One Month Later

“Do you believe you are susceptible to forming any judgements based solely on a person’s race, color, creed, national origin, ancestry, gender, gender identity or expression, age, disability, or sexual orientation?”

“No.”

“Do you have any preconceived notions against the psychiatric profession that would impede upon your ability to be objective in a trial?”

“No.” 

“Is it just me or is it kind of hot in here?”

“Huh?…I, um…come to think of it--”

“Perfect, thank you, sir. Please wait over there, we’ll call you back shortly so the judge and prosecutor can see you.” 

The Angelos dream team sat in a tight circle of three in the state courtroom, a grand, windowless room paneled entirely in various wood finishes. They looked up at each other in tandem, knowing smirks gracing their faces as the potential juror arose. 

“For a guy who's been away from the courtroom for, like, ten years, you're a beast,” one of them muttered, snickering and shaking his head.

The team's head lawyer remained focused on the paperwork in front of him and smirked.

“Voir dire’s a bitch, Harrison,” he said, noting the potential juror’s name on his clipboard with a bold check mark. “And I am her master.”

Another Month Later, Friday Morning

The months leading up to the trial had been particularly unkind to him. As her influence receded from his mind, it became painfully clear that it had left in its wake a gaping void, his struggles even worse than before--not in severity, only that what suited him just fine beforehand now felt cruel. 

But that was over now. The void slowly but surely had to be filled. He'd been on his own for decades. He could do it again. 

Detective Berman's chin sat idly in his hand, only half tuned into the trial's dry opening statements. Despite the stress involved in preparing for them, trials themselves were usually rather boring. There were few surprises, if any. In stuffy courtrooms, opening statements flowed into testimonies flowed into presentations of evidence flowed into verdicts. And days, weeks, occasionally months of work culminated in just a few monotonous hours of jejune, categorical presentation. 

Collecting usable intelligence was sometimes the hardest part. Sometimes, those who most deserved restitution were most afraid to do what was necessary to secure it. To the detective's frustration, only two of the doctor's patients named in James Walter's letter were courageous enough to testify. From the powerful to the nobodies, everyone's reasonings for remaining silent ran the gamut--doubting their memories, feeling guilty about the prospect of testifying against her, feeling outright fear. They were, curiously, unable to verbalize why. 

The detective had done his best, or so he'd thought--scrutinizing every loose end, pulling warrants and subpoenas, leafing through various etceteras. Per his job description, it was quite rare that he lent assistance to his cases after indictments, but his personal stake in the matter necessitated it. That was beside the fact that it was just about all he could think about, his other cases having somewhat fallen by the wayside. 

At this point, he'd be relieved just to put the whole mess behind him. It sufficed to say she was making that particularly difficult today. There she sat at the defendant's table, donned in a long, form-fitting black dress, turtlenecked with long sleeves. Her neck was adorned with a sparkling crystal pendant that he found pretty and decidedly apropos for the occasion, if a bit uninspired. She exuded her usual charm while still, in a way only the detective could tell, putting on a show. After having been away from her for so long, watching her today felt akin to watching her in one.  

She sat perfectly postured in her chair, eyes dancing about when they suddenly came to rest upon his. She gave him a warm smile. Taken aback, he immediately averted his gaze. Though part of him thrilled, her smile was the last thing he needed. He had a testimony to give.

It wouldn’t be terribly difficult to delineate the extent of her manipulation as he saw fit. He planned to disclose that he’d been subject to her patter in her office, that he’d been made to forget it, that it had distracted him from investigating the case, and nothing more. Part of her indictment included obstruction of justice for that very reason.  

But he planned to keep their affair and its more sordid details to himself. For some reason, the very thought of laying bare before the general public his tranquil descent into loving trance and his subsequent excruciating wake-up call nauseated him. Probably wouldn't have swayed the jury, anyway. Probably would've only served to make him look ineffectual, weak-willed, and incompetent. 

Probably would've made her laugh at him. 

Opening statements and plaintiff examination went as planned. The case’s prosecutor, District Attorney Damon Johnson, was competent and thorough. A man with sartorial flair, today his warm umber skin stood out from his light beige suit, accessorized with a dotted burgundy tie and matching pocket square. His short, curly hair, jet black in his younger days, was peppered with gray throughout.

The facts--at least, as presented--were established: two of Doctor Angelos’ patients, a man and a woman, claimed she exploited her methods to engage in sexual relationships with them. They were convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that she was capable of bending their consent to her whims, making them do things they wouldn't ordinarily. A follow-up expert testimony from a board-certified hypnotherapist confirming the possibility of such a thing legitimized the presentations. 

Then, of course, they were promptly eviscerated by none other than Marcus Chiang.

In top form as the head of Doctor Angelos' legal team, he who himself spoke so compellingly, who, too, seemed to lack any qualms manipulating those around him to his heart’s content, indeed stood before the courtroom relentlessly cross-examining the witnesses. 

Somehow, Detective Berman was both shocked and not. 

Marcus mercilessly poked holes in their recollections, questioning them, clearly taking advantage of the fact that their memories to begin with were shaky at best. He spoke clearly, concisely, exhibiting a nigh preternatural confidence and fluidity, each phrase carefully calculated and structured. Fastidiously poised, his hair was perfectly groomed and his suit fit him to perfection, his movements graceful, choreographed, powerful.  The cadence of his words was entrancing in its own right, though not in the sweet, lulling way of the doctor, moreso in that he commanded a room, forcing one to listen despite their best attempts to the contrary. 

"If you thought my client even possibly had you do things in the sexual realm, then why hadn't you ever thought of pressing charges?" Marcus asked, stalking up to the stand like a leopard toying with its dinner. 

The mousy, blonde-headed woman blinked in surprise. 

“Me, pressing charges?” 

“Well, you're here now. According to your testimony, you had relations with her, of which your memory is, to your own admission, dubious, and you claim her therapy made you feel a degree of loss of agency.” 

"That's correct."

"You testified under oath, ma'am, that these methods infringed upon your trust by subverting your conscious mind and causing you to make those decisions." 

"Right." 

"That’s not only a hefty claim to make, it would constitute sexual assault in the first degree. Are you saying that's what happened?"

She hesitated.

"I hadn't thought of it that way." 

“Answer the question, ma’am.”

“I’m not sure. I-it's hard to know where I started and she began.” 

"So you didn't press charges because you consented?" 

"Well, no, not exactly…I just never thought of it as sexual assault, consent isn't always cut and dry, it--it--" she stammered. Her eyes, clearly overwhelmed, suddenly began to well with tears. 

"So you're saying in absolute surety that you weren't sexually assaulted?" 

"No--I-I mean maybe, I don't know, just that…just that…" she said, those tears beginning to spill onto her pale cheeks. 

"I'm just asking, ma'am, because frankly, I'm more confused now than when we started," he said dryly, casting a glance at the jury. 

“Objection,” a bright, assertive voice called, Damon rising from his seat with his hand in the air. “Irrelevant to the case. Unnecessarily distressing to the witness.” 

Judge Bill Hanover--a pasty, bespectacled older man, brooding and balding--thought for a moment, then nodded his head.

“Sustained. Mr. Chiang, if you would.” 

Marcus glowered. 

"As you wish, your honor. No further questions."

“Your honor,” Damon said, “I’d like to call Detective Michael Berman to the stand.” 

The detective exhaled and made his way over, as ready as he ever would be for his turn. Marcus ambled deliberately towards him on the stand, fingers tented in anticipation. 

"Detective, you confessed that you too, were hypnotized by Doctor Angelos in her office in December of last year, following a visit related to the case." 

"That's correct."

"And was it all covert like the others claim?" he sneered.

"No, I willingly consented to it," he admitted. A sidelong glance toward the jury revealed some surprised expressions. 

"Interesting,” Marcus said as though this were news to him, eyes widened, pulling his upper lip over his lower and dropping his jaw. The detective rolled his eyes. “And why's that?" 

"At the time, I deemed it possible, though unlikely, that she'd somehow hypnotized the victim into committing suicide. Of course I was skeptical of something so fantastical, but to rule out all methods, I decided to undergo the process myself."

"And then, what, you killed yourself?" 

"Objection, your honor!" 

"Overruled. Continue."

