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  "Brian, last I heard, you were in academia. What happened?"

  "Well C, it just wasn't working out. Everything just stagnated after the first year or so. There just wasn't that much there for me anymore."

  That still deviates form who Brian is, the existential one, and the perpetual idealist magniloquent scholar. There a memory comes across of Brian's, always with me as the subject. He's probably getting something from me, regrets and maybe rationalizations. The same things I quest to know. His college girlfriend, now wife of one child, laid out on a breezy fall day, in a yellow blue flowered dress under a cream waistcoat, marred with a line of blood matching a mid-thigh laceration, head tilled back almost over possibility, and sharply at that, bent along one spot, eyes staring to me situated at her back, crying, moving mouth devoid of all sound, and her hand in mine. Her hand, chilled to the bone and sweaty, throbs in my hand with life-giving pulse. A slow inexorable deterioration follows, circumvented, really forestalled by squeezing onto her clammy hand. Each time again results in a desperate journey to rescure the febrile beat to life, always there, but generally assumed. The fear, guilt, debility, panic, and fear of losing her push everything else away. The spectrum from blue through red flashes across my face, cold light, lacking any warmth. And I'm back with Brian.

  He just stares across at me in disbelief from what he received.

  "Brain, how's everything else, otherwise?"

  "Everyone is great. Lizzie, our three-year old defines overzealous in terms of practical anything. Meagan enjoys the city."

  "Well, Brian I'm nowhere near as put together. About the only thing set is work, at this here quant."

  "C, it'll be a big change from non-Euclidean topography in relation to EM, G, and QFD."

  "Later, Brian"

  "Later."

  Brian departs, leaving behind his briefcase. I burden the messenger bag over one shoulder, the rumored man purser being me, and add his mini-legal-sized-suitcase. "Brian!" He just waltzes across the lobby at speed, stops, and searches for who called his name, while I eat away at my ETA. He locates me at a mere 3 feet away, where I stop, lower the brief case (sic) the remaining 6 inches to the floor, and slide it across with the outside edge of my left shoe's sole.

  Brian shakes my hand. "Looking forward to work under the same corporate overlords, C."

  "If we're not careful, we could become one of them."

  Brian looks surprised. He retrieves a red knife handle from his pocket, switches out the blade and brings it over our hands, then he seizes. His knife arm flings out, launching the knife. Amidst violent contractions that send each muscle stiff and jumpy, his knees buckle and pull me forward with him. His hand pops off with a red impression. I just grab his briefcase, tuck it under an arm, and grab his abandoned knife, all after scanning the empty lobby.

  I skedaddle out into the dwindling sidewalk. People walk all around while I head north beside the empty street — all in pastels, green, yellow, red, blue, violet, and orange. The people ferrying umbrellas dominate with a few unprepared and drenched into black stained coal miners — clothes and all. The rain falls down in little black rivulets suspended from the heavens, black rain today. The pastels remain mostly unblemished, except near the street and sidewalk, where footsteps and vehicles would splash up. I just continue soaking up the rare drop or two. All my fellow walkers weep tremendously, like spigots turned on within each eye, releasing not a steady drip, but a laminar flow exuding hence from the entire lower eyelid just brimming over. This viscous outpouring stains a triangular swath following the contours of body and cloth.

  Around the corner and the next block up, a dirty yellow cab picks me up for a trip home.

  (—)

  I disembark at a glass fronted lobby of immense double-width doors. Inside the vestibule, meter high copper planters sustain floating lilies and the like, surrounding every wall excluding the elevators framed with stainless steel panels and the other set of doors opposite. I call the elevator with the electronic ping, wait for my ride, enter, and leave on six. A walk to the end of the hallway — past the doors leads me to my apartment. I deposit my keys, bag, and rain dappled coat by the door, liberating the knife and briefcase.

