gwen used to be so carefree about stuff like that. Gwen just…used to be careful in general.
"Hey, uh." He coughed. "If you, uh, want a ride up to the jail to see him, I'd be happy to—"
"No. No, I'm fine." She bounced from one foot to the other and began to do this little humming thing, finding bits and pieces from songs and piecing them together in a broken harmony. "Actually, I was wondering."
"About?"
"The food they give him." Gwen turned her head to the side, pondering. "What do you suppose they feed him? You know. In there."
Doug, at a loss, shrugged. "I wouldn't know. You could probably ask Miz Detective Stone."
"I dunno. She kinda strikes me as the person you don't direct stupid questions to." Gwen paused. "I think I'd like to find out, actually. What he eats. It's probably awful."
"Probably. I doubt they worry too much about diets in prison."
"And while he's at the local station," Gwen continued, "and he's the only inmate…I suppose…it wouldn't be too unusual if I asked…?"
"Of course it doesn't hurt to ask," Doug pushed her.
For the first time in a long while, Gwen smiled. "Uncle Doug? I just might take that offer from you after all."
"Well." A pause. "I suppose you know why I'm here." The woman shook her brown tresses from her shoulder; cleared her throat; in a meticulous, practiced fashion, extended a pale white hand. "I assume you are Doctor Trent and Ms. Claire? I'm Jill Dawn, your new prosecutor."
Claire, despite herself, was shaking. Her husband had soothed her all morning, insisting that this lawyer would be different. Well, she'd thought Gina had been different, and the nurse had spilled her whole life story in that courtroom. She'd thought Skye had been harmless, and he'd stolen her baby girl. She'd thought she could put her past behind her, and look where Claire stood now.
"A pleasure. We're thrilled to meet you," the doctor answered, smiling. Claire bobbed her head in feeble agreement. Oh, thank God she was holding Willow now; she needed something to hold close. She let her eyes wander, shy, and Trent caught onto all the questions she was too afraid to speak in front of this new and unfamiliar woman. "Ms. Dawn, I know this will be hard for you, especially so late into the trial, but…what do you think our chances are?"
The lawyer pursed her thin lips. "Honestly?"
"Yes."
"According to the court records," Jill began, "you are at a disadvantage. But it's my intention to fix that, because the jury is being very cleverly duped."
Claire's head snapped up. "Duped?"
"Absolutely." Jill Dawn had the most pristine nails the farmer had ever seen, all cut in a perfect arch with the pink of seashells. She had a habit of examining them as she spoke, avoiding eye contact with each sweep of her hand. "See, defense attorneys work as magicians do for children—surely you remember those?"
Trent and Claire nodded slowly.
"They're basically distracting the jury from the big picture." With a sly smile, Jill added, "The purpose of this case, essentially, is to prove whether or not Skye the Phantom Thief illegally kidnapped a child. Regardless of your parenting skills, Ms. Claire, he did this very thing. Ms. Monett is just playing the jury by their heartstrings. Like puppets, if you will."
"Puppets," Claire repeated.
"Precisely. See, people are easily swayed by feelings." Jill Dawn let her gaze flicker from her hands to the blonde at her side. "I am sure you're aware of this. Both of you seem to be as prone to that fault as I, and all people, are."
Defenses bubbled in Claire's throat. She swallowed them back bitterly.
"There are a few ways I want to go about this," Jill continued. "First of all, I'd like to see some of your personal items. Check a few licenses. Look through some photos."
"And why would you need those?" Claire blurted out. "That's private, isn't it?"
"I need to piece together some things my predecessor found unimportant," Jill replied calmly. "Obviously, ignoring them did not help him any, and I'd like to test a hunch of mine."
"I don't like not knowing what you're thinking," Claire demanded. Her voice rose with desperation; Trent cringed with each new decibel. "I've already had one lawyer who didn't trust me, and I'd like to know if I've made the mistake of hiring another."
Willow began to cry. Ms. Dawn let her eyes survey Claire up and down, and Claire, used to this by now, held her head up high. "Doctor Trent," the brunette began. "May I speak to your wife alone?" Immediately his hands clenched; Jill smiled to herself. "I have no intention of getting violent or rude, I assure you. I simply wish to speak to her alone."
