Under A Rest Pt. 06

(Much love to everyone who read and enjoyed this story, and special thanks to all who reached out!)

***

One Month Later

"Do you believe you are susceptible to forming any judgements based solely on a person's race, color, creed, national origin, ancestry, gender, gender identity or expression, age, disability, or sexual orientation?"

"No."

"Do you have any preconceived notions against the psychiatric profession that would impede upon your ability to be objective in a trial?"

"No."

"Is it just me or is it kind of hot in here?"

"Huh?...I, um...come to think of it--"

"Perfect, thank you, sir. Please wait over there, we'll call you back shortly so the judge and prosecutor can see you."

The Angelos dream team sat in a tight circle of three in the state courtroom, a grand, windowless room paneled entirely in various wood finishes. They looked up at each other in tandem, knowing smirks gracing their faces as the potential juror arose.

"For a guy who's been away from the courtroom for, like, ten years, you're a beast," one of them muttered, snickering and shaking his head.

The team's head lawyer remained focused on the paperwork in front of him and smirked.

"Voir dire's a bitch, Harrison," he said, noting the potential juror's name on his clipboard with a bold check mark. "And I am her master."

***

Another Month Later, Friday Morning

The months leading up to the trial had been particularly unkind to him. As her influence receded from his mind, it became painfully clear that it had left in its wake a gaping void, his struggles even worse than before--not in severity, only that what suited him just fine beforehand now felt cruel.

But that was over now. The void slowly but surely had to be filled. He'd been on his own for decades. He could do it again.

Detective Berman's chin sat idly in his hand, only half tuned into the trial's dry opening statements. Despite the stress involved in preparing for them, trials themselves were usually rather boring. There were few surprises, if any. In stuffy courtrooms, opening statements flowed into testimonies flowed into presentations of evidence flowed into verdicts. And days, weeks, occasionally months of work culminated in just a few monotonous hours of jejune, categorical presentation.

Collecting usable intelligence was sometimes the hardest part. Sometimes, those who most deserved restitution were most afraid to do what was necessary to secure it. To the detective's frustration, only two of the doctor's patients named in James Walter's letter were courageous enough to testify. From the powerful to the nobodies, everyone's reasonings for remaining silent ran the gamut--doubting their memories, feeling guilty about the prospect of testifying against her, feeling outright fear. They were, curiously, unable to verbalize why.

The detective had done his best, or so he'd thought--scrutinizing every loose end, pulling warrants and subpoenas, leafing through various etceteras. Per his job description, it was quite rare that he lent assistance to his cases after indictments, but his personal stake in the matter necessitated it. That was beside the fact that it was just about all he could think about, his other cases having somewhat fallen by the wayside.

At this point, he'd be relieved just to put the whole mess behind him. It sufficed to say she was making that particularly difficult today. There she sat at the defendant's table, donned in a long, form-fitting black dress, turtlenecked with long sleeves. Her neck was adorned with a sparkling crystal pendant that he found pretty and decidedly apropos for the occasion, if a bit uninspired. She exuded her usual charm while still, in a way only the detective could tell, putting on a show. After having been away from her for so long, watching her today felt akin to watching her in one.

She sat perfectly postured in her chair, eyes dancing about when they suddenly came to rest upon his. She gave him a warm smile. Taken aback, he immediately averted his gaze. Though part of him thrilled, her smile was the last thing he needed. He had a testimony to give.

It wouldn't be terribly difficult to delineate the extent of her manipulation as he saw fit. He planned to disclose that he'd been subject to her patter in her office, that he'd been made to forget it, that it had distracted him from investigating the case, and nothing more. Part of her indictment included obstruction of justice for that very reason.

But he planned to keep their affair and its more sordid details to himself. For some reason, the very thought of laying bare before the general public his tranquil descent into loving trance and his subsequent excruciating wake-up call nauseated him. Probably wouldn't have swayed the jury, anyway. Probably would've only served to make him look ineffectual, weak-willed, and incompetent.

Probably would've made her laugh at him.

***

Opening statements and plaintiff examination went as planned. The case's prosecutor, District Attorney Damon Johnson, was competent and thorough. A man with sartorial flair, today his warm umber skin stood out from his light beige suit, accessorized with a dotted burgundy tie and matching pocket square. His short, curly hair, jet black in his younger days, was peppered with gray throughout.

