Vigilare (24 page)

Mr. McVain chuckles. “Sex,” he says astutely, causing Tony’s ears to perk up in the back of the courtroom. “Biologically, sexual intercourse engages both the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems. Are you proposing, exposure to Ms. DeLuca’s blood to external oxygen during sexual intercourse would also cause her to transform into this
Vigilare?
”

“Objection,” Aubrey calls.

“Whew, I feel sorry for that guy. He won’t know what hit him!” Mr. McVain causes a few giggles among the courtroom.

“Order,” Judge Carter lightly taps her gavel, muffling the crowd. “Sustained. Move along, Counselor.”

“Seriously,” Mr. McVain quips, eyeing Dr. Godfrey. “Do you hear yourself ?”

Dr. Godfrey nods. “It’s a new concept. There will be difficulty understanding it. Full comprehension may take years.”

“Either it is, or it isn’t, Dr. Godfrey. You sound as though you’ve been taking lessons from Ms. DeLuca.” He throws an arm out in her direction. “She doesn’t know. She cannot recall. Now, you’re backpedaling, theorizing, speculating.” He taps his hand down on the witness railing. “Do you believe murder is inhumane, Dr. Godfrey?”

“Murder is inhumane, yes. Self-defense,” he begins to explain.

Mr. McVain cuts him off, “But to test Ms. DeLuca, to force her transformation from dutiful detective to murderous Vigilare would be inhumane?”

“There was no reason to force,” Dr. Godfrey begins again.

“Or is it possible there is, in fact, nothing to transform?” Mr. McVain interrupts. “All of your theories and speculations are just that. No proof.” He circles the floor in front of the witness stand. “If I were a Vigilare, I would do whatever I had to do to prove I was such. Ms. DeLuca has failed to do so. You and your team of doctors failed to do so. You say her
talent
will be wasted in jail. If it’s so unique, so extraordinary, why not show it off, display it for all to see? If she is such a hero, why are you so afraid of what she may do when transformed.” He stops circling, the perfected condescending look making its way across his face. “If this were a game of cards, I would be calling ‘bullshit.’”

“Objection,” Aubrey advocates.

“Sustained. Take care with your language, Mr. McVain,” Judge Carter directs.

Mr. McVain nods, tightening his tie. Even though stricken from the record, his point has been made.

“Are you a Christian, Mr. McVain?” Dr. Godfrey asks.

Mr. McVain smiles. “Yes, even though I cannot see Jesus, I still believe in him,” he answers, plowing through Dr. Godfrey’s suggestion before heading right back on track with his own agenda. “There’s another loophole in your testimony,
Doctor
. What occurs before the attacks, before Ms. DeLuca’s blood is exposed to external oxygen? How does she just so happen to be in the same vicinity as these men? If she becomes the Vigilare only when her blood is exposed, and,” he chuckles, continuing, “the appropriate stimuli for engagement of the sympathetic nervous system is present...and the clock strikes one...and the moon is three-quarters full. How does she find these men, in such precarious circumstances?”

“Why don’t you tell me, Mr. McVain,” Dr. Godfrey replies, his usually happy round face has grown taught and pressing. He peers down over the tops of his bifocals, authoritatively. “You seem to have all the answers, and are quick to ridicule any given to you with which you disagree.”

Mr. McVain says nothing, his arms folded over his chest.

“I realize all the pieces don’t quite fit…yet. There are many unanswered questions.” Dr. Godfrey leans forward, his arm perched upon the witness railing. “The way to find out such answers is to work with her in a controlled setting, facilitating her memory and abilities, not locking her up in some jail cell.”

Mr. McVain taps his chin with his index finger, contemplating. “If she’s so capable, a true Vigilare, how could a jail cell contain her?”

“Lock her up, and I guess we’ll find out,” Dr. Godfrey replies, his attention shifting to the jury.

“You know a little something about being locked up, don’t you?” Mr. McVain quips.

Dr. Godfrey sits back in his chair, preparing for what’s to come.

“1968. Your freshman year of college was the first time. Wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Dr. Godfrey answers solemnly.

“Delusional. Paranoid Schizophrenia. Electroconvulsive Therapy. Psychiatric Ward. Ring any bells, Dr. Godfrey?” Mr. McVain reads from a medical record.

“Objection,” Aubrey calls. “My witness’ medical record is not pertinent to this case.”

