Adjustment-ing...

I was into avoidance mode, today. Didn't want to write or create or do much of anything. So I got myself into updating the characters list for MQM...and here they are...

-----

Location: Barrington, (Unnamed state in the Midwest) Population 132,500 One-time manufacturing town, now building electronic panels for cars and medical equipment, not as wealthy, older buildings unused, even when made over into condos. 

Characters:

Simon Halloran, 73, Gay, doing friend a favor when arrested. Lives in Afton Springs, suburb of unnamed town, worked at downtown newsstand during college then Borders till they closed, then at Variman’s Antiquarian Books until retiring three years earlier 

Frank Paley, 32, Cop for Barrington Township, Power builder, Straight, he says, tattoos, gym body. possible use of muscle enhancers, friends with Brian Walstead. Attitude and ego.

Olivier Deskin, 56, antiquarian book dealer in London, knowledgeable but prickly, snarky about Simon’s sexual orientation then claims he’s just joshing. Talks Simon into helping him with archiving Northridge’s library for transport to the UK.

Tanner Northridge, 72, worth millions due to manufacturing, hard to deal with, wife dead, kids gone all over the world, alone in great house, not a book person. Refers Simon to Villiers. 

William Villiers, 80, defense attorney, won’t consider trial, just deal. Anything else is a waste of time and effort, and just stupid. “It’s only a misdemeanor...and making a deal would avoid jail time.” 

Charles Dillon Walstead, 31, Assistant District Attorney, Very good-looking bear cub, Divorced, two kids (both boys), friends with Falwell, trying to prove self to father. 

Elissa Manville, 29, Walstead’s second chair, Rubenesque but pretty, Boyfriend is not very attentive, has little boy and mother at home to watch him. Sole income. Catholic and condescending

Vin Tran, 50, owns store where it all starts, doesn’t want to give Simon security tape, thinks will piss off cops. 

Judge Gerald Dean Falwell, 66, Criminal Court, Distinguished but right wing, Married, 5 daughters, three grandchildren. 

Alain Bergeron, deceased in 1987 at age of 37, AIDs-related, involved with Simon in mid-70s, gorgeous but cruel to him, emotionally abusive. Real name? Jonathan James. Sociopathic. 

Yolanda Sans, 29, home-care nurse, not pretty but vibrant, took care of Doyle when Simon could not be there. 

Dr. Carter Aristian, 36, PhD in Jurisprudence, Attractive and well-dressed, Married, 2 sons and a daughter. Does pro bono 1 day a week. 

Raymond Bush, 58, District Attorney, Self-satisfied, Married twice, son and daughter from first marriage don’t speak to him, no kids from second. Friends with Arlon Walstead. 

Arlon Walstead, 59, rigid, hard-nosed, powerful lawyer in town, wealthy, intelligent. Three kids, Dillon, Danvers, Dessa Jean. Let Falwell and wife be godparents to Dillon. Hints may have had sex with Falwell, used friendship to help Dillon because he thinks his son is no good on his own 

Georg Garisov, 34, Cop for Barrington, About to become sergeant, Married, three kids. From Rostov, Russia. Lived in US since 5 years old. Claims he witnessed Simon's arrest.

Angelo Corelli, 26, Cop for Barrington, Good-looking and upright-seeming, Single. Youngest of seven brothers, follower, not leader. Claims he witnessed Simon's arrest. 

ReShawn Greene, 42, Attorney with Kaplan, Halliwell and Greene, Stocky and neatly dressed, Married, three girls (Tanna, Eliza, Browen), one boy (Orran), two grandkids by Tanna and husband, Michael Otis. Parents and grandparents in town. Decent. 

Viona Wilson-Greene, 40, lovely, does IT person at local hospital, troubleshoots for other businesses, too. Has a large posse of friends who back her up and bring her gossip—who to trust, who not to, leads on work, all the dirt. 

Pino, 24, inmate at county jail, shoplifting. 