"Obviously not, Mr. Chiang," the detective replied flatly.

"Oh, to put yourself in such a position…" Marcus tutted, again clearly orienting this observation towards the jury. "Is that fit behavior for the lead investigator of a homicide case?"

"Sure, if hypnosis is as harmless as you claim," Detective Berman slung back without hesitation. For the first time that day, Marcus looked miffed, now on his back foot. The detective continued. 

"In fact, that's precisely why I consented. Coercion is a funny thing, you know. Ms. Malone, choked up as she got on the stand just now with you bullying her, had a point about consent. This sort of thing sneaks up on you. You're like a boiled frog, not realizing what you're agreeing to because it all makes so much sense. When Doctor Angelos hypnotized me, I didn't feel all that much. At least, not at first. Then she kept talking, and talking, and all of a sudden, I was waking up disoriented, with a funny feeling in my stomach. Things just felt a little different after that. The case just didn't seem as important to me. And though I can't prove it with anything other than the fact that this simple case took me so long to bring to the DA, I believe she purposefully planted a suggestion for me to ignore it."

For a brief moment, the room was dead silent. Marcus leaned forward in anticipation. 

"So with continued coercion, might she have even…led you into her arms, like the other witnesses claim?" he asked smugly.

Detective Berman paused, fighting the surge of mortification in his chest. 

"With enough time and effort, I believe it’s possible, yes. Had that happened, of course."

"But it didn't."

His throat tightened. 

"No, it didn’t. But it happened to Mr. Walter." 

"Doubtful," Marcus shot back. "His medical file states only…what was it, seven or eight hypnotherapy sessions? That's nothing. Any involvement my client may or may not have had would have been purely consensual." 

"I would assume that you as her counsel would have rote fact pertinent to the case memorized by this point, Mr. Chiang," Detective Berman said, eyes stony. A few hushed, polite chuckles reverberated through the room. Marcus glared at him and opened his mouth to speak, but took too long to form his words. Detective Berman took his chance and continued. 

"That being said, whether or not the stated number of sessions is accurate is moot. It doesn't take all that much to alter someone's course of thinking, especially in small chunks. If you’re already sufficiently depressed, and unbalanced, and in the wrong state of mind, and you have been for some time, the words 'kill yourself' suddenly mean everything to you. No hypnosis necessary."

"Oh, certainly, I agree. Except for that, even if my client did something so vile--which she didn’t--that isn't murder."

Marcus now stood only a few feet away from the stand. They locked eyes, stares heated. 

"At any rate, one who is very lonely and very emotional can be highly suggestible. And I maintain that Mr. Walter was already under her influence at his time of death.”

"Interesting theory. If only you had a lick of proof of that, Detective." Through closed lips, Marcus chuckled slightly. He broke their staring contest. "No further questions, your honor."

Indeed, there were none. After the detective stepped down, Damon presented the case-in-chief: that James Walter had no other female associates; that the document found on his laptop gave her a very strong motive; that the last phone call he received came from a defunct and anonymous phone number; that Paul Kuklinski, the colleague whose birthday party she’d attended the night of Walter’s death, submitted a deposition that she’d gotten up mid-Scrabble game when she had never before left the table during such games; that a man so literate left no suicide note; that the exact garment found in his house was one she had at one point purchased for herself.

Detective Berman glanced at the jury, their expressions steeped in thought. For the first time that day, he felt a shred of hope.

After a short recess, the ball was passed into the doctor’s court. Two of Doctor Angelos’ professional colleagues, who subscribed to the school of thought that one simply does not do that which they'd deem reprehensible or harmful in a hypnotic state, took the stand to provide expert testimony, effectively nullifying that of the prosecution. 

Detective Berman's expression morphed into a grotesque marriage of smile and grimace. 

Then the doctor took the stand herself, and Marcus examined her directly. Her testimony was straightforward with all the expected details. She did admit to a level of personal involvement with James Walter, but that it was entirely consensual, involved no hypnosis, and was ended only due to the escalation of abuse on his part. She shared details of her involvement, but also painted a vivid, nuanced picture of his supposed descent, making him look not like a brutish aggressor but rather a victim of his own mind. 

As he listened, the detective found it curious that she made no mention of her relationship with him whatsoever. It both tacitly confirmed his testimony and salvaged his image, while also, in a way, publicly denying that anything between them had even occurred. This, to him, felt both a blessing and a curse. 

He furrowed his brow. Actually, all she was doing now was reciting some inane defense of her usage of hypnosis. Because of course she would.

“...And really, folks, we all know hypnosis isn't like the movies, where you wave a pocket watch in front of someone, swinging back and forth, back and forth, telling someone to breathe, feel their muscles relaxing, eyelids growing heavy…it just doesn't work that way, right? It’s not being deeply asleep now. It’s not mind control, listening and obeying. Science proves it." 

The jury that exuded opposition at the outset now nodded their weary heads, jaws slack, hearts blooming with sympathy. Detective Berman sat there and listened, noting the jury members’ empty stares glued to her. After a long day seated still in a warm room, it came as no surprise to see a few pairs of glassy eyes in the jury box fluttering. One’s head nodded forward briefly. The detective scoffed to himself quietly, arms crossed in indignance. 

What a farce. He would have felt utterly incensed at this sheer injustice had he not been both so unsurprised at her underhanded tactics and so prepared against such tactics himself. Indeed, if he had one consolation, it was that his own glazed gaze was not that of a hypnotized mind, merely that of a weary man in an airless courtroom. While others lost themselves in her words, he remained vigilant and aware, observing her in her element, her voice bobbing and weaving. 

"We’ve observed these things for over a hundred years, since the dawn of the scientific method in its most modern form. We all enter hypnotic states all the time. If you've ever stared out the window, or zoned out, daydreaming, listening to someone else drone on and on…almost boring you, really, though not quite…simply letting your thoughts flow freely, your mind not focused on any particular sort of thing, or on the contrary, even intensely focused on something that has all your attention. You know what that’s like. It’s warm. Familiar. Very natural. Very safe.”

Even Damon side-eyed Detective Berman nervously, clearly aware of the effect this woman had on those around her--including himself. He’d warned the prosecutor of the doctor’s command, but he only now felt her draw for himself. His breathing slowed, heart thudding in his chest, muscles slackening. His body remained heavy, glued to his seat, forced to endure her incessant stream of words. There were no objections for him to make, for nothing objectionable had been said. 

The detective, on the other hand, was not going to succumb today; no. He knew better. He straightened up in his seat and looked directly at Doctor Angelos, shoulders squared, countenance stern, chin raised just slightly in a subtle sign of defiance. Her orbit was tangible, requiring constant reminders and self-checks to ensure that he remained awake and aware of her words and not drawn in. He wouldn’t fall. Not this time. 

Suddenly, she met his eyes again. This time, he didn’t shy away. Their gazes remained unwavering, caught in perhaps the most inconspicuous game of chicken ever played. It was as though she were speaking directly to him, the others still enthralled but completely unaware of the intense rencontre occurring right under their noses. 

“Our brain waves fluctuate through various frequencies, you see, and we enter various states of alertness throughout the day, and the night, when we're so tired, drifting, needing to close our eyes and rest now. It’s only natural to allow such a thing to happen when we’re safe, so very safe, and in such dire need of rest.” 

With a start, his eyelids fluttered almost imperceptibly, his mind for a brief moment falling away from him and losing track of her speech. His breath became shallow and steady, heart rate increasing ever so slightly. The muscles in his neck twitched as her voice filled the room, filled his ears, filled his head with her words. 

His mind urged him to fight. 

He resisted, resisted hard, struggling to remember, to find the strength in his mind that would keep him from slipping away when he needed it most. Feeling himself leaning forward ever so slightly, subconsciously in agreement to her words, awareness slowly but surely draining out of him, his eyes shot open. She was still talking.

His mind urged him to listen.

He desperately sought something in her words that would snap him out of it. He found nothing but her voice moving further away. He was no longer listening. In one swift pivot, he was no longer staring deeply into her eyes as her adversary, but as her thrall. Despite the fact that he knew her song and dance so well at this point that he could predict every beat, like every other warm body in that courtroom, he couldn’t possibly tear his gaze away from those sparkling eyes, nor his ears from that lilting voice dancing from those clever, smirking lips. 

