Watcher in the Darkness, Book 3: Imprisoned

Chapter 2

The first direct sunlight I'd experienced in weeks felt like foot-long needles being shoved into my eyeballs. I kept my head down and my eyes on the painted concrete floor as the largest of the three security guards snapped my restraints into place. The trio reeked of testosterone and simmering aggression. Two of the men kept a firm grip on my elbows as we left the holding cell, heavy nightsticks in their free hands. The third trailed a step behind us, Taser at the ready. The thick chain that connected my handcuffs to my ankle cuffs bumped against my baggy prison jumpsuit with every step.

Attack one prison guard, and they never let you live it down. Their paranoia was barely justified; I'd never given any indication that I even thought about trying to escape. No one wanted this trail over with more than I did, and it wasn't just because of my screaming migraine.

The headache was nothing new. For weeks, the crown of my skull felt as though it was about to split open.

The halls of the courthouse were more crowded than I'd expected them to be. Everyone stopped talking and stood to the side as I passed, and occasionally there was the flash of a camera. I would have sighed if my chest didn't feel as though I was breathing fire.

My lawyer waited for me at the defendant's table. Even after a dozen or so meetings, I couldn't remember the man's name. It was something long and Italian, but it was like my mind refused to waste brain space on it. He leaned back in his chair, chin in hand, scowling straight ahead at nothing in particular. He barely glanced up as the guards delivered me to my seat, then he muttered something under his breath.

He didn't like me, but that was fine. I'd made a point of being very unlikable to him. I was kind of surprised he'd bothered to show up.

Michael had kept his word, as I knew he would. Not only was he there, he'd managed to squeeze into one of the benches right behind my seat. It was standing room only, but I guess I should have expected as much. According to Michael, my case—and the fact I was being tried for the same crime twice—was pretty big news.

I didn't care. I might've been forced to listen to the priest as he watched me drink my cold blood every other day, but no one could make me pay attention. It sure as fuck didn't keep Michael from talking, though. He was always talking.

Goddamn it, my head hurt.

"Good morning, Toby." Michael's voice slid into my ear like a cheese grater. "How are you holding up?"

I made a noncommittal sound, my head bowed. The tangled curtain of my hair didn't offer much shelter. There were too many voices, all talking about me. Too many eyes, too much judgement. I wanted nothing more than to go back to my dark, quiet cell.

My lawyer leaned away from me to whisper to his assistant...or fellow lawyer, or whoever the hell that asshole was sitting next to him. "What are you doing here?" I said, and the dryness in my throat made my voice rasp.

My lawyer let out a long, aggravated breath as he turned toward me. His perfectly groomed appearance was strained by the horrible burden of having me for a client. "I have to be here," he said in a flat tone.

"Didn't I fire you?"

"Indeed, you did. Several times. But, once again, I don't work for you. If you really want to represent yourself, you need to fire me in the presence of the judge." He maintained eye contact, but reached over to shove a manila folder under a pile of identical folders. "Remember, though, that your grandmother wants you defended. From these charges, and from yourself, if necessary."

Something in the pit of my stomach shifted and my instincts began to blare an alarm. I knew beyond the cold shadow of doubt that that one of the papers inside that folder, covered in barely readable legalese, had declared me incompetent to participate in my own defense.