Tomač, 36, guard at country jail 

Robby, 42, guard at county jail 

Judge Collier Allendale, 74, Superior Court. Tall and stately, Married, two children, two grandchildren, one great-grandchild, level-headed. 

Benny Reacher, 23, techie, AKA: Snack Attack. He can fix any phone, computer, electronic stuff, tattoos all over, quirky smiles, saw some of Simon’s work on phone and online. “Wild shit.” 

Lara Messinal, 48, bank manager, very precise, sweet even when saying “No way in hell,” but contacts Simon’s credit union and agrees to charge WD to his ATM, even though it doesn’t work. Spins this to cops to make it sound like she was nothing but helpful, once it’s shown he’s been murdered. “Not robbery? Maybe he tried to buy the wrong man at the bus station.” 

Franklin Carbol, AKA: Frahnkly Frank News, 28, web-reporter for local crime news. Almost racist, but not quite. Just starting to get money in from podcasts. Did podcast a few years back praising MAGA crap, Calling Common Sense. Does anything to cause pushback so he can exploit it and play victim. 

Olivia Travers Carbol, 26, overweight but pretty enough, anti-gay, backs her husband. Baptist, Works in Car Parts Store as cashier.

MQM marches forward...

 

A little something to fill in Simon's life...a basis. Something to build a more-compelling moment from... 

-----

The first time he’d seen Alain, Simon had taken in a sharp breath. And held it for who knew how long. Tall. Broad shoulders under a fine gray suit jacket. Yves St. Laurent, he learned later. From Frost Brothers. Very high-end. Made his casual walk along an aisle of dust-ridden paperbacks even more elegant, and seemed to emphasize the perfection of his legs. Seen from behind. 

Then he'd turned to come back another aisle, showing off a soft pink shirt and flashy tie which only enhanced the exquisite features of his face. Ice blue eyes. Lips pursed in just the right way. Clean chin sculpted by the heavens. He had to be an apparition, he was so gorgeous. 

He'd stopped in the action/adventure section of titles and picked up a new copy of Arthur Hailey’s The Moneychangers. 

Without thinking, Simon had called over, “That’s a good one. He wrote Airport, too.” 

Alain had glanced at him, picked up a slightly yellowed copy of that book and held it up for Simon to see. One eyebrow perfectly raised in question. 

Simon had nodded, feeling completely idiotic. 

Alain had brought both over and said, “Haven’t seen the movie.” 

“It was on TV, last year. Maybe they’ll show it, again. Will that be all?” 

Then came a gentle nod...and Simon had noticed Alain's eyes were looking straight at him. 

“Uh, that’ll four-twenty-eight,” Simon murmured as he slipped the books into a bag. 

Alain had paid with a five, saying, “You new?” 

“What?” 

“Haven’t seen you here, before.” 

“Oh. Yeah. Just started. Part-time.” Why did he tell him that? 

Alain had nodded, accepting his change. “Still in high-school?” 

“No. No, Graduated in May. SAC. San Antonio College.” More stupid words. 

But then Alain had looked him over like a cat eyeing a mouse it’s about to have for its dinner, and smiled. “I’m familiar with it. So you work nights?” 

Simon just nodded. 

“Maybe I’ll see you around.” 

Then he licked his lips, winked, and walked out the door. 

And for the next three weeks Simon kept hoping he’d walk back in. 

Which he finally did, just before closing, dressed in a fine pullover shirt and tan slacks. It was still too warm for a jacket. He went to the adult magazines and picked through them, finally choosing a Playgirl and ignoring the glances cast his way by a couple of older men in rougher clothing who were pawing Playboy and Penthouse. 

Then ten o’clock came and Simon told him, “I’m closing, now.” 

He’d looked around, smiling. “Just you here?” 

imon nodded. “Only a few hours...a night...” 

“Seems dangerous. Uncomfortable.” 

“Nobody’s gonna rob this place. Get maybe fifty bucks.” 