His mind urged him to obey.

He was so certain his attempts to deprogram his mind had worked, but as he felt his body sliding forward in his chair, bit by bit, his head now resting comfortably against its hard, wooden back, vision unfocusing, thoughts drifting deeply down as her voice poured into his ears, a sinking, loathsome realization overtook him. His body had the awareness to recognize what his mind refused to believe. 

Thus, it came as no surprise that, some time later, he found himself lifting his heavy eyelids at the judge clearing his throat.

“Well, uh, thank you very much for that, Doctor,” he said quickly. “If the prosecution has a cross-examination to make, now would be the time.” 

“Yes, your honor,” Damon announced, now somewhat off-kilter. He arose, stretching his limbs, and approached the stand, hands clasped behind his back. 

“Doctor Angelos.”

“Good afternoon, Prosecutor,” Doctor Anglos greeted him with her brightest smile. 

He blinked, for some reason mildly taken aback. Speaking with her up close today seemed like more effort than their prior conversations. 

“Doctor, you are the only woman tied to James Walter.” 

“I am aware.”  

“He only started his car in an enclosed space. Why did you give him no further instruction?” 

“I did not call him at that time,” she asserted, deftly dodging the loaded supposition. “I at no point was associated with the number that did. Anything Mr. Walter did was unfortunately attributed to whoever made that call and his extensive history of major depressive disorders and other mental illnesses. You yourself have seen his files.”

“You leveraged your position as his psychotherapist, psychiatrist, and hypnotherapist to exploit the power dynamic in your relationship and involve yourself with him sexually,” Damon said. 

“I used hypnosis as part of my practice, as I already established prior. I never did anything that would promote harm or suicidal ideation in a patient. It goes against my entire ethos as a medical professional.” 

Damon raised his eyebrows skeptically.

“You already chose to get involved with him on a personal basis, which also goes against your entire ethos as a medical professional.” 

She met his eyes. She’d expected this. He continued.

“You took advantage of the vulnerable position he was in. You instructed him to do things that ultimately resulted in his death.” 

“I never asked James Walter to do any such thing.”

Damon leaned forward. 

“But you did use hypnosis on him, and instructed him to take certain actions which eventually led to his death--”

“--I did not--”

“--and your involvement with him meant you were well aware of his fragile mental state, and yet you continued using hypnotic techniques on him despite the risk inherent to the treatment.” 

“Hypnotherapy was fruitful for James. I tailored our sessions to help him get in touch with his inner emotions and traumas,” she said defensively. “I am not a proponent of false memories and past lives, Mr. Johnson. I only used visualization techniques to help him understand his feelings, while also aiming to help him progress through his various mental blocks. All standard procedure.”

Damon stared at her for a few moments before responding. “Then are you suggesting this was something outside of your control? You knew James Walter was vulnerable, precarious, yet you pushed further and further. You didn’t just hypnotize him—you manipulated him.” 

Doctor Angelos narrowed her eyes. “I resent that implication. That’s patently untrue. I only ever worked within the bounds of his consent, with the intent of helping him cope with his mental illness and achieve a better quality of life. Hypnosis is an invaluable tool in psychotherapy, and I employed it solely for its intended purpose."

Damon scoffed derisively. "If its intended purpose is psychological harm, it was employed beautifully.  Just look at all the effects you’ve had on your patients, both the ones who have testified, and the ones we asked who were too scared to come forward today. I’m sorry, Doctor, but I find that your personal involvement with your patients coupled with your usage of hypnosis calls into question the integrity of your whole story. That’s beside the fact that you attempted to use the same technique on a law enforcement officer.” 

She looked a little bit taken aback. Detective Berman felt his collar tighten. He hadn’t told Damon about their relationship. 

“I did hypnotize him, to which he consented as per his own testimony, only to show him that I couldn't possibly have driven James to suicide. Nothing more.” 

He breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Answer the rest of my statement then, Doctor,” Damon said, emboldened.  

Doctor Angelos’ lips twitched in amusement, staring him straight in the eye. She took a deep breath.

“My colleagues testified. I testified. You still believe that hypnosis is some dangerous bogeyman I weaponized. I think it’s time we stop talking and start doing, don’t you think, Prosecutor?” she asked. Bewildered, he blinked rapidly. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, if you’re so worried about the implications of hypnotherapy, why don’t you allow me to demonstrate its safety to you firsthand? I can assure you it will be safe and with your consent in front of dozens of witnesses. No harm done to you or the trial. If it pleases the court.”

The entire courtroom looked on, chattering in whispers. Damon’s heart beat faster. Her eyes twinkled; they beckoned him. 

“I see no issue with such a demonstration,” Judge Hanover said. “As long as the stenographer can hear every word.” 

“Of course, your honor,” she said sweetly. Damon remained silent, a faint flush rising to his face. Detective Berman’s forehead met his hand with a slap. 

Where on Earth had he seen this before. 

“Hesitance is normal, Mr. Johnson,” she continued, voice softer. “But what would this jury think of a prosecutor afraid of a simple trance?”

Damon felt the courtroom’s gazes intensify, burning him in a way he hadn't felt since he was a novice. The detective could've sworn he saw him mouth the word "ridiculous". 

“Alright, then,” he acquiesced. “If you insist.” 

Pleased with the decision, Doctor Angelos smiled and nodded. Damon sat in a chair near the stand as she arose to stand alongside him. Recognizing his tense demeanor, she continued speaking in her particularly calming timbre. 

"Relax, Mr. Johnson," she said softly. "I’d like you to close your eyes. It’s only natural to feel some anxiety with something like this, right? But I don’t want you to think about that. I want you to notice how comfortable and supported you feel in this seat. You feel the tension of the courtroom slip away. You listen to my voice. You are safe…comfortable…focused…” 

On she droned. How annoying. But, having already been primed earlier, it wasn't long before Damon, who had simply been going along with her suggestions, felt himself sinking into the chair, the warmth radiating from her body as she stood by him. She mentioned deepening his state of relaxation by counting down from ten, leading him further and further away from the reality of the courtroom as he faded in and out of comprehending her words. His body grew numb and immovable, but the feeling was not unpleasant in any way; on the contrary, it was tranquil. The harsh gazes of the jury, judge, and opposing counsel melted away, his contexts evaporated, even his body grew relaxed and invisible. All that remained was her voice.  

"Allow yourself to go deeper," she commanded softly. "No one can hurt you here. You are safe. Because hypnosis is safe, and your mind always protects you from things you don’t wish to do. Here, I’d like for you to demonstrate something. Is that alright with you?" 

"Yes."

Do you hear music?"

There was indeed a sort of faint music coming from the streets outside. It was some modern dance pop hit; he couldn't for the life of him tell which. Damon hardly kept abreast of the newest schlock churned out by record labels. 

“Yes.”

“It’s getting louder, isn’t it?”

It indeed grew louder. It pulsed through his body, filling him with unease. 

“I hear it, too. Everyone here can hear it growing louder. In fact, it’s growing very loud now!” she said, raising her voice in tandem. “So loud that I can hardly hear myself think, and I imagine you’d have such trouble, too!” 

Damon threw his hands over his ears, the music ramping up, pounding through his skull as though he were seated on an active runway. It hurt to hear. Anxiety fired in his chest, his vision filling with splashes of red and orange behind his eyelids. 

“SILENCE!” she yelled. The screaming music stopped, sweet, beautiful silence left in its wake. Damon’s hands slowly fell from his ears as he tried to control his breathing. 

“That's right, much more relaxed now, twice as relaxed as you were before. It’s a relief that this music has stopped, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he breathed. 

“How loud was that awful music?” 

“Real loud. Painful,” he mumbled. 

“It hurt you? I’m sorry,” she said. “Take a moment to recoup, relax. Let the stress fade away, taking you deeper still. Very good.” 

The courtroom stared in awe. Damon’s muscles felt like jelly now, his mind overwhelmed, unable to focus on anything but her voice. He knew deep down that there had never been any such screaming music, that it was entirely an amalgam of her imagination and his. 

But it didn’t matter. It felt real. And as he well knew, things that felt real were often far more fearsome than things that were. 

