My legal aid lawyer mutters something at me. A moment later, we’re instructed to be standing, and the judge settles himself into his box before telling us all to sit.
The moment I do, my eyes again search for Nadia. She has a woman sitting next to her whose concerned features suggest she’s a victim support officer or friend. She lays a hand on Nadia’s wrist and gets shaken off, so my money’s on VSO.
I wait patiently, listening to the court officers and lawyers describe the charges and highlight the information already provided to the judge to aid in his sentencing. Once again, I didn’t bother to fight. With so much evidence against me, it would have been a wasted effort, so better to take the sentencing discount for pleading guilty early.
Now, as they run through the pantomime of justice, all I care about is contacting Nadia. Contact she seems just as keen to avoid.
“Your honour,” the crown prosecutor says an hour into proceedings. “We have Nadia Ostend in attendance with a prepared victim statement that, with your leave, she would like to read to the court.”
My cheeks heat as my gaze falls to the floor. I wasn’t expecting that. For her to be here, yes. Why wouldn’t she? But to read a statement saying what an arsehole I was to her?
Suddenly, I’d rather be anywhere else.
“Thank you, your honour,” Nadia says, her voice firm and commanding attention; an asset gained through her job, I presume.
I shift in my seat, unable to find a comfortable resting place on the hard bench. I clear my throat and my lawyer sends a stern glance my way like I’m causing a riot instead of clearing spit.
Nadia shuffles her papers, then rests her hands lightly on the lectern, letting her gaze travel around the room as she prepares to speak. Her eyes brush over me, barely seeing me, and my heart thumps loudly in my ears.
It’s one thing to sit in a prison cell and realise I might have embellished a few situations. Another to watch the woman who’s absorbed my thoughts for the past three months dismiss me like I don’t warrant a second glance.
“During my captivity, Malakai Roberts offered me no protection. No protection at all.”
My mouth dries and I stare into the corner of the room. No protection. I beat a man to death rather than let her suffer a second punch but apparently that doesn’t count. Just like Rachel.
A rush of resentment rises in my gullet, and I force myself to swallow it down.
Even if I hate every word she utters, even if it feels like a lie, I need to listen. No matter how much it hurts, I need to know where I stand. If I have hope to cling to or just the monotonous emptiness of a life wasted in prison.
“What he subjected me to has left me sick to my stomach. Literally sick. I throw up every single morning.”
My lawyer shoots me another concerned glance, this time because I might have led him to think Nadia wouldn’t be speaking today. I might have implied that even if she did, the words would be more favourable.
What a joke. Just another situation I misread.
I don’t even understand her speech, not really. How does offering her no protection leave her feeling sick every morning? Is this a vague schoolteacher metaphor that my simple brain can’t wrap around?
No protection.
Sick. Every single morning.
“Sometimes I wake in the night and feel like I’m still being held hostage and I’m just waiting to escape to a deserted island somewhere where no one can find me.”
And wouldn’t that be nice? Sailing away to a distant land where no one or nothing could bother me again.
No protection. Sick in the morning. An escape to an island.
My eyes seek her out again, but she gives me nothing. Her hands still rest on the lectern. Her face stares calmly ahead.
“The continuing effects of my captivity are severe. My doctor has warned me I can expect to experience repercussions for at least nine months.”
She takes a breath and her lips quirk. Her eyes dart to the side, then resume facing forward. She bites on her lower lip, then adds, “Maybe as long as eighteen years.”
I’m stupid but I’m not that stupid. I purposefully avoid catching my lawyer’s eye as his frown of confusion at the impact speech becomes more pronounced.
“I’ve had to sell my home where many treasured memories were buried. Especially under a sundial in the back yard, one of my favourite spots in the world. My work has suffered, and I’ve been unable to resume teaching because of ongoing health issues that leave me drained, like I’ve got some parasite inside me that steals all my energy.”
My head ducks down to prevent the judge from seeing my widening smile. A parasite? Must remember to tell my kid that, one day. A possible nickname if it doesn’t sound too harsh.