“But you’re good-lookin’. They might take advantage of you.” 

Simon had no answer to that...until Alain reached over, put a finger through a belt loop in his jeans, and pulled him close. 

“Is there anyplace they could?” 

Simon still had no words, but did manage to motion to a door in the back. 

“So maybe lock the door?” said Alain. 

Simon did, and Alain took him into the back where there was a table at hip level. They used it to sort magazines. Behind it were stairs up to a cluttered office...but Alain didn’t let him go up them. 

He leaned Simon back against the table and kissed him.

Not sure what to make of this...

The more I work on The Murder of a Quiet Man, the softer the story becomes in its telling. Simon doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't curse. Doesn't threaten. No matter how he feels inside, no matter the turmoil of his inner emotions, he is always simple and steady when dealing with people. Even those who want to hurt him.

I don't think it's fear or arrogance or even fatalism that drives that in him. I say now. I may change my tune once the story is more complete. But as I go through the parts I've already written, I find myself pulling back from any histrionics that radiate from Simon; instead I internalize them, with him.

He notes his inner feelings. And people around him can still get pissed off or hysterical or accusatory at his seemingly so-what attitude, but he keeps floating along, seemingly unfazed.

Which is not like me, at all. So maybe I'm letting him show me how it's done. Maybe that's why it's taken me so long to return to the story...because I wasn't ready to be still and quiet, like him, when I'm writing.

It's hard to do. I've always been very nervous, inside. But lately...after seeing all the shit that's been going on in the world in just the last few years...I finally see there's not a goddamned thing I can do about it; all I can do is shake my head and just keep going.

Maybe that's why I'm not as freaked out as I used to be over the state of existence. Man may not survive, but the Earth will.

Anf the final part of this chapter...

 Walstead continues with his spitting rage at Simon's accusations:

-----

“Your honor, this is unacceptable and..."

Simon turned to the judge. “Unacceptable that I want to know how his committee might feel about him being presented to the defense in a way that makes him seem like a physician? And him offering an opinion meant only to benefit them?” 

Walstead was almost frothing at the mouth, he was so upset. “That’s nonsense! We only asked for him to describe what he saw!” 

“He did far more than that.” 

Manville chimed in with, “But, you honor, the defense is threatening Dr. Aristian!” 

“I’ve made no threats, your honor.” 

Falwell leaned closer to Simon, glaring as he said, “Saying you’ll take this to his committee and...” 

“I said nothing of the sort,” Simon replied. Then he turned to Aristian to add, “I merely asked how they would feel if they found out.” 

“Which is the same thing!” Manville snapped. 

“Hardly.” 

“Then why would you ask it?” 

Simon had grown even calmer, not only on the outside but also within. He smiled at Aristian and said, “I just wanted to know what you thought about what you were doing...and you told me.” 

Walstead snapped, “He didn’t say anything along those lines.” 

“He didn’t need to. Dr. Aristian knows what he did is quasi-legal, and he’s afraid if his committee finds out they will revoke his doctorate.” 

“Are you going to tell them?” Aristian asked, glaring at me. 

“No,” Simon said. 

“Why should I believe you?” 

“I’ll swear it right here and now. I promise before the court I will not approach your doctoral committee, nor will I seek them out or contact them.” 

“You expect us to just take you at your word?” Manville snarled. 

“Do or don’t. Doesn’t matter to me.” Then with more than a little disdain he sneered, “I’m done with this witness.” 

He returned to his table... 

And realized ReShawn was seated at the back of the gallery, a look of disbelief on his face. When had he slipped in? He locked eyes with Simon as if to ask, What the fuck is going on? 

Simon merely smiled to him. Then he noticed Paley glaring at him and couldn’t help but blow a kiss, in return. Childish, true, but rather satisfactory. 

He sat down just as Dr. Aristian was passing. The man stopped, still angry. “I told you, I’m not your enemy.” 