“Kindly observe that Mr. Johnson is both a natural hypnotic subject and very deeply hypnotized now. Otherwise, he would not have had such a strong response to the previous exercise," she said, speaking to the jury. She turned to him. "Mr. Johnson, I’d like you to stand up in front of the court, please.” 

Stiffly, he arose from his chair.

“I’d like you to remove your suit jacket.”

He did so.

“And your shirt.” 

Quiet gasps sprung from the crowd. His hands mechanically reached for his tie before stopping. His brow furrowed. In seconds, Damon Johnson dolly-zoomed from his peaceful trance back into the reality of the courtroom.  

“‘Scuse me, my what now?” 

Doctor Angelos smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. 

“I rest my case.” 

“I’m sorry. Really.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

A brief recess allowed the two men at the plaintiff’s table to convene, though neither had much to exchange but consolation. Damon’s disheartened cheek rested firmly atop his fist. Detective Berman patted him on the back.

"You weren't kiddin' around, man," Damon uttered. The detective  sucked air through his teeth and nodded his head. 

“Yah. I know. I'm just sorry you had to go through that in a packed courtroom. At least I got some privacy.”

“She's a witch, brother. Goddamn. Never felt anything like that in my life.” 

The two met eyes--Detective Berman nodding, Damon realizing tacitly that he’d just been initiated into some kind of weird, perverted club.

Court was once again in session. Aside from the self-evidence of Doctor Angelos’ presentation, Marcus arose and adroitly presented his own round of evidence: that only two patients among so many named could be called upon to testify; that they themselves had feelings and memories far too shaky to be considered tenable beyond reasonable doubt; that the alleged others couldn’t even accurately recall their ostensible liaisons with her; that any desire to kill him was merely a misinterpretation of her desire to keep a healthy distance from him. 

He had, after all, abused her. Photos were shown. Recordings were played. They were nothing Detective Berman hadn’t already seen during the discovery process, of course, but disturbing to behold nonetheless. Bruises, texts, voicemails. Despite his contempt for the woman, he had to admit it was compelling. Something in his rended heart mended when he saw the bombardment of harsh messages, those photos of her poor, delicate wrists strangled and bruised. 

Though she remained by no means vindicated in his eyes, it confirmed something deep within him. Maybe it was that James Walter had at least made some sort of first move, instigating conflict in such vile ways. Maybe he felt it was all he could do to break her spell. Maybe he was just an irredeemable son of a bitch. 

Either way, leaving him as quickly as it came, the detective’s bitterness evaporated, his arms aching to hold her. 

Closing arguments, like the openings, came and went in a blur. Before long, the jury left to congregate and come to a decision, giving the court some time to breathe and disperse. Doctor Angelos’ counsel arose, all aflutter as they chatted to surrounding people, some leaving. 

Marcus approached the plaintiff’s table, shaking the hands of the prosecuting party. 

"Good work, guys. How've you been, Johnson?" 

"Not bad, Chiang, not bad. Been a while since I seen you 'round these parts." 

Marcus smiled, his crow's feet and laugh lines instantly dispelling the grave seriousness that had occupied his disposition all day. 

"Yes, well, Chyron copyright pays me enough to afford the condo in Boca. Public defense, on the other hand, well." 

"You can say that again. Shame, though, you were awful good at it. Too bad nothin's changed." 

Marcus nodded politely, lips pressed into a thin line as he looked at both men. An awkward silence settled amongst them. Damon took the liberty of bailing himself out. 

"Uh, I'ma run, get me some food from the caf. Can I get you fellas anything?" 

"Thanks, think I'll just catch up with you in a minute," Detective Berman said as Damon turned to leave. He and Marcus, now alone together amid the throngs of people chattering, met eyes. 

"Detective…congratulations," Marcus said, stepping towards him and patting Detective Berman’s arm, voice low and waggish. The detective winced. "You really threw me for a loop there. You should’ve considered a career in litigation. I mean that."

Detective Berman gave him a dead-eyed stare. 

"I try to maintain the illusion of having some shred of dignity, Chiang."

"Hey, hey, we’re not out of the woods just yet.”

“Yeah, right. Judging by juror number six needing to wipe drool off his face, I'm sure it won’t be long." 

"Was it so obvious?" he asked with a smirk. "Boy. I'd be shocked if we mistrialed."

"Yeah, they ate it up. What, did you filter them for suggestibility or something?"

Marcus gave him a surprised smile.

"No idea what you mean. Anyway, Berman, it's not all bad. Your job is only to arrest and indict. By all counts, you've done your duty."

The detective squinted his eyes, taken aback. 

"Do you think I'm stupid?" 

Marcus chuckled, genuinely tickled. 

"No, no. Come, let's walk and talk. I could use a pick-me-up myself."

Begrudgingly, not wanting to make a scene and without much other choice, he accompanied the shorter man, navigating the weaving, sterile backhalls of the state courthouse. The two entered an empty elevator, finally truly alone. 

"Cafeteria's on the third floor, right?" Marcus asked, finger hovering over the button. 

"Man, fuck you," Detective Berman snapped suddenly. 

"I'll take that as a yes," he murmured, pressing the appropriate button with the knuckle of his index finger. The detective remained silent. The contraption heaved downward, eliciting in both men that familiar, stomach-lurching feeling of an elevator in motion. 

"I am sorry," Marcus continued. "It had to be done."

"The hell kind of answer is that?" 

"Come, now. There was more you could've used. For example, I was surprised to hear you completely omit my visit to you during your testimony."

"I called you, you rat.” 

“I didn’t get any calls from you. You didn’t let the record show that I was the one who snapped you out of your little spell.” 

“I couldn't well do that if I didn't know you were her lawyer!" he spluttered.

"Really? Why, I thought they told you these things…" Marcus said innocently, fingers tapping his cheek, elbow balanced in his other hand as he strode out of the elevator, the detective tailing him. Scents of food wafted in the air.

"Look, I expect curveballs, it's my whole business. But this…you don’t understand, this is going to ruin me. You know what happened. It's about more than just my career," Detective Berman insisted, in disbelief that he was spilling his actual feelings to the likes of this little wretch of a man. 

"Don't be so dramatic," Marcus muttered, his tone shifting from somewhat jeering to completely straightforward. Detective Berman’s eyes widened, irritated and incredulous. The two men navigated the bustling cafeteria, perusing the various salads and sandwiches--like most cafeteria offerings, not gourmet but perfectly serviceable. Marcus then spotted the coffee pots and opted to pour them both a cup. The detective quirked his brow, curious that his adversary had taken such a thing upon himself unasked. 

"I know it's a humiliating thing and all, seeing as you were so heavily involved. I think I'd even feel the same in your shoes. But really, nobody cared, you know. You have one of the most solid records in your department. Weird case, weird suspect, sure. But no more than another speck in your rearview before you know it. Always is. That's life. You're strong."

Detective Berman's nostrils flared. Marcus looked up and met eyes with him for the first time since they left the courtroom. 

"Really, I'm just…surprised you haven't realized it yet," he added. 

"Realized what?"

"The reason I came to you to begin with."

"Because…" the agitated detective started, trailing off with an exasperated sigh. He took a second to assemble his words. "Because it's obvious she got tired of using me and playing her little game. I was too much work. She sent you to get the ball rolling and get it over with. Big deal."

Marcus continued staring, his black eyes now creased, glinting with mischievous amusement, his lips unable to repress a small smile. 

"She's right, you know. You've really got to love yourself more."

He lidded the cup of coffee and handed it to the detective, who took it in surprise. Somehow, Marcus knew he liked it black. He supposed she was right about that, too.

“Have you reached a verdict?” 

The jury foreman stood tall in front of the reassembled courtroom, dazed and smiling.

“Yes, your Honor. On the count of obstruction of justice, the members of the jury find the defendant guilty.”

“And on the charge of murder?” 

“On the count of first degree murder, the members of the jury find the defendant…not guilty.” 

“Members of the Jury, the Court thanks you for a job well done. Doctor Angelos, that means you will be charged with obstruction of justice, that's six months community service with a fine of ten thousand dollars. If you'd like to appeal that ruling, you can discuss it with your counsel and file accordingly with the second circuit appellate court."

She smiled wide, eyes wet with joy. 

"Thank you. That won't be necessary, your honor."

"Case dismissed.” 