"It's fine, Trent," Claire hissed. "I can handle myself." At least in front of this woman I can.
The doctor's muscles tensed, relaxed, tensed again. Yet it was a look from Claire that finally made him relent and leave for the door, and only when it slammed did Jill finally speak. "So. You don't believe I'm going to handle this case well, do you?"
It was a statement, not a question. "I think you'll do your job," Claire amended. "But…I don't want someone who's just, well, doing their job. I want someone who believes in me." She patted her baby on the head and sighed. "No. I need someone who believes in us."
Jack O'Neil had been cold from the start: a slippery, smooth, self-centered soul with eyes as blind as the jury he led. A man like that couldn't see Claire as anything but a monster, a defective mother fighting an uphill battle. It didn't matter that they were related, not at all. They didn't have a connection that transcended blood. And that, in the end, was what Claire needed.
Jill Dawn tucked her arms about herself and raised an eyebrow; it had been plucked just so, her entire face taken care of in an irritatingly faultless fashion. Her good heels tapped the floor, an answer spinning in her clever lawyer's mind. "Well. You think I don't understand a person like you, Ms. Claire, but I do ."
"Don't you dare assume—!"
"I don't assume. I know." Her hands pressed to her temples and a little sigh slipped past those pale lips. Claire bristled at the distant look in those eyes, then started a bit; no, Jill Dawn hadn't been looking at the farmer at all, but rather the little girl in her arms. "You are not the only one who has been abused as a child," Jill spoke simply. "I was raped by my uncle. Repeatedly. From the time I was eight years old." Everything slowed down, each breath catching on unmoving air. "I didn't tell a soul. I was too afraid to. So I grew up. I moved away. I found a man who I loved and married him, expecting things to be different." A ghost of a smile creased her lips. "Of course, expectations are unrealistic. I had children, like you do. Twin boys."
"Had?" Claire whispered.
A steady nod. "My husband decided, one day, that he didn't want to be a husband anymore. So we went to court. And the jury handed my sons to the man who'd turned his back on me after seven years." Jill laughed. "The basis for his defense, of course, was my childhood. That's what brings me to my statement, Ms. Claire."
With the bearing of an empress, the lawyer stepped forward and placed her hand on little Willow's head, brushing her fuzzy blonde hair. A little smile lit her face. "I not only understand people like you, Ms. Claire; I, in fact, am just the same as you are. Only I know what you can lose." Her voice hitched. "I know that all too well, Ms. Claire. And believe me, come hell or high water, I will do whatever I can to make sure you never have to know my pain."
Skye couldn't sleep.
He'd turn one way on that hard, stiff bed, and it'd be as if he hadn't moved at all; everything felt rock hard, and his whole body shook under the thin blankets. His eyes would close only to open and escape the terrifying darkness of his mind, the jeers and the cries that now echoed in every silence. There'd been a time he'd never feared consequences, death, hell.
Of course, he hadn't truly known what hell was then, either.
"Don't worry," Ms. Monett told him when mentioned his fears. "You can still win this. Don't be such a pessimist."
But no. She didn't understand, did she? How could she, so prim and proper and clean in those lawyer clothes? Whatever the result of the trial was, this would be merely a job to her. To Skye, it meant the difference between redemption and rejection.
Not necessarily Guilty and Not Guilty.
Hours and hours spent in isolation left him with nothing but his own thoughts to console him. Skye didn't know which thoughts to think on first, and they all jumped on him with relentless urgency, all rising in volume until he wished his brain deaf to reality. Why had he done this? He was trying to remember, now, but the more he tried, Skye found the memory becoming harder and harder to recall. What possessed him to put him where he stood now?
"The doctor loves me. He loves me, and he doesn't steal; he doesn't cheat; he doesn't lie. Being hurt isn't the same thing as being loved, Skye. So steal the feather if you want to, fine, but I'll marry him just the same. I owe you nothing."
He'd thought about her a lot. Claire. Skye marveled at how little he'd thought of her these past few months, how he'd pushed her from his consciousness so cleanly. Ironic, wasn't it, how that day he first saw baby Willow her mother was all that occupied his thoughts? Claire, and the way she pouted when he got his way. Claire, and the way she blushed when he surprised her with a sweet word. Claire, and how she tried so damn, damn hard to hold back those feelings he'd stirred within her fragile heart.