Simon calmly looked up at him and pointed to Walstead and Manville, saying, “You’re helping those two put me in prison.” 

“This is just a misdemeanor. No jail time required.” 

“Stick around for the verdict. See just how much of an enemy you’ve become, to me.” 

“So you’re going to punish me.” 

“I told I would not approach your committee...” 

“And all I can do is trust you.” 

“What a stupid man, you are.” That made Aristian blink. Before he could answer, Simon continued with, “An intelligent one would know this will eventually get back to that committee, so would tell them himself. That way he could control the narrative. Coach it in as positive a light as possible. Find out if they actually would care, one way or the other, about the tricks he pulled in service to the DA’s office. They might not. But you haven’t got the balls to find out.” 

Aristian huffed and puffed, and finally said, “You really are an asshole.” 

For the first time during the trial, Simon felt chipper enough to say, “Pot calls kettle black. News at eleven.” One of Alain’s favorite phrases. 

Walstead and Manville looked like they were about to come over, but Aristian walked away. 

That is when Judge Falwell asked, “Mr. Walstead, do you have anything further?” 

Simon looked up at his honor. Saw concern in his eyes, all of it directed at Walstead. The judge knew this had caused serious damage to the prosecution’s case and was hoping for something more to use for what was probably his pre-planned verdict. 

But Walstead said, “No, your honor. The people rest.” 

That made Falwell sit back, not at all pleased. He turned to Simon. “Are you ready with your defense, Mr. Halloran?” 

Since he had already entered his evidence into the record, hoping Walstead would be smart enough to back down, all Simon could say was, “The defense rests, your honor.” 

That made Falwell blink. “You have nothing further?” 

“No. Thank you.” 

“Are...are you ready with your summation?” 

Simon took in a deep breath, banished his concerns and said, “Yes.” 

He noticed Walstead grimacing and giving a sharp shake of his head. Apparently, he’d thought he’d have a bit more time to work up his closing argument. 

So Falwell sighed, nodded, and then said, “The court will take a fifteen minute recess, after which we will hear both summations.” He clapped his gavel, rose and whisked out. 

Simon sank into his chair, for the first time thinking maybe, just maybe, he had a chance to make this go his way. 

Maybe.

Taco Tuesday on Cinco de Mayo

Despite a break for work and tacos, I still fiddled more with Simon's trial...

-----

Falwell frowned at them and asked, “Is Dr. Aristian ready to testify?” 

“Yes, your honor,” Walsted said, half-absently, and motioned to the witness chair. 

Aristian hesitated then took the stand and swore his oath, and described what he had seen. A normal-looking, circumcised penis with a neatly detailed dragon done in red and black ink, looking like it was crawling halfway along the top of Simon’s shaft. 

“Was it easy to notice?” Walstead asked. 

“When flaccid. My feeling is, it would be less noticeable when erect.” 

Simon made a note of that comment. 

“How do you mean?” Walstead asked. 

“Well, it’s my understanding they were under a streetlamp. With a strong light shining down from above. When erect, the design would be elongated so could easily have been washed out and seemed like part of his skin.” 

Simon wrote, Just describe what he saw? Asshole. He compared notes with Paley’s testimony. The bastard. His hand gripped the pen in barely controlled anger. 

“Dr. Aristian, could this tattoo have been a false tattoo? Something temporarily applied?” 

The witness seemed a bit taken aback at that question but answered, “Possibly. I don’t know that I’d have been able to tell during such a brief, non-physical inspection.” 

“Thank you, doctor,” said Walstead. “No further questions.” 

Aristian had started to get up when Simon asked, “Your honor, am I not allowed to cross-examine the witness?” 

Falwell eyed him, almost condescendingly. “Can you do so with politeness and respect?” 

Simon deliberately frowned and asked, “Sir, when have I not behaved in a gentleman-like manner?” 

That made Falwell blink. “Well, you...um...” 