With the bang of the gavel, she’d done it. She’d won. James Walter, despite his actions in life, had lost, and because of the detective assigned to his case, to the rest of the world, his murder would forever go unsolved. The other charge felt like a joke in comparison.

The court began to disperse, Detective Berman spying her from across the room as she leapt up and embraced her counsel. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Probably Damon's. The detective crumpled a paper in his hand, his veins pulsating as he drew it into a fist, frustration evident in every line of his body. His stomach roiled, for the first time in his career facing abject failure; sheer incompetence on his part. All the work he’d put into this case, the sleepless nights, the nervous agony that had consumed him for weeks just dreading this very moment. 

In the end, none of it mattered. The mountain’s boulder came crashing down on him either way. She’d undermined his every move, deflected with ease, each accusation blithely, stupidly maneuvered with what seemed to be almost no effort on her part. And there she stood, victorious against all odds, walking out of court a free woman as the detective could do naught but nurse his wounds in solitude.

She turned her head behind her shoulder and looked directly at him. For a moment, the jubilance faded from her face. He looked away.

3:42 AM

Detective Berman pivoted from side to side in his office chair, glasses on his desk, hands resting in his lap, eyes puffy from fatigue and the few private, frustrated, heartbroken tears he'd allowed himself earlier. He'd shut all the lights, the room's sole illumination coming from the orange glow of the streetlamp below, spilling into his office between the slats of the blinds. 

He knew he ought to go home. He knew, too, that going home meant surrendering, acknowledging that the day was done. Nothing awaited him there but the finality of failure. 

The man was more than tired, more than miserable, more than despondent. He was wholly at a loss. In the past couple of months, his energy had gone mostly into that case. Now that it was over, he felt exhausted. Rudderless. 

It stung even more that, Marcus Chiang's smug, irritating attempts at reassurance notwithstanding, he’d been subject to the obligatory sympathy pats on the back and myriad consolations from his colleagues: that his objective ultimately laid in arrest, not conviction, that it was such a tricky case, such a tricky suspect, of course he couldn't win them all, the legal system failed sometimes, he'd done his best, and so on. 

But had he? He'd even gotten himself that raise, but the victory felt empty; pyrrhic. This case would now forever remain one of the few blemishes on his otherwise sterling record. That tiny, wretched gremlin, with those caustic eyes and that acid-spitting voice, had bewitched him, mind, body, and soul. She had used him; humiliated him. 

And now she was gone. 

Detective Berman yawned and numbly began packing away the Walter books into the white cardboard box on his desk. The last of his energy had been sucked dry with the cry he had allowed himself earlier. The pity party had to end some time.

Suddenly, he heard a rapping at his office door. He tensed, sensing glints of green he’d seen before. Through the pane, red exit lights poured, casting the silhouette of a figure he prayed he'd have the strength to ignore. 

Please, for the love of God. No more. 

His innards twisted, anger and fear mounting against his steeled instincts. He took a deep breath and dragged himself to the door, opening it and staring down at the figure in that black, oversized fur coat, sunglasses sitting pretty atop her head. 

“Hello, Pet,” she said through a smile. He did not return it, his face remaining fixed in a tired, underbit grimace. Her smile fell. 

Despite continued attempts to deprogram himself in the past few months, despite continued attempts to remain hurt and angry, everything came rushing back at the sound of her words. Rushes of calm and, to his shame, relief ran through him in tandem with anxious aggression, urges to throw her out intertwining with urges to dive straight into her arms, further muddying the waters of his mind. 

“How did you get in here?” he grumbled roughly, voice impersonal and irritated, as though he were speaking to an errant janitor found upside-down in the trash can rather than cleaning. Doctor Angelos recoiled slightly, never having heard him address her in such a way before. It was upsetting. It was disturbing. It was rather arousing.

“I have my ways.”

“I'm sure.”

“May I come in?"

He towered over her, arms crossed and face grim, looming ominously. She could not squeeze through. It did not appear as though he was going to let her. The only time she’d felt truly intimidated by this man was when they first met, when he began dropping hints of his suspicions. 

To her surprise, the second time was now. 

"You shouldn't be here," he muttered. Again, she was slightly taken aback. And further aroused. 

"Relax," she cooed. "You were just doing your job. I'm not here to hurt you."

"Tell it to the judge," he said coldly, eyes cast to the side. 

She frowned. "I am sorry, Michael," she said softly. Her voice, before its usual flavor of dancing and insincere, now rung true. A long, uncomfortable silence hung between them. 

"I am sure you are." 

"You know I had my reasons."

"I’d say, 'yeah, sure, like that’ll hold up in court', but it quite literally just did. So who knows anymore."

Another long silence. Part of her resented the remark, though she knew such resentment was unfounded. 

"I don't blame you for being angry."

"I bet."

"You look so tired."

He glared at her.

"Yeah. Of you," he grunted. She winced, taking her lumps in stride. 

"Please," she said softly, gently reaching her hand and gripping his bicep.

"Don't touch me." 

She didn't move. He felt an urge to shove her hand away. But for perhaps the same reason he sat back down into that chair in her office many moons ago, or ran his fingers along her silk negligee, or showed up on her porch all those nights, he didn’t. 

"I only want to talk."

He snorted. 

"That's rich. I'm sure James believed that, too. At least carbon monoxide is painless." 

"Stop it!" she snapped, glaring at him. "I hold myself fully accountable."

"Fully accountable? Tried for first-degree murder accountable? That’s great, let me just call the p--oh wait, we already did that, didn't we?" 

"For you," she hissed. "And for the others. I didn't like seeing two of my other patients get torn apart on the stand like that. And if you think for a second I wanted to go that route with James, you are sorely mistaken, because my hand was forced, it nee--" 

"Needed to be done!" he finished, mocking her. Her face reflexively twisted into defensive defiance, though it melted as he spoke; she once again had no ammunition to the contrary. "Yeah, always, with you. Just what needs to be done for you. Doesn't matter if it's a coupon or another man's life, if it's in Maria's way, it's got to go!"

Doctor Angelos let out a small sigh, her lower lip beginning to tremble. 

"Sorry. It’s…it’s hard for me," she said, voice uncharacteristically meek. He looked at her in disbelief--at how readily she admitted to it, at how utterly insane she was, and, in spite of it all, how oddly aware of it she seemed. 

"You see, though, most people start learning how to rein that in at like, age seven." 

"I know. I'm trying now. I just want to set the record straight, help undo at least some of the harm I've caused you. I know I've hurt you deeply."

"Yeah, well, I'm good," he said dryly. 

"I just want to help you rest better."

Annoyed disappointment overtook him. Though his trigger's power had diminished, like earlier that day, he was rudely reminded of his lingering susceptibility, a small groan escaping his throat as he fought and lost against the loosening of his muscles. His posture yielded from an imposing, ramrod straight to relaxed and leaning against the doorframe. He loured at her, shaking his head slightly. Almost inaudibly, he whispered. 

"Don’t…do that."

"I'm sorry. Force of habit. Please, just let me explain," she insisted, her hand still on his arm. She gently pushed him forward. To both their surprise he stumbled backwards slightly, allowing her to enter. 

“I asked you to lea--” 

"Aren't you glad this is all over?" she interrupted.

"The hell are you talking about?" 

“I don't know, I thought you'd be happier to put this behind us."

"Us?"

"Us," she repeated, making her way across the room and cheekily hoisting herself onto his desk. He scowled at her. He was supposed to be stopping her, throwing her out, but he merely wandered over to the window, hands balled into fists, gazing into the quiet, flickering streets below. 

"You didn’t tell them the whole story, Detective," Doctor Angelos said in mild sing-song. "You could've gotten me easily, you know.”

"No, I couldn't have. That jury was all yours. Wrapped around your little finger." 

A prideful smirk lit her face. 

"They were, weren't they? Those delicious blank stares. I could eat them up.” 

He shot her a look. She cleared her throat. 

"That aside, I--"

"I wasn't about to embarrass myself. Lead detective gets hypnotized into dropping a case and chasing its prime suspect like a lovesick puppy dog. That'll look good on my resumé."

"Not about to embarrass yourself? Fifteen years ago, a local rookie detective blew the cover on his captain covering up for a city councilman’s embezzlement. Risked not only his job but a total blacklisting. Sound familiar?" 