“Your Honor, I am not attempting to defame Dr. Godfrey, simply establishing a questionable pattern,” Mr. McVain pleads.

“Overruled,” Judge Carter decides. “Tread lightly, Mr. McVain.”

He nods, turning back to Dr. Godfrey. “And again, in your graduate studies. Once, early in your career. And, just five-years ago, another episode. Correct?”

“Relapses are common,” Dr. Godfrey says.

“I understand,” Mr. McVain makes an attempt with empathy. “However, you see where it may be difficult to take your testimony to heart, considering your past with paranoia and delusional episodes? Particularly of the supernatural kind.” He flips through the medical records. “You once thought you witnessed an alien attempting to take your blood. On another account, you reported a descendant of the ancient astronauts attempted to implant a chip into your person. And again...”

“You’ve made your point,” Dr. Godfrey interrupts. “The difference between those episodes and my testimony is that I am not currently relapsing, nor have I in five years. At the time, due to my paranoia and delusion, I believed those things to be true. However, once in my healthy frame of mind, I could identify those things as untruths...delusions.” He scrunches up his nose, pulling his glasses further to its bridge, looking through them. “Why don’t you pull my current medical records. You will find my illness has been successfully micromanaged by my own initiative in collaboration with my doctors. Therefore, your point is invalid, unless you are saying mental illness indefinitely makes one incompetent.”

“I would never insinuate such,” Mr. McVain grabs at his chest, as if he is fully apologetic.

“Some of the greatest minds of our time fought mental illness. Einstein, Newton, Nash. If directed appropriately, mental illness has been shown to exude creativity, genius.” Dr. Godfrey smiles. “Something you’ll never have to worry yourself with, Mr. McVain.”

“No further questions, Your Honor,” Mr. McVain dismisses, returning to his seat at the prosecution table.

“Your last witness, Ms. Raines,” Judge Carter requests, with a happy gleam in her eye.

Chapter 17

“DEFENSE CALLS EMILY Truly to the stand.”

Emily Truly, the daughter of ex-Navy Seal, William Truly, makes her way to the stand. Slightly above average height, she displays an exotic beauty, dark hair and skin, accompanied by Elizabeth Taylor-esque violet eyes. She carries herself with a quiet confidence. Her facial expression is unwavering, hard and intent.

Aubrey extends to her a soft smile. Emily does not return the gesture. “Miss Truly, could you tell the court what you do for a living?”

“I’m a martial arts instructor. I specialize in self-defense for women.”

“How long have you done so?”

“Three years.”

“What piqued your interest in martial arts?” Aubrey leads.

“My own experience with rape.”

Aubrey waits patiently, her hands folded and hanging at hip level.

Emily Truly sits tall and proud, her posture immaculate, her chin jutting out, the action somewhere between confidence and defiance. “I got tired of feeling like a victim. Action, anger, empowerment...all more comfortable to me than weakness and vulnerability.” She looks down at her lap momentarily, returning her fierce gaze to the back wall of the courtroom. “I was raped in an alleyway three years ago. I was a kid, nineteen. Sophomore year of college. I was fulfilling credits for my Humanities curriculum. Neighborhood cleanup project. MLK was my assigned area. It was Sunday evening, my last day. There was this guy...man, from the neighborhood. He seemed like a decent guy. He helped me the day before, carry my oversized trash bags to the dumpster. He didn’t hurt me then. So, when he came out Sunday to help me carry the bags to the dumpster, I assumed it wouldn’t hurt to let him help me.” She pauses, wetting her palate with the glass of water provided to the side of the witness stand, her eyes returning to the back wall of the courtroom, uninterrupted. “We started down the alleyway with hands full of trash bags. It’s quite dark at this point. The sun almost set. He walked behind me. I looked back at him and something felt wrong. In the pit of my stomach. The way he looked at me in that moment. It wasn’t right, and I knew it instinctively. But I buried the feeling, pushing the thought from my mind, afraid I was simply being paranoid. I smiled at him to ease my own anxiety.” She shakes her head, her mouth turning into a condemning smile. “I was so naive. Stupid.”