Simon calmly continued with, “I have never raised my voice, nor have I used any foul language during my interactions with the prosecution or this proceeding. My questions have been pointed, most assuredly, but no more-so than Mr. Walstead’s.” 

He rose to his feet, continuing with, “Dr. Aristian is a third party to this case. Here to, as he put it, only describe what he saw. I have questions regarding that.” 

The Judge all but rolled his eyes then snapped, “What questions do you have for the witness?” 

Simon smiled, looked the man and asked, “Dr. Aristian, do you have any training in dermatology?”

The doctor smiled to himself and said, “Well, no.” 

“Did you run any experiment to see what would happen when a bright light was shone on my genitals?” 

“We, uh, well, we went to a window for a stronger light...” 

“Was the sun shining in?” 

“No, it was just a brighter form of...of ambient light. Um, which did seem to cause the dragon’s color to grow softer.” 

“Could you still see it?” 

“Yes, but a street lamp would be much brighter and...and would have more of an affect.” 

“Is that your opinion?” 

The man hesitated then said, “Yes.”

“Not something you actually observed but something you think is possible?” 

Now Aristian was growing uncertain. “...Yes.” 

Simon nodded. “How tall was the street lamp?” 

“Um...I...I don’t know. Fifteen feet?” 

“Haven’t you been to the site to observe?” 

“...No.” 

“I see. You're testifying to an area you've not been to regarding actions you never saw. Interesting. One last question, doctor. Does the committee that bestowed your doctorate upon you know you use it in this fashion?” 

That made the man perk up. “What do you mean?” 

Walstead burst to his feet. “Your honor, Dr. Aristian’s degree has nothing to do with his testimony.” 

Even Falwell was irritated at the question. “Mr. Halloran, why are you asking that quesion?” 

Simon kept his focus on Aristian. “Because despite his professed intention to merely describe what he saw, Dr. Aristian has offered opinions that only a well-practiced dermatologist might offer, and then only after a thorough examination, not a quick look.”

Falwell eyed Simon. "If you didn't want that testimony on the record, Mr. Halloran, you should have objected."

"I don't mind that it's in the record, your Honor. I merely want it clarified that Dr. Aristian is not offering facts but opinion, in collusion with the..."

"Collusion!?" Walstead snarled. He was all but spitting from fury.

Simon calmly shifted his focus to the man and said, "Yes."

Third bit...

 Continuing from yesterday, with Simon on his own against the legal system:

-----

He went to the defendants’ table and pulled out his laptop, notes, and folders then checked his phone. Still no response from ReShawn. If one ever would come. Well...there was no more waiting time so...

Walstead and Manville settled in at their table, with Aristian in the gallery, right behind them. A few other attorneys had entered the chamber, probably with afternoon trials scheduled.

One of them, Simon had spoken to when he was looking for a lawyer to help him. Back before he realized they were either afraid of the DA's office or just didn't give a damn about helping an old faggot fight back.

The man seemed truly surprised to see Simon and was about to speak when the bailiff called, “All rise...” 

And all the rest of that blithering nonsense the man spewed to massage the judge's ego. 

Falwell came floating in, as full of himself as before, and took his chair. He glanced between the prosecution and defense and said, “Are we now ready to continue?” 

Walstead rose and said, “Well, your honor, we have Dr. Aristian here ready to view the defendant’s claim and testify to it, for the record. We’re awaiting agreement from Mr. Halloran.” 

Mister Halloran. In here he could manage his manners. 

Simon had to shake his head to keep from snarling as he said, “Let’s go. In your chambers?” 

Falwell frowned and said, “No. Bailiff will show you to a jury room and wait outside the door. Then he will bring you back in.” 

Simon nodded. Did not even think of looking at any of them, just kept his focus straight ahead and followed the bailiff through a side door down a short hallway and into a room that looked like it was straight out of Twelve Angry Men.

He felt an odd moment of déjà vu as he walked the length of the room, but ticked it off as having seen the movie so many times. Long table. Lots of chairs. Two windows with blinds looking out on a parking lot. It even had a wall-mounted revolving fan in a corner. 