His eyes narrowed. That was the case that had both made and nearly destroyed him his first year on the job. He’d won mostly by sheer providence, having narrowly avoided dire consequences. Nobody mentioned it much these days; it was the stuff relegated to the occasional retelling to fresh blood on the force, and not much more.

"You went that far back, huh?" 

"Are you surprised?" Doctor Angelos asked, idly picking at a hangnail on her freshly-manicured thumb. He shook his head. "Ugh. I’ve got to go back to my old girl, Eunice. This one doesn’t know what she’s doing.” 

“What?” 

“Hm? Oh, nothing, just talking to myself. My point is, you didn't care about repercussions. You blew the whistle. You risked it all. Flouted every bookie in the city.”

“I almost forgot people put money on me,” he said, fighting a flood of amusement that threatened his stormy countenance. 

“It paid off for them, big time. And for you. You’re no stranger to risk when it comes to doing the right thing."

"I was just naïve, that's all. Going after those throats, I could’ve gotten iced, forget about losing my job. I was young, brash. Had less to lose then,” he said, eyes glued to the window. 

"Whatever you say. But your career is only what it is because you're the type of man that you are."

He said nothing. She pressed.

"What did you have to lose today, Michael, by telling the truth?" 

"I have pride, you know. Family. Friends. Colleagues. Nobody would've believed me."

"I doubt it. You pulled needless punches."

The detective’s brain was beginning to ache trying to comprehend what it was she was getting at. Nothing made sense with that woman. Frustrated, he made his way to her and dropped himself into his chair. Still perched atop his desk, she smoothly pivoted to face him. 

“Why,” he started, completely devoid of emotion, “can’t you just go back to your…accursed little practice…and the rest of your toys…and leave me alone. You won. Just take it and go.”

“My license is suspended until further review, you know,” she responded bluntly. “And I was forced to resign from several board positions--”

“--positions you stole--” he said, talking over her. 

“--and my reputation will need time to recover. Many of my clients have left. And if you found my other playthings bothersome, they’re all gone, too.” 

"Good riddance. For their sakes."

“Do you think this has been easy for me?”

"It doesn't matter! Your plan worked," he snapped. His tone grew more passionate, blood rushing to his face. "You killed a man, you brainwashed the investigating detective--yours truly!--until exactly the point in time at which you no longer needed him, dropped him, and got away with it. I have to deal with it, and now that you’re finally rid of me, you’re here again for…what the hell is this, some sort of sick victory lap?"

“Don’t say things out of anger,” she said quietly.

“What I’m s--I am angry, but what I’m saying now is not out of anger, it’s a genuine question--what the hell do you even want from me?”

Light eyes met dark. Her hand reached forward and lightly touched his stubbled face. His eyes darted towards it, but again he did not shy away.

“Really, for a detective, I thought you would've figured it out by now.” 

She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

“Why are you…” he said in shock, frozen, trying to remain assertive. She met his eyes, her face only inches from his. 

“I love you.” 

His expression of shock slowly morphed into tortured incredulousness. A dry, humorless laugh escaped his throat. He shook his head. 

“I do,” she repeated. 

“No. Nuh-uh. Not that. Don’t do that,” he said. 

“I would never say that if I didn’t mean it.” 

His breath quickened.

“Don’t do that!” he growled, eyes aflame, slamming his hand against his desk. She recoiled. His ears rung, blood pumping. To both their shock, Doctor Angelos’ chin reflexively crinkled, her eyes blinking back tears. She very seldom cried, but he’d never yelled at her. She wasn’t sure she’d ever heard him yell like that, period. 

Part of him instantly regretted yelling--both from losing his head, and from having to see her reaction. 

“Aww. Come on, that’s low even for you. What, you’re gonna cry now?"

"Stop."

"Where’s the jury when you need ‘em. Got a tissue, your honor?” Detective Berman rasped, features mocking hers. 

Her eyes glistened with tears. Absorbing her genuinely wounded expression, his jeering subsided. 

“I-I had to win, because--” 

“Because you always have to win.”

“Because I couldn't bear losing you,” she said sharply, trying and failing to conceal a sniffle. 

Throat dry, he swallowed, staring at her. The words rang in his head. She continued.

“You don't understand. It took so much constant, heavy conditioning to keep your mind away from the case. You were hot on my trail, and I never put that much work and care into anyone before, and I wasn't even sure it was going to work, and…I couldn’t take the stress anymore, not even with the risk of being convicted, and why on Earth would I do such a thing if not because…” 

She trailed off, helping herself to a tissue from the box on his desk and blowing her nose. Her voice had taken on that particularly dangerous, dulcet tone that had gotten the detective into so much trouble in the past year, but now in a flavor completely novel, newly raw and vulnerable and fragile. His body vibrated with arousal and anxiety, the temptation to throw his hands over his ears in self-defense mounting. 

“Because I love you. And I think you love me, too. The way you respond to me even now, protected our relationship at the trial even though I know you wouldn’t have otherwise, not if it meant winning that case. Look at me. I’m a loser, Michael. Pathetic. I have practically nobody. Few relatives, no partner, no children. I hardly have friends--tons of acquaintances, colleagues, sure--but so few friends. All I have is what I’ve built, myself alone. And for one man, one detestable creature, to try and take it all away from me in one fell swoop--"

“Sure. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. You were just ‘girlbossing’,” he said airily, his fingers giving the latter term its appropriate air quotes. 

“I resent that.” 

“Look, honey, lots of lonely, pitiable people roam this Earth without ending a man’s life. Like me, for example,” he said, his weary face wearing a weak, sardonic grin. With mounting exhaustion piling upon his shoulders, he allowed himself to lean back into his chair. He felt something brushing up against him. Was that her calf? He glanced down.

It was. Her legs were crossed coquettishly as she rubbed her bare calf against his exposed forearm, her pedicured feet clad in sensible black wedge sandals. 

“I said not to touch me,” he repeated, looking away as he moved his hands into a folded position atop his stomach. 

“Sorry,” she said, removing her leg. Her eyes scanned the landscape of his desk. "Where's that cube I got you?" 

"I got rid of it," he said coolly.

"You got rid of it."

He nodded. They locked eyes. In the heat of her intense gaze, backlit by that orange streetlight, he recalled all too well its acute dangers. His breath quickened. 

"I don't believe you," she said, voice deep.

"Why would I keep it?" he said, a hair too quickly.

Her eyes widened, searing gaze intensifying, burning him. In his peripheral vision, he spotted her hand roaming the facades of his desk drawers. She leaned down, eyes still fixed on his, hand brushing past the second drawer from the bottom when she spied the most minute twitch of his eye. 

"Don't--" 

With a smirk, she ripped it open and rifled through it, indeed finding a small, neglected black cube collecting dust inside. She leaned over, her slender, nimble fingers cradling it and placing it on the desk, the drawer deftly shut with a pop of her leg. He sighed. She placed the cube back on the desk and toyed with it, his eyes still fixed on hers. 

She gave it a spin. Before he could even think of helping himself, his enervated gaze dragged towards it. His eyes, dry and bloodshot, reflected the whirling cube as he reflected, memories like strips of film whirred through his mind. 

Some time passed before he spoke. 

“You made my life hell.” 

“Only because I'd made it heaven.”

“...Shut up,” he grumbled, annoyed at his lack of rebuttal. 

The two sat in tense silence. 

“Do you remember when we were in that supermarket, you looked me in the eye and said I was good?” she asked. His forehead wrinkled in thought. 

“Don't think so,” he said truthfully. “I was who-knows-where that night. The moon. All I remember is you buying me crunchy peanut butter, making me take a sick day, jerking o--goddamn it.”

“Forget about that. You pointed straight at my heart and said that you saw good in me, and, well, I don't know, something in me broke! I began to really care about you. I mean, if you’re not going to do it, someone has to.”

Doctor Angelos reached out and placed a tender hand on his shoulder. She began kneading, applying firm pressure, hand climbing to his neck and gently caressing his ear, then running her fingers through his hair. He exhaled, a swell of warmth coursing through him as he forced his eyes open. 

Some self-defense covering his ears would've been. This creature could've seduced Hellen Keller. 

