I'm having anything Simon is part of told in first person. When dealing with anyone else, it'll be in third person.
--------
I was about to cross to the courthouse when I noticed a small bank branch on the corner, to my left, with an open ATM. I went to it, accepted the ridiculous service charge, and withdrew three-hundred dollars. I wanted cash in case the clerk refused to let me use my Visa or debit card to pay the fine. I slipped it in my wallet then crossed with the signal.
Security was fairly straightforward. An x-ray scanner next to a table where I had to push my backpack through to be inspected by a guard as another waved me in. I’d put my wallet, keys, glasses and everything else that might set off the scanner into the outside pockets of my backpack, so no problem arose with me. And nothing was found in my backpack that might be dangerous. My name was on a list of people attending court proceedings. So in I went.
Dillon Walstead and Elissa Manville were already in the corridor outside the courtroom, both looking crisp and fresh in appropriately tailored suits, with Dillon’s much better fitted than hers. Perfectly fitted, in fact, as if bespoke. They were talking to that son-of-a-bitch, Paley, who was wearing the sharpest cop’s uniform I’d ever seen. It practically emphasized how well-built he was. He had also shaved and his hair had been recently cut into what I referred to as whitewalls, meaning next to nothing visible above his ears or on the nape of his neck.
What had my father once called that? Marine cut? Military? Jarhead? Something along those lines, and he’d been quite disdainful of anyone who wore it without also having the stick-up-your-ass gait of a true Marine.
“Buncha pussies actin’ like they’re real men,” he’d snarl under his breath. Before he died, he’d almost seemed to prefer men have the long hair he’d so disparaged during Vietnam. The style seemed to be making yet another resurgence in fashion, now that the police had become part of America’s gestapo.
Of course, he’d stopped talking to me after he learned I was queer. Stopped even acknowledging me. No surprise. No loss, really. We’d never been close enough for that to matter.
I walked past them without even a nod and sat on a bench across from Courtroom Three, waiting for the double-doors to open. It was a nice-looking corridor of polished wood, probably oak stained to look like mahogany. If that were possible. Still, it was intricately carved and gleaming. Glazed slate floors. Church-like arches of carved wood above, with plain white plaster or sheetrock between them; I never can tell which is what.
An older, once-attractive guard in a green and tan uniform stood before the doors, at parade rest, eyeing everyone with full suspicion. That same Marine cut, but from his stance I suspected he actually had been one.
The bench I was seated on was also polished and a bit slippery from being waxed, but it was close enough to the wall that I could lean back. So I pulled out my laptop and used my phone’s hotspot to fire up some WiFi. The building may have its own internet service, but it wasn’t at all secure. My phone was.
I had an old leather file portfolio holding my documents and details. It also served well as a little tray to rest my laptop on. The Word file of the vicious little story I’d written about Paley, Walstead and the Judge was positioned near the top of the screen, making me smile. That had let off a lot of steam so maybe I could make it through this fiasco without...
“Good morning, Simon.”
I jolted, slightly, then looked up to see Walstead standing next to me, Elissa one step behind him. They must have snuck over, and now were standing nearly at attention. “We need to speak to you before the trial.”
That suit was even better-looking, up close. He’d spent some money getting it tailored, and it was begging for a compliment. But all I said was, “It’s Mr. Harper. We’ve been over this.”
Walstead hesitated then forced himself to smile. “Very well, Mr. Harper. Now, I think you should know...”
I cut him off, deeply irritated. “You have nothing to say to me.”
He sat beside me, all but forcing himself to take a weary, sympathetic tone. “I don’t know about that. We’ve been doing some research. I didn’t realize you were a poet as well as an artist.”
Oh, for God’s sake, I almost groaned. “If you Google my name, my work comes up, rather quickly. It’s no surprise.”
Manville seemed taken aback. “You Googled yourself?”
I just looked at her.
Walstead cleared his throat. “You’re not exactly correct about that. What we found was some rather...intense work. At first I thought it was a mistake, you’re such a laid-back kind of guy, and your names are not exactly unusual, so...well...it was surprising.”
“Is there a point to this conversation?”
Walstead shifted back to stiff and cold. “You have a coloring book with some poems. Illustrations. They tell us very interesting things about you. Gangs of men kidnapping straight men. Tying them up. Raping them. The suggestion is, some of them are even killed.”
“You ordered one?”
“No, there were some pages from it posted online.”
“That sounds like you’ve been perusing Gay Portal. You have to be a member, for access. Was it smart of you, to sign up?”
He stiffened even more. “I didn't. I have a friend who's gay and he recognized your name...”
“Recognized it?”
“Yes. He's an attorney and I was sounding him out about your case and he realized he knew of you. And...and he showed me some of your work.”
“A fellow gay man helped you gather information on me. How nice of him.”
No comments:
Post a Comment