  I scan my apartment for anything out of place, not that I'm expecting it. My set of four chairs and a couch (all royal blue) form the usual half-pentaform facing an ordinary sidebar. Only a push down on the top shows it to be a raising tv stand, hiding the complexities of components below sight.

  A narrow interstice leads to an inch or 2 thick slab of frosted glass cantilevered on a tied up bundle of steel pipes stood on end. The black grease stained metal dining chairs serve host to black covered cushions. The black-trimmed straw-printed-and-colored rug underlay this eating ensemble.

  On back, the beech cabinets contrast the piecemeal, random dark and light pattern of knotted and clean bamboo. A dark marble of almost black — veined in yellow and purple covers these said cabinets. I probably neglected the beech trim framing man-sized mullions on the three glass walls, dividing the apartment in two at the top of the doors' height and segmented at 3 meter increments all around. The culinary grade appliances dwarf the standard kitchen fare with a twelve-burner, fold down broiler, pot-filling faucet, double-wide fridge with a sliver of a freezer, small dishwasher of course, and garbage chutes scattered around. The electrochromic windows are actually one contiguous pane bent at sharp 90 degrees on the edges and bends.

  On the left, the solid bedroom doors hinge open from the remaining wall of trimmed glass. I ferry the briefcase onto the puce sheeted bed on a Japanese wide-edged bed elevation mechanism which requires kneeing into and rolling out of. I turn to the windows for the stair-stepped buildings down to the river, a quarter-mile away for some clue to the combination. A pain just then torments my left belly of such severity — I brace myself against the dresser. My thoughts dwell on what Meagan will never do again. Climb a flight of stairs under her own power. Feel her husband's hand in hers. Heft up her daughter now and hug her in the future. Never being alone for even a moment further in her life, constantly forced company upon. My crying might be from the tremendous pain or tremendous sadness or inability except now to feel. The tears dry out and the password is one-three-seven-one-three-seven. Our shared dorm room number times two as if he expected all these happenings.

  I press the latches, feel a slight jiggle of restrained rotation, and drag the cracked open briefcase over to the other room's coffee table amidst the padded furniture. Opening the case as allowed shows three pictures, one of the three of them, one of his wife, and one of his daughter. Underneath is just a stack of blank printer paper awaiting toner.

  I lean back in the plush couch to withdraw the knife, placing it alongside the extracted picture frames and closing the briefcase. I look at each picture for the associated memory. The first one shows the three of them laid out in a circle on grass, holding hands. I look up into the top-heavy branches, stripped save the uppermost foliage. The sun shines, slightly shifted (off noon) through swaying leaves. I look right to Lizzie in a pink sweater and jeans. She's one of those kids born with pants on. Meagan lies to the right in red plaid with a beige skirt, leg crossed. The lush grass streams through my toes.

  The next picture shows a before and after. First Lizzie cries at poolside while the swim teacher beckons her into the water, then swimming with some semblance to happiness. I remember Meagan telling me to do something instead of taking pictures every 5 seconds. We wrap Lizzie in a towel and settle her down. Awhile later, Lizzie successfully treads water. Meagan punches me and says "Jerk!" I say, "We can talk about how big a jerk I really am later." I lean in and whisper this in her ear.

  The last picture is Meagan waving from the top of a cliff. We were arguing which way gets us back to the car quickest. Meagan points with accusation at the trail map. "We are here and have to go here. This is the quickest way." Tempers running high after ending up at a closed lookout following half a day travel suggests we both go the way we t
hink instead of debating the merits either way. I go left and Meagan goes right after we both check our radios. I walk through woods, until a clearing shows me Meagan up on that cliff. We both end up back at the car. I chose the best way back. I grab the knife and awaken.

  Legal Representation

  Mon 10/5/17 8:57 a.m.

  Two guards walk me into the courtroom. I dread and anticipate this day. My name is going to be finally cleared. No one in their right minds would convict me. The last 6 weeks wore even me down. They paraded me into various holding cells, always under armed guard. Everything looks good for me. In one short day this will all be over. I can start to put this behind me and move on with my life.