These two months…he'd felt almost nothing for her. Absolute emptiness. How could you feel that strongly for someone, and then lose it all so soon?
"Hey, thief." The voice startled him, and Skye glanced down to see a plate shoved under the slot of his door. "Your dinner." Skye frowned. It seemed a little different this evening, and for some reason the hand had hesitated, staying on the plate when normally Bob would pull away immediately.
In fact…it wasn't a male hand at all.
"Thought you might want something a little more familiar before tomorrow," Gwen whispered, and oh, Skye would recognize that blessed voice anywhere. He knelt down on the stone floor and took her hand in the most reverent manner, squeezing it until he could be convinced this was real, that this wasn't a dream at all. "I made a deal with the station," she explained softly. "They watch me cook, and when it's done, if I haven't done anything wrong, you can get served by me." She chuckled. "Bob's watching us right now, though. Not that you can see."
"I've missed you so much," Skye found himself saying. "I…I'm so sorry."
"You should be," she replied. "But it's okay." She held onto the silence for a moment more. "I forgive you."
Then that soft and slender hand pulled away from sight, and the sound of little footsteps echoed and echoed in Skye's ears until he wasn't sure if he'd dreamt them in the first place.
"It's late."
"Mhm."
"We should've left some time ago."
"Yup."
Nami rolled over on her side and propped her chin on her hand, Gustafa a green silhouette against the night sky. "You gonna play with that feather all night?" she remarked dryly. He ran his fingers up and down it, shrugging. "How old are you, five?"
"It's soft," he explained. As if that excused it.
"Yeah, well, the ground here isn't."
"You're just a pessimist."
"You're just a child in a grown man's body."
"But I'm an optimistic one."
She weighed her possible answers and decided it wasn't worth it, not anymore. Ever since that strange bird had swooped down, leaving a single blue feather behind, neither had considered climbing down, not exactly. Something strange burned within them: awe, majesty, something stronger than them both. Either way, Nami felt no inclination to start down that treacherous cliff, and neither did Gustafa, who was distracted by his shiny new toy.
Then nightfall had come, and left them stranded.
"So which side of the mountain do you want?" Nami asked. "I'm comfy here, but you know. I'm flexible with moving."
"Do whatever you want."
"Suit yourself." The detective stretched her head on the dirt, curling to her side. "See you in the morning…I guess."
The air whistled as the cloak of darkness shrugged about them both, and a little sigh sounded on the breeze. "Hey, Nami?"
"Sleeping here. What?"
"How optimistic is…too optimistic?" She opened a blue eye and saw him clutching that feather close, head raised to the skies. His lips had turned into an ironic little smile, one too unsure to be genuine. Immediately her senses heightened; she sat up, found she could barely breathe.
"Gustafa—"
"I just need to know." A pause. "You…I never asked you if you believe in fate, did I?"
She shook her head, mind buzzing. A blue feather. I should've thought of this, I should've realized…
"I see," he murmured. He chuckled to himself. "It's ironic, you know, cause I do. Not necessarily stuff like…tarot cards and fortune cookies…but little things. Serendipitous ones."
"Ordinary coincidences," Nami clarified.
He smiled. "Something like that, yes."
Everything flashed by: returning to Forget-Me-Not after years absence, seeing him before any other individual there, being fired, being brought here, seeing that beautiful creature only for…the past to replay and fall into her lap.
A second chance. Or a second mistake.
"Serendipity," she repeated. Her chest felt full; her head felt light. "Not all that logical of a theory, is it?"
"You're sounding like a detective I know, you know that?" The humor sounded dead on his tongue. Nami shivered, consequences hanging heavy in the air. "But I'm not asking about logic. I'm asking…if things have changed."
Sparks shooting through your veins. A yearning seated deep within you, unfed and desperate to fill. Unspoken emotions so strong words rendered them meaningless. Could this…change…qualify for turning her back on everything, Nami wanted to know? Could two seasons of absolute emotion truly predict a lifetime of happiness?
"Well. You don't have to decide now."