He kept his focus on the fan until he heard the door close then turned to see Aristian standing at the other end of the table, eyeing him. 

“Did you really expect me to be a physician?” he asked, almost chuckling. “Are you one of those people who think that’s the only thing a doctor can be?” 

Simon took in a deep breath and asked, “How do you want to do this?” 

The man blinked. “Well...Dillon tells me you claim to have a tattoo on the top of your penis. Which I need to see. So...if you could lower your pants and show me...” 

Simon undid his trousers and let them drift down to his knees. Then he pulled his briefs down in front to let the elastic of the briefs catch behind his penis and testicles. Finally, he held the tail of his shirt up so there was a clear view of everything, and the little red dragon gleefully revealed itself as it whispered up half his shaft into his hair.

Aristian blinked and said, “May I take a look, by the window?” 

Simon pulled his trousers up and made his way to the closest one, then he let them drop, again. Aristian drew close and almost touched him, as if he wanted to hold it for closer examination.

“This must have been very painful. How did you manage? Does it look so detailed when you’re erect?” 

Simon just looked at him. Did not even try to reply. 

Aristian  straightened up. “I’m not your enemy, Mr. Halloran,” he sighed. “I’m only here to describe what I’ve seen.” 

“Have you seen enough?” Simon asked, his voice calm.

The man nodded. “What I needed to. Unless you can become erect...” 

Simon huffed a hollow breath, anger shimmering inside him. He did not even attempt to hold back his disdain when he asked, “Do you want to suck on it? See if it tastes like soy sauce?” 

Arisitan stiffened and glared at him. “No. We’re done.” 

Simon tucked himself back in order and opened the door. The bailiff was right there. He was led back into the courtroom, where he went to his table and sat in the chair. Anger still bounced through him.

At the same time, the doctor stopped by the prosecution’s table, where they spoke in soft voices.

Probably getting their story in order, Simon thought. Meaning Walstead would not be withdrawing the charges, even in the face of this.

It was going to be a fight to the death.

Continued from yesterday...

I've been jumping all over the place in this story, updating it to fit the new parameters, but this will be pretty much the same, now.

------

Walstead saw Simon and beckoned him over, saying, “Simon, I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Aristian.” The tone of his voice was far too deliberately cheerful in its casual dismissal of manners.

Simon focused on him and softly said, “Since you insist on referring to me by my first name, shall I refer to you by yours? Do you prefer Charles or Dillon?” 

Walstead’s fake expression of camaraderie froze. 

Manville huffed and said, “I think your manners are...” 

Simon cut her off by simply turning to the man and saying, “I am Mr. Halloran, Dr. Aristian. I understand you’ll be doing a physical examination on me.” 

Walstead jumped in to say, “Just a visual. A look to verify your claim. That’s all.” 

Simon hated games like this, obvious and childish. But since they insisted...he said, “I’m exposing myself to a physician I’ve just met, so that is a serious consideration...” 

“Mr. Halloran,” Aristian said, quickly. “I’m a PhD, not a physician.” 

Simon eyed him and asked, still in a very soft voice, “Do you have any medical training?” 

He shook his head and shrugged. “Rudimentary things. CPR. Immediate aid.” 

Simon’s heart beat faster as his breath grew shallow. He cast a cool glare at Walstead abut his voice remained calm when he asked, “Is this a joke? Are you mocking me?” 

“I never said he was a physician.” Spoken in that same vile overly-sincere tone that was close to condescending. “Did you really think I could get hold of a medical professional this fast?” 

Manville broke in, fighting a smirk as she said, “Simon, it doesn’t matter who does the...” 

This time, Simon raised his hand to cut her off. “You will address me as Mister Halloran or you and I will have no further communication.” 

