Whatever he is about to say is interrupted as a bailiff speaks. "The Honorable Judge Jeremiah Bartlett presiding."
The judge, of course, I know. He signed the restraining order against Caleb. He instructs us to sit down, and I try, but my body has gone stiff as a board and the seat does not fit me. My eyes take in everything and nothing all at once.
"Are we set for the arraignment on State v. Szyszynski?" the judge asks.
Thomas rises smoothly. "Yes, Your Honor."
At the defense table, the other attorney stands. "I'm representing Father Szyszynski, and we're ready, Your Honor."
I have seen this a thousand times before; one bailiff moves forward toward the bench. He does this to protect the judge. After all, the people brought in as defendants are criminals. Anything could happen.
The door to the holding cell opens, and the priest is led out. His hands are cuffed in front of him.
Beside me, I feel Caleb forget to take his next breath. I hold my purse on my lap, a death grip.
The second bailiff leads the priest to the defense table, the inside seat, because he will have to stand up in front of the judge to enter his plea. He is close enough, now, that I could spit at him. I could whisper, and he might hear me.
I tell myself to be patient.
My eyes go to the judge, then to the bailiffs. They are the ones I am worried about. They stand behind the priest, make sure he sits down.
Move back. Move back move back move back.
I slide my hand into my purse, past the familiar, to the heat that leaps into my hand. The bailiff takes a step away-this defendant, scum of the earth, still has the right to privacy with his own attorney. There are words moving around the courtroom like small insects, distractions I do not really notice.
The minute I stand up, I've jumped off the cliff. The world goes by in a haze of color and light; my weight accelerates, head-over-heels. Then I think, Falling is the first step in learning how to fly.
In two steps, I am across the aisle of the courtroom. In a breath, I hold the gun up to the priest's head. I pull the trigger four times.
The bailiff grabs my arm but I won't let go of the weapon. I can't, until I know that I've done it. There is blood spreading, and screams, and then I'm falling again, forward, past the bar, where I am supposed to be. "Did I get him? Is he dead?"
They slam me onto the ground, and when I open my eyes, I can see him. The priest lies with half his head missing, just a few feet away.
I let go of the gun.
The weight on me takes familiar shape, and then I hear Patrick in my ear. "Nina, stop. Stop fighting."
His voice brings me back. I see the defense attorney, hiding under the stenographer's table. The press, their cameras flashing like a field of fireflies. The judge, pushing the panic button on his desk and yelling to clear the courtroom. And Caleb, white as snow, wondering who I am.
"Who's got cuffs?" Patrick asks. A bailiff hands him a pair from his belt, and Patrick secures my hands behind me. He lifts me up and bustles me toward the same door through which the priest entered.
Patrick's body is unyielding, his chin firm against my ear. "Nina," he whispers to me. "What did you do?"
Once, not long ago, standing in my own home, I had asked Patrick this same question. Now I give his own answer back to him. "I did what I had to," I say, and I let myself believe it.
II
To be once in doubt Is once to be resolv'd.
-Shakespeare, Othello
Summer camp is a place that hums with crickets and is so green it sometimes hurts my eyes to look.
I'm afraid to be here, because it is outside, and because outside there are bees. Bees make my stomach feel like a fist, even seeing one makes me want to run and hide. In my nightmares I picture them sucking my blood like it is honey.
My mother tells the camp counselors I'm afraid of bees. They say that in all the years of camp, not a single child has been stung.
I think, Someone has to be first.