His hand slipped that sparkling gem into his pocket, and Nami felt her pent-up breath release, her whole body quivering. No. It would have been so simple to say. No. She'd certainly said it often enough before. No, Gustafa. This is who I am. Accept it. No.
Her skin burned upon her now, sweat pricking her brow. Gustafa had leaned back as far as possible from her side, casting her a cursory glance as he lifted his hat from his head. His lips formed words, tender and kind, and Nami could feel her heart unraveling, a deep-seated pain ringing in her soul.
"Good night."
And then, the words that shocked the silence:
"I love you."
Neither could say who felt the tremor of that promise more: Gustafa, or the shaking girl who'd spoken it aloud.
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
"But there's no going back if we do. We can't undo what's said."
"I know that. But it's what I want."
The quiet laid like death over them both, Maria Monett taking in a long, desperate breath. "If you want to go on that stand, I can't guarantee that you'll win this trial."
"But I can guarantee that I'll have said my part. And that's all the guarantee I need."
"Then know as your lawyer, I do not approve of this step and will be signing legal papers announcing so."
"Do what you want," Skye replied. "I won't stop you if you won't stop me."
Her tidy footsteps took her to the judge's bench, and Skye gazed at his jurors—staring long and hard at each face, scrutinizing them just as they would him. "Your Honor, I'd like to bring the defendant to the witness stand." He winced at the clacking of his handcuffs on the ground, took shuffling steps to the seat where so many had sat before him. For once, he sat elevated before them all, the freak in the spotlight for all to see.
"Your name and occupation for the record," Maria Monett began.
"Skye the Phantom Thief. I'm currently a waiter at Doug's Inn. But in the past, I have also been a thief."
"Where have you been living these past two months?"
"Flowerbud Village, Doug's Inn."
"What brought you there?"
"Well." He paused. "Fate took me there, I suppose."
"And your previous residence was?"
"Forget-Me-Not Valley. But I didn't really have a home there, not in the normal sense of the word. I was a drifter."
"And that is where you met Ms. Claire?"
"Yes. That is where we crossed paths."
"What was your relationship?"
"Romantic."
"Unrequited, or did she feel the same way towards you?"
"Yes, we were both in love," Skye repeated, the words flat on his tongue. Were, he wanted to repeat. Things have changed now.
"How did your relationship end, Mr. Skye?"
"Skye," he corrected. "You don't need to call me 'Mr.' anything. I'm not much of a 'Mr.' guy."
"Alright, then. Skye, how did your relationship end?"
He sought her face in the crowd, and she certainly stood out with her white visage and striking blonde locks. Willow sat in her arms, an unfair advantage to her side, and her eyes stared at him with hatred and fear. "I don't know exactly," he spoke. "I wasn't the one who decided that."
"Would you elaborate on that?"
"Claire and I had been seeing each other nearly a year. We'd become intimate, as she said during her testimony, and I…well, I got it into my head that maybe we'd…" His voice lowered a notch. "I thought we just might get married."
"I see. So were you aware of her relationship with Doctor Trent?"
"Not at all."
"When she broke up with you, did she tell you she was pregnant with your child?"
"No. She didn't think I deserved to know."
"Objection," Jill Dawn interrupted. "Opinion, not fact."
"Sustained," Judge WP agreed. "Please rephrase your reply, Mr. Skye."
He flinched and said, slowly, "I suppose the short answer is no, then."
"How did you find out about Willow's birth?"
"I bumped into a few villagers at one point. People who used to stop by Forget-Me-Not from time to time, you know? People talk. I heard about it, and I…well, I did the math. I know how long it takes for a baby to be born. And I remembered the night we shared well enough to put two and two together."
"Skye, I am sure many people in this courtroom are wondering." Ms. Monett put her hand on the stand, her eyes flashing in the most terrifying way. "Why? Why did you kidnap your baby daughter, when you had no home? No job? No mother to raise her? Why did you do it?"
Skye knew his answer. He knew his role down pat: his script, his lines, his mannerisms. He smoothed his tie; he smiled benignly at the room of curious faces. "Frankly? I have no idea."
Silence.
"No. Idea."