She drew in a hissing breath, ready for battle, but Walstead stepped between them to say, “Your choice is simple, Mister Halloran. Dr. Aristian takes a look at this tattoo and describes it into the record, and we continue on. Or we get a continuance and have a physician contracted to do the exam, which you would be liable to pay for. Choice is yours.” 

Simon almost sighed. “I’m not the one demanding this.” 

“Those are your choices. Which one is it?” 

“You know what my choice is.” 

Walstead’s voice and manner were growing tight and ready for a fight. “Not acceptable. The judge has said so.” 

Deep within, Simon was so angry at this casual abuse he had to close his eyes and step back. It was like that day Alain had found him in the book shop, and had tried to act like they were old friends while suggesting Simon was a bad person for vanishing on him. 

Vanishing. All he'd done is cut off contact. What did they call that, now? Ghosting? 

He was also upset that ReShawn wasn’t here to do battle against this blatant attack on common decency. He’d have known the legal precedents to push Walstead back. 

“So which is it, Simon? Courtroom’s open, now, so...” 

Simon. 

From Manville’s voice. 

She had deliberately called him Simon. In direct violation of simple manners. The little bitch. 

Simon opened his eyes and saw a smug expression on her face, so said nothing. No words came to mind, so no need to fight back any explosion. He simply walked around them all to enter the courtroom. 

In silence.

Here we go...

I worked on this part of MQM, today. It's during Simon Halloran's trial over claims of indecent exposure within six-hundred feet of a school. He was able to get the arresting officer to admit that even though he said Simon exposed himself under a street lamp, erect, the man could not describe the penis.

Simon points out he has a very obvious tattoo of a dragon on it, showing the cop is lying. That's when Walstead, the ADA, demands a Dr. Aristian examine Simon's dick and describe it. Simon reluctantly agrees. They break for lunch to give the doctor time to arrive.

------

Simon managed to force a dry cheeseburger and overcooked fries down his throat, with packets of ketchup and mustard, followed by a Dr Pepper Zero from the vending machine. The café in that building was overpriced and his mother’s non-cooking had been far superior, but he did not want to have to deal with Security to get back into the building. He promised himself a better dinner...so long as this wasn’t to be his last meal. 

He ate at a table in a corner as other people clattered around him and children ran about, screaming. He used his hotspot to search online for this Dr. Aristian. He knew he wouldn’t have time to interview the man, but he could still do as much as possible to prepare, only he found nothing. The closest match was an attorney named Carter Aristian, who had a PhD...and was in an office a few blocks away, going by Google maps.

He felt that usual breathless nervousness build behind his heart as he read through the man’s credentials. Ohio State for pre-law then Harvard Law. Clerked for one of the most conservative justices on the Supreme Court, which indicated not only his level of ability but also his political leanings. His doctorate was in the misapplication of the law by Henry VIII during his breakaway from the Catholic Church and how it had become a witch hunt comparable to the HUAC hearings. It seemed a bit simplistic and too easy of a comparison, but it was sufficient to make him a Doctor of Jurisprudence.

Achieved by a man who, if the photo he used on his site were current, was very attractive and not yet forty.

Which tugged at Simon’s quiet self-loathing. He had always felt he'd effectively done nothing with his life except find a silent space in which to live. He felt no jealousy or envy or disparagement against the man. It was more his simple understanding that he had never even really tried to better himself. In any way. And here was someone who'd fulfilled his promise, completely.

It hurt his heart.

He texted ReShawn, again, but received no reply. In a follow-up text, he filled him in on Walstead’s new ploy. It was delivered, but not seen. ReShawn had said his meeting was at ten and it was now approaching two, so he was feeling more and more like he had been blown off. That ReShawn was simply not interested in providing legal assistance.

Simon packed his laptop and folder with his notes into his backpack then headed downstairs. As he turned into the corridor that led to the courtroom, he saw Walstead and Manville by the doors, talking to a dark, trim, attractive man in his thirties. His hair and beard were cropped close, a thick wedding band was on his left hand, and his suit...well, while it was nice it was nowhere near as sharp or tailored as Walstead’s. 