  Mr. Vintage — my attorney from almost the beginning of this — waits at the defense desk. He adorns himself with a three-piece suit, an ebony walking stick, and an alligator skin briefcase. That strong jaw and muscular build of an athlete not quite yet past their prime. Just thinning blonde hair lends him a look far beyond that age, not that he discourages this notion.

  I smile at the people who came for support Claire and Gary. My parents vanished on vacation, almost a year ago. I situate myself at the empty desk, grateful to be in normal clothes for the first time since my arrest. A glance back at my friends offers their reassurances, the little it can do. I direct my attention forward as someone starts talking. I’m immensely comforted by someone’s hand on my left shoulder. They give a squeeze of support. The trial starts. My tech just works without my interaction, for the prison term. It records everything for security's perusal, ids threats, and labels everyone with their names.

  “Please stand for the Honorable Malcolm Waters,” the bailiff says.

  It takes a minute, but everyone does. A middle-aged person comes into the room from the Judge’s chambers — his average look does little to hint at his power over me. He takes his rightful seat at the Judge’s bench with the trial officially under way.

  “You may now be seated. This court is in session,” he says with a bang of the gavel. “We are all here today for the case of Dr. Conor Abby and MO. Good to see you Mrs. Alamander, you also Mr. Vintage.” He acknowledged each one in turn. “Madam Prosecutor, are you ready to begin?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Mrs. Alamander replies.

  “Let’s start with the opening statements. Mrs. Alamander?”

  She strides into the open space in front of the jury box. Everyone looks at her face resembling a shrunken head, skin stretched over the very bones. Her stick figure just manages to cling to her frilly suit of grey and pink. The only pleasing aspect about her is the immaculate auburn hair.

  “Mr. Abby’s life is going to be thoroughly examined during the course of this trial. All the evidence piles up to the fact that he poses a danger to himself and society. Mr. Abby is an individual with a psychological urge. These urges culminated in the murder of Irena Mekova. A clear picture is going to emerge. Mr. Abby needs treatment. We can get him the help he so desperately needs. I believe Mr. Abby doesn’t need jail time, but he needs help. That responsibility is up to this esteemed jury,” Mrs. Alamander concludes her statement and sits down.

  My attorney, Mr. Vintage, steps up. It is now our turn. We are in the right and that is more than enough. “Conor is an average person, on trial for murder. Absolutely no evidence unequivocally suggests Conner is responsible. The prosecution feels the act of saving Irena’s life exemplifies Conor’s guilt, not his innocence. In fact, Irena the injured party is here in some form today to testify on his behalf. Would she be testifying, if she had any doubts as to his innocence? Anyone of us could easily be on trial here, members of the gallery, members of the jury, even the esteemed prosecutor herself. Just the right time and circumstance are needed. Conor was just trying to help. Isn’t that what we all want in a time of dire need?” he says.

  Conflict of Interest

  Disrespect

  Mon 10/5/17 9:24 a.m.

  I wait for everything to move on after the opening statements. The courtroom strikes me as odd with the enormous panoramic skylight hanging over the room, displaying the floating branches of trees. Apart from the wooden paneling on the walls, everything else originates from some clear material. This includes the desks, railings, and even the judge’s bench.

  “Mrs. Alamander, you may call your first witness.”

  She hastily stands up. “Yes, Your Honor. I call Agent Liam Davidson, 5342, the arresting Agent to the stand.”

  The witness saunters through the isle in a black suit, black shirt, and black tie (the same thing every cop wears these days). The bailiff approaches Davidson with a bland look on his face.

  The bailiff swears him in, “Do you Agent Liam Davidson swear to tell the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help you?”

  “I do.”

  The prosecutor aggressively yanks down her sleeves and slaps away any aberrant wrinkles. “What did you find, upon arrival to the scene in question?”