“Look at you, killing yourself at this hour,” she continued, voice lower. “Working yourself to the bone. Begging for a nice, long rest.” 

“I said not to…don’t touch me…” he uttered quietly, that epithet worming its way into his brain once again as her hand continued its assault. He made no effort to remove it. 

“I’m sorry. You’re right. Force of habit," she said, withdrawing her witching hand. "But I meant what I said.” 

“...Just not sure it matters to me anymore,” he mumbled after a moment, the edge in his voice finally crumbling away. 

“Do you think I’m good, Michael?” she asked abruptly, spinning the cube again. 

“You’re really asking me this after your…murder trial?” he uttered in disbelief. Her green eyes stared at him, big and imploring, for a moment disarming him. 

“I don’t know,” he continued softly, mostly to himself. “I don’t know anything right now.”

“You know you love me,” she whispered, unable to keep herself from combing her hand through his tangled hair, her fingertips grazing his scalp as his skin broke out in goosebumps. “Don’t you?”

“…Maybe I did, at some point. Now…is not the time to be asking me that.” 

“Clearly you care for me.”

“I just can’t think straight now. I think it’d be best if you left.”

“I don't believe you do. I think you would’ve thrown me out by now otherwise.”

“If you think I can’t pick you up and haul you out that door--”

“Oh, I know you can. And honestly, that would be pretty sexy, don’t you think? The old fashioned way, wrapping your big, manly arms around me, hoisting me over your shoulder and all. But you won't. You're allowing me here. Part of you knew all along.” 

“Yeah? Knew you'd get your toady Marcus to prod me awake, worm your way out of whatever we had? God knows what you’d call it.”

“Oh, Marcus is good, isn’t he? He’s a very old friend of mine, very gifted hypnotist, a total natural. We actually met in med school, he even taught me some of what I know. It was too stressful for him, he couldn’t hack all the memorization, so he went to--go figure--law school, right--”

“Get to the point,” he insisted quietly. 

“The point is…I can’t believe I have to spell this out for you,” she murmured, “but I guess in matters of our own love even the sharpest of us can be blind. I purposefully set this trial in motion for two reasons. One reason was because I felt I could win. The other was so that we could be together.” 

His eyes widened, throat and stomach tightening.

"The hell makes you think I'd want to be with you after what you did?" 

“Because you love me."

"I never said that." 

"You didn’t have to.” 

Her calf once again met his arm. This time, he did not shy away. She continued.

“For the record, I felt no good about having done it.”

“What, using me?” 

“The murder. But yes, that too. I really didn’t intend on you being my stepping stone. I do everything with intention, Michael, you just threw me for a loop. You know as well as I do how awful a misstep that is. Who falls in love with a stepping stone?”

“Yeah. Exactly.” 

“Well, this lady, apparently. I know I can’t just flounce back into your arms and expect someone so much better than I to forgive me, but…” she trailed off. He sighed, his voice calmer. 

“It’s just despicable, Maria. It is. The whole thing.”

“Ultimately. But I did have my reasons.” 

“Can’t you just admit to something without drowning it in justifications?”

She hesitated. 

“...Of course,” she said, voice small and sheepish. The man seated in front of her was the only judge in front of whom she felt any measure of compunction. “Of course what I did was horrible.”

“Heinous.” 

“But it is kind of hard to be sorry about it, because the truth is that it led me to you. And I want you. More than I think I've wanted anything, really. Free and clear. Plain and simple.” 

He looked away.

“Bull,” he croaked, his lips falling into a tired pout. “Nothing but a stepping stone. And after everything…I’m not that desperate, you know.”

“Come on. Don’t you get it?” she said softly, now rubbing his shoulder. He hated that it felt so good. “I want to be better for you. I never even knew what that was like until you dropped that anvil on my head.  You’ve made me realize what that means, why it’s important. Seeing you, the way you are. I suppose you inspire me. I suppose I need that.”

Despite himself, a flush rose to his face. His heart began to race. Her hand, soft and pale, took his cheek again, carressing it gently. His eyes remained glued to the cube as it spun. A shiver of pleasure went down his spine. He shook his head at his own weakness. 

She was still talking, her voice flowing through him, his body loosening, slowly leaning forward again, just like earlier that day during her testimony. That familiar warmth had already begun coursing through him, and really, it was hardly any easier to fight. Despite himself, he welcomed that gentle, lilting voice, secretly eager to let it coax him once more; his eyes, exhausted by such a taxing day, so grateful to let go and flutter closed. She continued talking, which he knew, really knew was so dangerous. 

“My head hurts,” he said quietly, voice smaller than intended. 

“I know, baby. Come here. Poor thing.”

His heavy eyes cracked open again, still affixed to the spinning cube. It felt sublime to allow his eyes to just blurrily behold it, to allow his mind to switch off and simply embrace her words. This was familiar territory to him, of course, but its familiarity only served to draw him down even further. Her hands kept running through his hair, and he felt so leaden, so relaxed, so comforted by her presence, that the sheer ecstasy of letting go kept him from doing much else. He felt his lax lips move, his throat vibrating. 

“…Don’t…” he protested weakly. 

“Don’t what?” she asked, amused.

A darkness enrobed him from which he knew he'd find it impossible to emerge, and it wasn’t long before he found himself with his head led firmly into her lap. Her words and touch coaxed his mind further, blanker and softer with each moment that passed.

“Don’t…” he repeated. She shushed him gently and placed a single red-painted fingertip over his lips. Feeling his faculties slipping, he fought the urge to kiss it, or wrap his lips around it, or something. Before his mouth could decide, she withdrew it and began shifting about, shaking off that lustrous coat. 

With effort, he lifted his heavy head to see the body he’d so sorely missed underneath, naked and shimmering with an emerging sheen of sweat. His pleading eyes drank her in once more, reminding him acutely of her ability to tap into whatever it was that laid deep inside of him, the thing he’d been fighting since the day they met. Like a moth to flame, the aura of control that radiated from her lured him in every time without fail, every rational thought in his mind overwhelmed, buried by her sheer force of will.

“I’m good. Allow me to prove it to you.”

Stunned and perplexed, his mouth hung open, unable to take his eyes off her. It was late spring, after all, and a warm evening it had been. No wonder she'd slithered into his office naked underneath that coat. 

“Weren’t you hot?” 

“Oh, yes. Veerry hot…” she said coyly, toying with her supple breasts.

“Very hot…” he breathed, fully captivated by her palms sinking into her own soft flesh, fingers grasping her nipples, a strained sound escaping from his throat upon hearing her moan. She carefully eased herself off of his desk and into his lap; once again betrayed by his own body, the detective held her as she steadied herself. 

It felt wonderful just to hold her again. Their eyes met, and though he could remember that he was so hesitant, so distrusting, so hostile toward her not too long ago, it now all seemed of questionable importance. And when those shining green eyes slowly moved closer, her soft lips meeting his for the first time in so long, his rigid, nervous body finally relaxing and melting into her embrace, he realized where the matters of true import laid.  

Of course, things that are important tend to move with urgency. Their reunifying kisses began as little hellos, gentle and chaste, but as the pair returned to their regularly scheduled programming, the heat intensified exponentially. Their breaths quickened, hands running through hair, sweat accumulating on bare skin. The detective felt a sharp tug on his already-unbuttoned shirt collar, imploring him to sink to the floor with her. Acquiescing without hesitation, the two animals launched onto the rug underneath his desk, their exchanges growing hotter, wetter, more frantic. 

On top of him, she trailed kisses along his jawline. Her lips met his earlobe, eliciting a low moan from him as his teeth, of a mind possessed, dove into her neck, nipping her skin and eliciting a soft yelp. He continued his journey southward down her chest to those luscious breasts, wrapping his lips around her nipple. She yelped louder. Quickly, his lips crashed onto hers with abandon, tongues brushing up eagerly against the other.  

He pulled back just an inch.

“Quiet, gotta be quiet,” he whispered into her, short of breath. “People downstairs.” 

Hungrily, she nodded, fully undoing his shirt as she ground against him, desperate. She always considered such helplessness highly attractive in her subjects, but hideous on her. Yet to her shock, she found herself growing increasingly unqualified to make such judgements as her own mind faded, growing blanker with a fresh, overpowering sort of arousal never before felt. 