The facts--at least, as presented--were established: two of Doctor Angelos' patients, a man and a woman, claimed she exploited her methods to engage in sexual relationships with them. They were convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that she was capable of bending their consent to her whims, making them do things they wouldn't ordinarily. A follow-up expert testimony from a board-certified hypnotherapist confirming the possibility of such a thing legitimized the presentations.

Then, of course, they were promptly eviscerated by none other than Marcus Chiang.

In top form as the head of Doctor Angelos' legal team, he who himself spoke so compellingly, who, too, seemed to lack any qualms manipulating those around him to his heart's content, indeed stood before the courtroom relentlessly cross-examining the witnesses.

Somehow, Detective Berman was both shocked and not.

Marcus mercilessly poked holes in their recollections, questioning them, clearly taking advantage of the fact that their memories to begin with were shaky at best. He spoke clearly, concisely, exhibiting a nigh preternatural confidence and fluidity, each phrase carefully calculated and structured. Fastidiously poised, his hair was perfectly groomed and his suit fit him to perfection, his movements graceful, choreographed, powerful. The cadence of his words was entrancing in its own right, though not in the sweet, lulling way of the doctor, moreso in that he commanded a room, forcing one to listen despite their best attempts to the contrary.

"If you thought my client even possibly had you do things in the sexual realm, then why hadn't you ever thought of pressing charges?" Marcus asked, stalking up to the stand like a leopard toying with its dinner.

The mousy, blonde-headed woman blinked in surprise.

"Me, pressing charges?"

"Well, you're here now. According to your testimony, you had relations with her, of which your memory is, to your own admission, dubious, and you claim her therapy made you feel a degree of loss of agency."

"That's correct."

"You testified under oath, ma'am, that these methods infringed upon your trust by subverting your conscious mind and causing you to make those decisions."

"Right."

"That's not only a hefty claim to make, it would constitute sexual assault in the first degree. Are you saying that's what happened?"

She hesitated.

"I hadn't thought of it that way."

"Answer the question, ma'am."

"I'm not sure. I-it's hard to know where I started and she began."

"So you didn't press charges because you consented?"

"Well, no, not exactly...I just never thought of it as sexual assault, consent isn't always cut and dry, it--it--" she stammered. Her eyes, clearly overwhelmed, suddenly began to well with tears.

"So you're saying in absolute surety that you weren't sexually assaulted?"

"No--I-I mean maybe, I don't know, just that...just that..." she said, those tears beginning to spill onto her pale cheeks.

"I'm just asking, ma'am, because frankly, I'm more confused now than when we started," he said dryly, casting a glance at the jury.

"Objection," a bright, assertive voice called, Damon rising from his seat with his hand in the air. "Irrelevant to the case. Unnecessarily distressing to the witness."

Judge Bill Hanover--a pasty, bespectacled older man, brooding and balding--thought for a moment, then nodded his head.

"Sustained. Mr. Chiang, if you would."

Marcus glowered.

"As you wish, your honor. No further questions."

"Your honor," Damon said, "I'd like to call Detective Michael Berman to the stand."

The detective exhaled and made his way over, as ready as he ever would be for his turn. Marcus ambled deliberately towards him on the stand, fingers tented in anticipation.

"Detective, you confessed that you too, were hypnotized by Doctor Angelos in her office in December of last year, following a visit related to the case."

"That's correct."

"And was it all covert like the others claim?" he sneered.

"No, I willingly consented to it," he admitted. A sidelong glance toward the jury revealed some surprised expressions.

"Interesting," Marcus said as though this were news to him, eyes widened, pulling his upper lip over his lower and dropping his jaw. The detective rolled his eyes. "And why's that?"

"At the time, I deemed it possible, though unlikely, that she'd somehow hypnotized the victim into committing suicide. Of course I was skeptical of something so fantastical, but to rule out all methods, I decided to undergo the process myself."

"And then, what, you killed yourself?"

"Objection, your honor!"

"Overruled. Continue."

"Obviously not, Mr. Chiang," the detective replied flatly.

"Oh, to put yourself in such a position..." Marcus tutted, again clearly orienting this observation towards the jury. "Is that fit behavior for the lead investigator of a homicide case?"

"Sure, if hypnosis is as harmless as you claim," Detective Berman slung back without hesitation. For the first time that day, Marcus looked miffed, now on his back foot. The detective continued.