Her eyes fall to her father, William Truly. He looks at her with love and understanding. She gives him a genuine smile before gathering herself to continue. Her eyes refocused on the imaginary X at the back of the room. “With the last bag of trash loaded into the dumpster, he tried to kiss me. When I pushed him away, that
decent guy
,” she chokes out, disdainfully, “grabbed me by my hair and repeatedly slammed my face into the side of the dumpster until I couldn’t even stand up on my own. He dragged me to the back side of the green metal box, threw me down on the concrete, covered in garbage and sludge. Symbolism that I was no better than yesterday’s leftovers, trash. He had a knife. He cut my shirt open, along with my bra, which he so cleverly used to tie my hands behind my back,” she spews with a smirk. “It was then that I knew he had done this before. He went through the motions as if it was as common to him as his day job. Every time I would attempt to yell out or fight back, he would kick me into the dumpster. The impact robbing me of my strength, my breath. Until he had me on my stomach on the ground, my face bleeding and mashed into the concrete, my arms behind my back, my pants down around my ankles, my knees painfully bent underneath me.” Her jaw clenches as she holds back hurt and rage. “If all of that wasn’t enough, he held a knife to my throat, the sharp edge cutting into my flesh with every thrust of his body.” She pulls her hair back from the right side of her neck, displaying a light, white scar indicative of such injury. “My pleas, my tears, my pain meant nothing to him. Surely a monster.” Her eyes meet Mr. McVain’s. “And you defend them? Call them victims? Insist someone should pay for taking their lives?”

He quickly diverts his gaze from hers.

“I lay there in that alleyway, behind the dumpster, reeking of stench, and all I could think was,
please don’t let my father find me like this
.” Tears fall from her eyes as she quickly wipes them away. William Truly’s reaction mimics hers. “I wanted to die. It would’ve been easier if he would have killed me. Instead, I was forced to live with the memory every day.” She slams her hand down onto the railing, causing already tensed bodies within the courtroom to react, startled and jumpy. “Sick fucks!”

“Ms. Truly,” Judge Carter calls to her, quietly but firmly.

Emily eyes her defiantly, wondering if she would be so reprimanding if the same happened to her daughter. Aubrey interjects, attempting to pull her back on subject, “You find martial arts helpful in your healing?”

“Before my soul was ravaged from my body, my heart shattered into a million little pieces, I was a good girl. Kind, sweet, believing in humanity. I actually thought people were good and decent.” She chuckles at herself, reprimandingly. “After I was raped, I became weepy, needy, a shell of my former self, scared and damaged. I didn’t leave my home for months. My father had to retire to stay with me, take care of me. I locked myself up in my bedroom for days at a time, while I sat in the corner shaking and crying, wondering what I had done to deserve to be raped, my body mutilated. I didn’t go back to college. Even the locks on my doors couldn’t keep out the nightmares, the constant movie in my head, replaying my raping, over and over and over again. These pigs get tried and sent away for one offense, the single act of rape. My attacker didn’t rape me only once. He raped me at least a thousand times in my mind and in my soul.” She shifts her weight in the chair, still maintaining strict posture, a rock. Lifting her arms simultaneously, she shows the interior of her wrists to the jury. Both wrists displaying scars from one side to the other. “I hated myself...for allowing him to rape me, for being so pathetic, for being so scared. I hated myself for the way my father looked at me. The pain and the pity in his eyes almost too much to bear. I hated myself because I did not have the courage to testify against my attacker. He got a lighter sentence because I was too scared to look him in the eye and testify about what he had done to me. I was a coward. I did not want to live.” She pulls her arms down into her lap, looking at her scars. “It felt so good mashing the blades into my wrists, bearing down and pulling them from one side to the other. I felt deserving of such pain.”

The courtroom silence is deafening.

Her mind taking her back to that point in time, she stares blankly at the interior of her arms at their juncture with her hands. “My dad saved me,” she says, looking up at him, tears welling in her eyes. She clears her throat, continuing, “He got me the help I needed. I was in therapy for months, attended support groups with other survivors of sexual assault and rape, then came martial arts.” She smiles, genuinely this time. “Finally, something that made sense to me. I could kick, punch and slap an object, or a sparring partner, to relieve my frustrations. I became very well acquainted with anger. Learned how to express it, ultimately gaining control of it. I did not like being a victim, and I didn’t have to be anymore. And in light of that, I could help other women prepare for their own defense. It’s going to happen, rape. The numbers are staggering. One in seven women will be raped in her lifetime. One in ten men will be raped in his lifetime. Look around this courtroom. Do the math.”