Fueled by her clear desperation, he undid his pants with a speed typically reserved for a precariously full bladder and unsheathed a cock nearly purple. Protection occurred to neither of them. She leaned down and teased his head, already glistening wet, with her breasts, also glistening wet. He released a shuddery gasp. 

"Oh my God," he mouthed, unable to say much else as her soft, plush breasts melded against his hot, pulsing hardness. He grabbed her shoulders roughly and they met lips once more, his hand fondling her thigh and making its way to her already-sopping lips. He slipped a single digit inside and elicited a moan, her face nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

“Michael…” 

That was it. That was what did it. He couldn’t quite tell what or when or how--perhaps the breathy neediness in her voice, or her trembling body, or how small she felt in his arms, somehow smaller than he remembered--but something inside of his brain snapped, or activated, or whatever, because the next time their eyes met, for some reason hers were filled with terror. 

He licked his lips. 

With gusto, Detective Berman wrapped his arms around Doctor Angelos' waist and flipped them both over, pinning her underneath him. She gasped. This had never happened before. 

"What are you doing?" 

The man merely grunted, the complex, intelligent human in his brain bound and gagged for the time being. He yanked her wrists and pinned them down on either side of her; with his knee, he forced her legs open. He leaned down and kissed her, his always-gentle lips now forceful, relentless, and possessive. They moved downwards towards the spot where her neck met her collarbone, a spot he knew well she found particularly sensitive, and he went to work. Her cries grew louder. 

"Quiet!" he barked, slapping a meaty hand over her mouth. Her eyes widened again, mouth now unable to respond. Feeling his solid cock pressing against her inner thigh, looming before making its entrance, she felt herself grow helplessly and embarrassingly wet. 

“You only came here because you can't resist me," he uttered, partially removing his gagging hand from her mouth. "Isn't that right?”

A bit thrown for a loop, she looked at him. And rather unlike her, before she could choose the words, they came out of her.

“Can’t…resist you…” 

“You want me.”

“Want you.” 

“Need me,” he growled, only inches away from her, eyes wild. 

“Need you,” she whimpered. 

“That's right,” he grunted. He grabbed her by the hips and plunged into her roughly, her legs instinctively wrapping around his back. The suddenness of it elicited a cry from her and a guttural noise of satisfaction from him. Her head jerked back, only driving his lips to latch onto hers harder, hungrier. He thrust, slowly at first, then gaining speed, filling her relentlessly, pushing deeper and faster with each successive motion until she writhed beneath him, panting from exertion and pleasure alike. She laid there, pinned underneath the man she thought under her influence, unable to help but let those cries grow louder as she neared the precipice. 

Suddenly, while she shook in his grip, he removed himself with a sigh of what sounded like frustration. A brief moment of confusion befell her before her open, panting mouth was forcefully filled with his dripping cock. 

Someone had to keep this woman quiet. 

Stunned by this turn of events, she froze as he thrust into her mouth for what felt like an eternity, at some points gagging her. He grinned reflexively, somewhere in his deep hindbrain deriving intense pleasure from seeing her in such a position, choking on him after putting him through such hell. 

“You've been bad,” he grunted breathlessly. “Very, very bad.”

Mouth a bit full at the moment, she could only hum affirmatively in response.

“That makes me sad. Don’t you wanna be a good girl for me?”

She hummed an enthusiastic yes.

“You do want to atone, don’t you?”

Another hum yes. 

“Beautiful. Beautiful, wonderful, brainless girl. Atone for me. Drop.” 

Abruptly, utterly out of her control, stolen from her, she came, muscles tensing, waves of orgasms firing through her core. She dropped, hard. The floor opened from underneath her, her eyes rolling, head lolling against his thigh as she sucked lazily on his swollen shaft. She had been floating in those rapturous bounds of pleasure for so long, her mouth filled with his cock, that she hardly registered her own body, let alone where she was or what she was doing. She was merely adrift, their juices commingling in her mouth with each thrust. She was exactly where she needed to be. 

Normally, he would've finished ages ago, but some odd, superhuman force had kept him pumping mechanically. Moaning, she seemed to understand, the vibrations of which drove him further towards the edge. He groaned loudly, unable to restrain himself, and shotgunned his seed straight down her throat. She swallowed dutifully. 

Swooning and out of breath, the man fell down next to her, both of them panting, brains soup as they laid on the floor in his office. The air stank of sweat, sex, and her perfume. Outside, the sky was no longer black but indigo. Birds chirped. Everything felt heavy. Everything felt right. 

Her vacant eyes cracked open, drinking in the man next to her, head propped up by his elbow and staring at her. His free hand moved to her cheek, cupping it gently in a tender gesture. He pushed a few strands of tangled hair behind her ear and stroked her neck lightly. Hardly able to string a thought together, a slight smile found its way to her lips. He mirrored it.

“I kinda wanna just take you home like this, but the guys at the front desk’ll prob’ly gimme a hard time. We'll go on out the back. You wanna come with me, don’t you?” 

She nodded.

“Good girl. Then we’ll go. In a bit, though. For now, it’s time to drop.”

Everything went dark.

Some Months Later

The afternoon was sunny and warm. A lawn mower sounded in the distance. Cardboard boxes, though not terribly many of them, littered the dusty living room. 

“Last one, coming in.” 

“You really don’t have much, do you.”

“You know me, I’m not big on things,” Michael said, setting the final box down from the moving truck outside. "But I think what few tchotchkes I do have will fit right in."

“Oh yeah?” Maria said with a grin, arms crossed. “Let's see ‘em.”

Michael lifted a box of his objet d’arts and carefully rifled around inside, newsprint and glass rustling and clinking together. He retrieved a small, handblown glass vase, its opening artfully uneven, stained blood orange and veined with ribbons of warm yellow. Her brows raised. 

“Chihuly?” 

He grinned. 

“Chihuahua, more like. Courtesy of the Iron District Mexican flea market. Open every weekend, rain or shine.” 

“Hey. Almost as good.” 

He placed it atop the dining room sideboard, right alongside a lurid impressionist painting, and right below a large window streaming in sunlight. He retrieved another two objects and placed them next to each other. One was the spinning cube, the other a new item made of crystal. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen that one before.”

“You have not. That, my dear, is a gift. To you.” 

“Ah!” she said, delighted. “Thank you. But you’re the one moving in with me. I should be getting you a gift.”

“Trust me, you will. For now, I just want you to admire it.” 

She gave him a quizzical look but obliged and more closely observed the crystal sculpture. It was a dolphin; cute, bright turquoise, small enough to fit in her hand, perched atop a navy blue wave. 

“From Garnier’s, hand-carved. Have you ever been?” he asked. 

Maria only stared. The longer she stared, the more she noticed. The more she noticed, the longer she stared. The crystal was highly faceted, beneath it a small light that scattered and refracted with prismatic brilliance. Dolphins were her favorite animal, and this creature had a special quality to it, seemed to almost breathe, audibly splashing in its wave, glittering with droplets of shining water. Her hand reached out automatically and allowed her fingers to run along it, from its dorsal fin to the gentle curvature of its tail. 

“...said it would be good for that.” He stopped his spiel, himself admiring her adorable, entranced expression-- her half-lidded eyes sparkled as much as her gift did, her lips slightly parted. 

As he came to discover, the master hypnotist was, too, a master subject. 

“You seem to really like it, huh?” 

“Huh?” she startled. “Sorry.” 

“I said, you seem to really like it,” Michael said with an endeared grin. 

“Oh, I love it,” she said, voice somewhat faraway but nonetheless content. “Very high quality crystal. Beautiful thing. How’d you know dolphins are my favorite?” 

“Just went on a hunch. They pay me to do that, you know. By they, I mean everyone. Including you. Tax dollars and such...”

Michael spoke and Maria nodded, at the moment less interested in talking and more interested in staring and listening. She’d come to enjoy those things as of late. Sure, her partner still did his fair share, but she’d gone from doing it never to doing it quite a lot, and she’d come to enjoy it. With him, something about it felt good. Safe. Right.

Maria felt her eyelids grow heavy. Her gift became a sparkly blue blur. The deep voice next to her spoke softly in its familiar, soothing tones. A strong arm encircled her waist. 

And she allowed herself to drop.