MORIBUND MANIAC

32

An hour of waiting.

The court room completely silent. Maybe there was a whisper every now and then, or maybe it was just a mixture of every deep breath taken in the silence.

The wait didn't ease my impatience. I needed movement, I needed alcoholic refill, I needed a smoke, a break, a roost.

I needed Brandon.

But I couldn't have any of it, because just like everyone else in here, I had to remain in my seat, in the silence, and just wait.

After Arthur's testimony and the knowledge of the letters and photographs, Judge Sawyer made a decision and agreed to an abnormal recess in the case.

Because Arthur hadn't told Frederick about the evidence he'd been seated upon all along, they were not brought to the court building to be entered as exhibits. Arthur had kept them hidden, not wanting them to be found as the police and the lawyer searched his home for eventual evidence. Therefore, because of the extremely crucial matter, Sawer had agreed to bring the evidence in hindsight.

Roscoe had left the court building in company of two police officers an hour earlier. He was to be escorted to Arthur Barlowe's home to gather the described brown leather case with the hidden asservations and bring it back directly to the courthouse.

Sawyer's instructions were very clear. No one could leave the room, nor the building during the wait. We all had to remain silent, the judge not wanting the crowd to distress the involved by speaking loudly of our opinions and theories and conclusions.

It was the longest hour of my life. The most claustrophobic hour of my life. The most clueless hour of my life.

Trying to calm myself from the crawling anxiety, I let myself glance at Brandon. It was painful without a doubt, but it helped me from the anxious shaking and sweating. His nearness was still a sedative to me, keeping my mind off the shrinking room and the ticking sound of the clock.

Inspecting him, I could partly focus on his well-being instead of my own. It was inevitable to ignore my heart shrieking for him, but it was worth the ache for now. It was worth not having a panic attack inside this confined assembly.

His tense shoulders slowly moved up and down in pace with his breathing, the slow motions assuring me he was rather stable. His elbows were placed upon the wooden desk, his both fists clenching the hair by his temples. I could tell he was distressed, and impatient as myself, but he was doing a good job, trying to control his breathing and shut out the surroundings by tilting his head down and keeping his eyes closed. It was hard for him not to have Roscoe within his reach. He was all alone in his position now, sitting by himself in front of the people looking at him with doubtful eyes and disgusted faces.

Yet he was handling it, and I couldn't keep myself from thinking it was partly because of me and my presence. Despite his dire decision of breaking up with me, I knew he still needed me. He was still contingent on my help, my care, my existence, and that's what kept him settled now. He knew I was here, right behind him, supporting him only with my being. He could feel it. The air of my presence. The steam of my care. Like nitrous oxide, he could breathe me in and feel calm again.

I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply as I thought of how grateful I was for Brandon granting me the same. His proximity kept me from panicking. He made sure I made use of my senses. I used my eyes to inspect him, taking in his movements and forgetting about the many people surrounding me. I used my ears, shut out the many sighs around me and the distressing ticking sound of the clockwork, and instead listened to my inner voice telling me about Brandon's mental state. I used my touch, my inner touch, concentrating on the heartache instead of the triggering somatic signs of the anxiety attack that was coming for me. And I used my scent and taste, breathing in deeply and feeling every aroma of his aura. My nose scenting his steam, my mouth tasting his air. And I was settled again.

Finally I breathed out, let the heavy anxiety leave my body and fade into emptiness. I dried my humid hands off on my dress, the black material hiding the damp stains. That's when the back door to the courtroom finally opened up again, and Roscoe Van Doren stepped inside with confident steps, a brown, leather portfolio in his right hand. He walked his way over to the prosecution table and placed the many envelopes on the table before closing the portfolio and putting it away.

Suddenly they were just there. Only a couple of feet away from me. Only a couple of inches away from Brandon. The letters I didn't even believe existed.

If Arthur hadn't spent the past months writing fake letters and somehow creating manipulated photographs, it was true what he had told the court about Acker. He actually sent him all those letters. There were at least twenty of them, maybe more than so. I was overwhelmed by the vision, by the proof that Arthur was not just a liar. I was right about it. There was truth in his story. There were real emotions. He was not just a selfish coward as Brandon depicted him to be.

Roscoe gathered the envelopes, walked over to Judge Sawyer and let him examine the evidence before bringing the pile to Arthur who was still seated behind the witness stand.

"Mr. Barlowe, do you recognize these as the letters you received from Joseph Acker?" Roscoe asked, while letting Arthur flip through the open envelopes.

"Yes I do." He quickly responded, which made Roscoe turn his head to the judge again.

"Your honour, may these be entered as individual exhibits, as the witness has identified the letters as the ones he received?"

I swallowed hard, preparing for the worst. The one who was accused of having written the letters was no longer alive to respond to the accusation. The witness himself had been doubtful when speaking about the evidence, emphasizing the eventual lack of authenticity in a situation like this. It made me believe these letters were only brought here to be overruled.

But apparently there was no need for such concern anymore as Judge Sawyer called out and approved every single letter, including the photographs, to be entered as individual exhibits.