"None. When I think about it," the thief continued, "I don't know why I did it. I've listened to all these fine people speak, and I've had lots of time to think about this, certainly, but I don't know what made me do it."
Maria Monett was ready to kill him.
"So you woke up one morning, decided you'd kidnap a child, and did?"
"No, it wasn't like that."
"Do explain yourself, because that's certainly how it sounds to me and the jury!" Maria didn't care that her voice was higher than it should be, or that her hands had slammed down on the witness stand so hard that her palms throbbed. "Come now. Something must have been going through that mind of yours!"
Train tracks. That's the sound that reverberated throughout Skye's mind as he shut his eyes: the clack of a train on its one-way rail, the smell of the smoke seeping in through the windows, the taste of uncertainty on his tongue. Then that steady beat: the refrain of his heart, slamming harder and harder against his ribs.
It can't be true. I can't be…be a…
Fathers represented so much in this world. Constancy. Dependency. Love. Strength. Each word seemed branded behind Skye's eyes, flying by with the landscapes sweeping past the window. Nothing seemed free, not really. Nothing sounded easy.
Of course, what did he know, with his own father dead and gone?
Perhaps it felt strange now. Remembering him. You didn't speak of Skye's father, not in his household. He was the "good-for-nothing," the "debtor," the "foolish man who left us with nothing." You didn't say anything, for if you did, the mother with her hands raw from work would either shout or cry, and Skye had long learned that lesson. "Your father is dead," she'd say.
One day, a dead man came to the door. And with one glimpse, Skye saw what a father both was and wasn't: a drifter, suitcase in hand, scraggly beard and eyes uncertain with hope. "My boy," he'd wheezed to the child. "My little son."
Then she'd interrupted, face iron and cold. "Get the hell out of here. He's not your son."
"But he's not dead," Skye had insisted in his high boy's voice. "Don't you see, Mommy? He's—"
"He's dead to me and you now." The door slammed. The lock clicked.
Silence. Years and years of silence.
"Have you…ever wanted something?" Skye spoke finally.
Ms. Monett blinked; Ms. Dawn stood up, preparing to object.
"Are you referring to Willow?"
"I'm referring to anything." He paused. "More abstractly, though. Haven't you ever…wanted to be something that you're not? Or the chance to be something better than you are?"
"Objection. Your Honor, theories have no place in the courtroom, especially in witness testimony."
"My witness is only trying to give an explanation for his behavior," Ms. Monett countered. "I believe the jury would find his thought process beneficial in their final decision."
"I have to say, I'm curious myself," Judge WP admitted. "Go ahead, Mr. Skye. You're safe…for now."
"What did you intend to become when you kidnapped Willow, Skye?" Ms. Monett asked.
He stared at Claire for a moment, and he tried to recall the spark of love he'd once felt at her very name. Nothing came. "I knew that I was a father. And I didn't want to be like mine. I didn't want to be dead to my baby girl."
"So your paternal instincts led you to take her?"
"Yes."
"And your knowledge of Claire's emotionally imbalanced state?"
Maria's voice hardened here: fictional or not, this is your final answer. Skye cleared his mind for a moment, tried to force his feelings to the corners of his mind. This woman was a stranger to him now. This beaten creature, bruised and cheated by time, could never have been the nymph who'd haunted his dreams.
Yet.
He could see, quite clearly now, that night at the jail. The tears had been real then; the screams had been more than just words; the threats had been desperate, furious, afraid all at once. All the words ran together now, and the memories started to tangle upon one another—Gwen running from the stand, Claire sobbing in the courtroom, and the jail, oh, the jailer of hell's gates awaiting him.
"It meant nothing, Skye. I can't be with someone like you. You know that. I need…dependency, responsibility, honesty. You're not the marrying type. I could never marry you."
"I didn't know." The thief shook his head, and the handcuffs sunk into his lap with his heart. "I never knew any of it. I thought she was perfect, Ms. Monett. I took baby Willow for my own reasons. Selfish as they were. I'm…not the Good Samaritan I wish I could be." He did not cry. He did not choke on his confession. He merely set his eyes on Gwen in that courtroom, and finished, "I stole the life I wanted. Claire's past has nothing to do with that, and nothing to do with me. Take that however you want."
And there. It is finished.