And Simon almost forgot to breathe. 

Even from down the hall he could tell it was the man in the photograph. His profile sharp and well-formed. And that he was not a physician but a Phd. They'd led him to think Aristian was a medical professional when in reality they were pulling a trick on him. A chill passed from his fingers up his arms and through his body.

This was unacceptable.

Thoughts?

I'm not sure where this came from or what the intent is, but I sat down at my laptop and this is what came out...possibly the opening to The Murder of a Quiet Man. A story I sort of started a while back and got shifted off of.

------

Silence is, perhaps, the most complex word in the English language. Or any language. It can mean peace. Acceptance. Anger. Understanding. Acquiescence. Disapproval. Separation. Refusal. Hate. Love. And even cruelty. 

To be silent in a judicial sense is seen to mean consent. Which is too simplistic a definition, even when restricting it to the law. Silence in a relationship is often seen as evidence the bond between two individuals is over...or has become comfortable enough to quiet the need for speech. 

For Simon, silence was a gentle blanket enveloping him in peace and safety. He had always sought it, but he had found the easiest way to achieve silence was to let it come to him. Usually, while reading late in the evening. 

Another would be at the end of a thunderstorm that had declared its presence for all the world to see but now was whispering like a lazy feline in need of a light caress. He would sit on his back balcony, under an awning that still dripped from the rain, the moisture remaining in the air as he sipped a cup of hot tea and soaked in the joy the world seemed to feel.

Sometimes he even achieved that level of Zen, for lack of a better word, while listening to music. Easy tones drifting melodiously. No words. Nothing brash or demanding. Just New Age in a classical style. During those moments, he cared nothing for the world and its billions of issues. He would not think beyond the immediate. His eyes would close and in the darkness everything would be reborn...would renew...would regain its meaning. And life would realign itself within him.

A funny thing to learn in your seventy-third year. 

Could be it's probably me...

I cannot rouse myself up to work on Blood Angel 4, no matter what I do. My interest level is way low. And that's even with a beautiful naked man chained to Léonidès' bed, awaiting abuse...

I seriously wonder if I'm undiagnosed ADHD. I'll start doing something like putting away the dishes I washed, last night, then get sidetracked into prepping my meds for the day, then decide I need to go through my folders for a job that needs more info and go online and think, I should check my bank accounts...all within ten minutes.

When I manage to finally pull up the Word doc for BA4, I'll read through a page then think of how I need new sleeping shirts because the one I wore last night had a frayed collar and maybe I should brush my teeth and get dressed but the bed needs to be made up and I should turn off the vaporizer and...it goes on and on.

It's a common neurodevelopmental disorder typically diagnosed in childhood, and if we'd had that as a potential diagnosis back then I'd have been the poster child. It's characterized by persistent inattention and impulsivity...as well as other attributes, but those two pretty much sum me up. As a boy, when I was reading a book I liked my mother would actually have to tap me on the shoulder to get my attention; just calling to me wouldn't get through to me.

There's the difficulty of sustaining focus on tasks, frequent careless mistakes, appearing not to listen, poor organization, losing items, and being easily distracted. Which I am. I have a hell of a time focusing on any project for very long, or even getting started on one, sometimes. And i am constantly forgetting something somewhere.

I have difficulty sitting still (I'll fall asleep), I fidget (I'm compulsive about biting my nails, nonstop), and I'll act without thinking (which references my actions far-far-far too often).

If I am, I'm probably of the Predominantly Inattentive realm: inattention, with minimal hyperactivity-impulsivity. The exact cause is unknown, but researchers believe it results from a combination of factors: Genetics: it's running in families. Brain Structure/Function: Studies show reduced activity in certain brain regions, such as the prefrontal cortex.

Seems a bit silly to get myself checked for it at this late stage, but it might explain some of my inconsistencies and difficulty in completing project. Maybe.