Dr. Phillips, who I haven't met before, walks around the corner to greet me—us. He's wearing a tweed brown coat over a sweater-vest and collared shirt. His matching tweed pants and penny loafers complete the look, offering me an early assumption on how this appointment is going to go. He looks as though he should be sitting in an oversized leather chair, reading a classic while smoking a pipe. Even though there was no sign on the door, I can safely assume he’s a therapist of some kind.
He waves us along, and we follow him down a short hallway, into an open office. "You two can wait outside the door. I'll let you know if I have any trouble with him," Dr. Phillips tells the guards.
I take a seat in front of his desk, leaning back into the plush, navy blue chair. It's the most comfortable thing I've sat on in weeks. "Mr. Pierce, I've been reading over your records for the past couple of hours, and I'm intrigued to hear your side of the story."
"Why does it matter?" I ask him. I've given my story a hundred times since it happened, and not one person has believed me. Why does this schmuck doctor think my story is going to make any difference in this situation, and why would he believe me?
"So, I see here that you’re facing a felony charge and a potential life sentence in prison. That's unfortunate for a twenty-five-year-old like yourself, wouldn't you say?"
"Yeah, seeing as I'm taking the blame for something I didn't do."
Dr. Phillips raises his hands to settle down my growing anger he can obviously sense. "Why don't you tell me what happened," he suggests.
I’m so sick of repeating this damn story. I’m even tired of jogging through my memory to recall the night. "Fine," I sigh and shift my weight around in the seat to get more comfortable. "I was at Landing Bar on Lansdown Street having a beer with a buddy while watching the game. It was about nine o’clock, and the place filled up quickly, in a matter of minutes. I didn’t hear what exactly started a growing commotion, but suddenly, there was a bar fight starting behind my seat. I was in the direct line of getting tossed into the fight if I didn’t try and move or break it up, so I did the decent-human-being thing and tried to break it up. Before I even touched one of them, the smaller of the two guys was knocked unconscious by a full bottle someone must have grabbed from behind the bar. Evidently, he died a few hours later at the hospital. The guy who started the fight fled the scene. Seeing as people were intoxicated from the high-stress ball game, a few people pointed at me when the cops showed up. I was blamed for the fight and that guy’s death. Now, here I am."
"I see," he says. "Now, when people experience a certain level of rage, it can be common for the mind to block certain memories out. It’s even possible to convince ourselves that these occurrences didn’t happen." He presses his finger to the side of his head and narrows one eye. "Do you think there's any chance that could have happened to you?"
"No," I answer simply. "I didn't start a fight, take place in the fight, or finish the fight. I’m not crazy."
"I see you have scars on your knuckles," Dr. Phillips says. "Do you mind sharing how you earned those."
I glance down at the tops of my hands that are gripping each armrest. "I do mind."
"Fair enough." He studies me for another minute. "How about the one on your forehead there?"
"I don't feel like sharing that either."
Dr. Phillips looks down at the manila folder on his desk and opens it, scanning through the pile of papers. "Hmm." He continues reading through whatever paperwork he has. "So, Mr. Pierce, have you ever felt a sense of resentment in your life."
"What does that have to do with a bar fight?" I ask.
"Well, it seems to me you have more than a few reasons to be an angry young man."
"So?" I reply.
"I'm saying, your anger could have played a role in the bar fight," Dr. Phillips continues.
I snicker and let my head fall back. "What is with this conspiracy to make me take the fall? What happened to the whole innocent-until-proven-guilty shit we have in this country?"
"The witnesses have not been helpful in this case, Mr. Pierce."
"Great."
"Here's what I'm going to do for you," he begins. "It's clear you’ve been through more hell than any twenty-five-year-old should have to go through, so I'm going to suggest to the judge that you are mentally unstable. I may be able to negotiate an alternative sentence for you if you’re interested?"
"I'm not mentally unstable," I argue.
"Feel free to take the prison time instead," Dr. Phillips responds.
"Just because I grew up in the system, that doesn’t automatically make me a convict," I tell him.
"No, you’re right, but it sure does give you motivation to be angry, resentful and immoral."
I can't afford a lawyer that isn't state appointed. No one wants to conduct a proper investigation to prove my innocence, and I can tell the judge hates me by the way he rolls his eyes each time I defend myself. The jury watches the victim's family crying on one side, and a ratty-looking guy on the other side.
"What would you be able to negotiate for me?" I ask with a groveling sigh.
His lips press together, and his brows furrow as he looks around in thought. "We're probably looking at a year of civil commitment, followed by a year in a rehab for psychosis and anger management, then probation for however long the judge sees fit."
"In any case, I'll still have a criminal record?"
"Yes," Dr. Phillips answers. "I can help you, Mr. Pierce, but you have to let me. My help can solve some of your other issues, as well."
I snicker. "You can’t solve any of my broke ass issues."
"This is still a better option than prison," he says. "There are always alternatives."
"Oh yeah?" I humor him.
"A felony in your case means life in prison," he says, winning his argument.
"This is bullshit," I tell him. "Fine, go tell the judge I'm a fucking nutcase."
"We prefer the term ‘mentally unstable,’" he corrects me.
I prefer the term, "Fuck you."
15
Harley
"You can't sit in silence all day," Axel says.
If that's what he thinks, he has another thing coming to him. I can stay silent for a lot longer than just a day. I readjust my position on the couch in the waiting area of this torture palace, and Axel is sitting in front of me on the metal coffee table with his forearms pressed into the meat of his thighs. I’m taking a guess that he thinks if he stares at me long enough, I'll tell him what he wants to hear—that whoever made the mistake of not securing that psycho bitch well enough, is forgiven. Either that or he's truly scared I'm going to walk away and open my mouth to someone about what they're doing. It makes me wonder why he didn't have me sign any papers before participating in their practices.
"When do I get paid?" I ask.
"Who said anything about money?" Axel replies, lifting his head and staring me square in the eyes. You must be fucking kidding me.
"You hired me. Normally, when a person hires another, there is compensation involved," I argue.
"Right, but we told you we'd take care of you and give you food, room, and board. I'm pretty sure we've done that, no?"
I sit up straighter on the couch, feeling the rush of blood fill the inside of my head. The headache I had from last night has exacerbated tenfold from being clocked in the head by the murderer down the hall. "So, let me know if I have this right—basically, you're going to use me as a punching bag so none of you get your pretty faces damaged, and you're not going to pay me?"
"You think we all have pretty faces?" Everett chimes in from behind the front desk. What is he even doing over there? He's been tapping a pen against his lips for the last thirty minutes. Surely there can’t be that many thoughts swimming around in that head of his.
With a blaze of fury firing through me, I clench my jaw, holding back the words I'd like to share with them. "You know what you need?" Axel says, standing up and leaning over to the front desk for his phone.
"A new job?" I ask.
"Training," he responds, ignoring my suggestion. Axel looks back at Everett, giving him a look I'm glad I can't see.
"Who's going to train her?" Everett asks.