The first few days of doing fucking squats and lunges in the corner of my room were pathetic. I nearly fell over after three of them, my legs shaking under the weight they're unused to carrying now.
I don't pay too close attention to what goes on between Clyde and the expert, or the next one.
I know my fate.
Because I know that I'm responsible for theirs.
The next few weeks, or maybe months, I’m not sure, roll by in a blur of people speaking a language that makes no sense to me. The legal language, the objections, the experts, the police who swear they've interacted with me, yet I have no memory of them. It all just kind of muddles together beneath the layer of practiced dissociation Idoremember.
The next time I come up for air in the real world, it's to Clyde chuckling under his breath.
"What's so funny?" I sigh, fighting the urge to lay my head on the table in front of me. According to Clyde, that level of disrespect to the court wouldn't look good, and appearances are everything. I have a fucking predator animal spanning my neck, but looking lazy and uninterested is going to make all the difference.
"I knew something was fishy with the DNA sample when the forensic analyst didn't answerwhenit was taken or by whom," he flips through a folder just delivered to him by his assistant. "It was supposedly taken from you while you were unconscious in your home and there is no filed chain of custody."
"So?"
"So two things, for one, it violates your rights under the fourth amendment for your DNA to be taken without a warrant. And there isn't an officer’s name on the evidence form. So there's no way of knowingwhotook the sample or what they may have done with it. It just somehow landed in the prosecution's lap from out of thin air." His voice suddenly rises, "May I approach the bench, Your Honor?"
The judge nods, gesturing him forward.
He takes his little tan folder, waving for the prosecution's attorney to come along as well.
For a few minutes, the three of them speak quietly between each other, Clyde remaining calm, the other lawyer slowly becoming decidedly not. He glares at me, then at the police he's been guiding and coaching into their winning argument for months.
At his furious expression, my skin goes cold.
Whatever mistakes they've made will change everything.
When Clyde returns, his expression screams that he might be whistling if he could. So utterly pleased with himself, smug as all hell, sinking into the chair beside me while the other guy storms to his chair, rifling through his paperwork, muttering furiously to the man beside him.
"Prosecution," the judge says impassively, "Exhibit 34B has been ruled inadmissible."
"What does that mean?" I ask Clyde.
"It means they can't use it," he answers, a smile in his voice.
"No, I know that. I'm not an idiot," I fight the urge to roll my eyes. "I mean what does it mean for me?"
He turns to me, his tired eyes glittering with the promise of an insane payday, "It means they have no evidence tying you to a single crime scene and their whole case falls apart."
"Your Honor," the prosecutor begins. "You can't?—"
The judge holds up a palm, "Do you have any other evidence or a witness tying Mr. Fomori to a crime scene?"
"Not yet, Your Honor, but the dates line up and?—"
"Purely circumstantial," Clyde assures him.
The judge sighs, "In the case of the United States against Mr. Cormac Fomori, I'm ruling a mistrial due to inadmissible evidence." The sound of his gavel echoes in my ears, the rest of the world swirling around me. "Prosecution. Meet me in my chambers. Mr. Fomori, as per your doctor’s orders, you'll be returned to St. Jones hospital."
My breathing turns shallow as a bailiff hesitantly uncuffs my wrists, the blood rushing into them with a cold, tingling sensation.
Mistrial.
Free to go.
I don't know what to do with freedom.