  “I found Dr. Mekova on the floor. The medics were attending to her. She was covered in a green substance.” He sits in a manner suggestive of disrespect, with one elbow lounging atop the chair.

  “Where was Mr. Abby during this time?”

  “I believe he was sitting at a desk somewhere.”

  “Was he assisting the EMT’s in any way?”

  “Now that you mention it, no.”

  “When did you first approach Mr. Abby?”

  He shifts forward in thought, both forearms resting on his knees. “He came to us first. He excused himself to wash his hands.”

  “What do you think this means?

  My attorney, Mr. Vintage says, “Objection, conclusion.”

  Vintage explained that a witness couldn't testify to something without direct knowledge of it. The frequent exception that came around a century ago allows this based on extensive personal experience.

  Mrs. Alamander crosses her arms and says, “I’ll rephrase. Based on your past experience, what are the possible reasons to wash your hands after such an ordeal with someone you care about?”

  “It could mean a lot of things. It could be he isn’t close to Dr. Mekova. He could be feeling guilty about what happened to her or he’s just a clean person.”

  “What happened, after his return?”

  “I got the arrest warrant. Agent Michaels asked some background questions about the incident. I arrested Mr. Abby.” A grin flashes across his face.

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  “Your witness, counselor,” the judge says.

  Mr. Vintage steps up and says, “At which point did you mirandize Dr. Abby during the arrest?”

  The eyes of Davidson rove the room. “As far as I recall, right after putting on the cuffs.”

  “How much time did it take to make decision to arrest?”

  “It was just a phone call.”

  “Who made the decision?”

  He straightens up, rubs his hands together, and pauses there. “On our way in, Head Agent Tallamayne told us Investigating Agent Margrove was assigned to the case. She called us after we arrived on the scene. I was speaking to her while Agent Michaels asked Mr. Abby a few questions.”

  “As far as you know, did the Investigating Agent consult anyone else?”

  “She worked with a psychologist and the building's security contractor.”

  “Did the choice to make the arrest come down quickly?”

  The prosecutor says, “Objection, generalization.”

  Again, a succinct explanation from Vintage — witnesses can’t answer a question asking for conclusions, even experts. (Long ago, this didn’t apply to experts. The qualifications for being an expert were the Judge’s say so.) “Sustained,” the judge says.

  “Has this occurred previously in your career, a case being solved over the course of a phone call?”

  “It has happened a few times.”

  “Can you give us a few examples?”

  “I can think of one. A hostage situation, we had to find th
e perp ASAP. I don’t think…”

  “I’m done with the witness.”

  “It was…”

  “No more questions!” Mr. Vintage adamantly turns around.

  The judge says, “You may return to your seat Agent Davidson, Mrs. Alamander doesn’t request a redirect.”

  The Agent begrudgingly returns to a seat amongst the gallery.

  “Mrs. Alamander, your next witness,” the judge continues.

  Anxiety

  Mon 10/5/17 10:43 a.m.

  Alamander slides out from behind the desk. “I call the paramedic first on the scene Cooper Madison to the stand.”

  A person dressed in white (their uniform) ventures forth from the gallery. He takes the oath and climbs into the witness stand.

  Mrs. Alamander stands with one arm braced on the tabletop. “What was Mr. Abby doing as you arrived?”

  “He was checking on Dr. Mekova’s breathing. He didn’t notice us come in right away. We took over the care of Dr. Mekova.”

  “What was the severity of her injuries at the time?”

  “As far as I could tell, she had a deep cut on her upper abdomen.”

  The state attorney completes her slow crawl at the witness stand. “Was Mr. Abby acting suspicious?”

  “Objection, speculation.”

  One person can’t know the mind of another.

  “I’m just asking how he was acting in comparison to people in other lifesaving situations,” Mrs. Alamander pleads with the judge.

  The judge says, “Overruled.”

  “He seemed to be intensely concentrating on helping her. After that he took a few moments.”