"In fact, that's precisely why I consented. Coercion is a funny thing, you know. Ms. Malone, choked up as she got on the stand just now with you bullying her, had a point about consent. This sort of thing sneaks up on you. You're like a boiled frog, not realizing what you're agreeing to because it all makes so much sense. When Doctor Angelos hypnotized me, I didn't feel all that much. At least, not at first. Then she kept talking, and talking, and all of a sudden, I was waking up disoriented, with a funny feeling in my stomach. Things just felt a little different after that. The case just didn't seem as important to me. And though I can't prove it with anything other than the fact that this simple case took me so long to bring to the DA, I believe she purposefully planted a suggestion for me to ignore it."

For a brief moment, the room was dead silent. Marcus leaned forward in anticipation.

"So with continued coercion, might she have even...led you into her arms, like the other witnesses claim?" he asked smugly.

Detective Berman paused, fighting the surge of mortification in his chest.

"With enough time and effort, I believe it's possible, yes. Had that happened, of course."

"But it didn't."

His throat tightened.

"No, it didn't. But it happened to Mr. Walter."

"Doubtful," Marcus shot back. "His medical file states only...what was it, seven or eight hypnotherapy sessions? That's nothing. Any involvement my client may or may not have had would have been purely consensual."

"I would assume that you as her counsel would have rote fact pertinent to the case memorized by this point, Mr. Chiang," Detective Berman said, eyes stony. A few hushed, polite chuckles reverberated through the room. Marcus glared at him and opened his mouth to speak, but took too long to form his words. Detective Berman took his chance and continued.

"That being said, whether or not the stated number of sessions is accurate is moot. It doesn't take all that much to alter someone's course of thinking, especially in small chunks. If you're already sufficiently depressed, and unbalanced, and in the wrong state of mind, and you have been for some time, the words 'kill yourself' suddenly mean everything to you. No hypnosis necessary."

"Oh, certainly, I agree. Except for that, even if my client did something so vile--which she didn't--that isn't murder."

Marcus now stood only a few feet away from the stand. They locked eyes, stares heated.

"At any rate, one who is very lonely and very emotional can be highly suggestible. And I maintain that Mr. Walter was already under her influence at his time of death."

"Interesting theory. If only you had a lick of proof of that, Detective." Through closed lips, Marcus chuckled slightly. He broke their staring contest. "No further questions, your honor."

Indeed, there were none. After the detective stepped down, Damon presented the case-in-chief: that James Walter had no other female associates; that the document found on his laptop gave her a very strong motive; that the last phone call he received came from a defunct and anonymous phone number; that Paul Kuklinski, the colleague whose birthday party she'd attended the night of Walter's death, submitted a deposition that she'd gotten up mid-Scrabble game when she had never before left the table during such games; that a man so literate left no suicide note; that the exact garment found in his house was one she had at one point purchased for herself.

Detective Berman glanced at the jury, their expressions steeped in thought. For the first time that day, he felt a shred of hope.

***

After a short recess, the ball was passed into the doctor's court. Two of Doctor Angelos' professional colleagues, who subscribed to the school of thought that one simply does not do that which they'd deem reprehensible or harmful in a hypnotic state, took the stand to provide expert testimony, effectively nullifying that of the prosecution.

Detective Berman's expression morphed into a grotesque marriage of smile and grimace.

Then the doctor took the stand herself, and Marcus examined her directly. Her testimony was straightforward with all the expected details. She did admit to a level of personal involvement with James Walter, but that it was entirely consensual, involved no hypnosis, and was ended only due to the escalation of abuse on his part. She shared details of her involvement, but also painted a vivid, nuanced picture of his supposed descent, making him look not like a brutish aggressor but rather a victim of his own mind.

As he listened, the detective found it curious that she made no mention of her relationship with him whatsoever. It both tacitly confirmed his testimony and salvaged his image, while also, in a way, publicly denying that anything between them had even occurred. This, to him, felt both a blessing and a curse.

He furrowed his brow. Actually, all she was doing now was reciting some inane defense of her usage of hypnosis. Because of course she would.

"...And really, folks, we all know hypnosis isn't like the movies, where you wave a pocket watch in front of someone, swinging back and forth, back and forth, telling someone to breathe, feel their muscles relaxing, eyelids growing heavy...it just doesn't work that way, right? It's not being deeply asleep now. It's not mind control, listening and obeying. Science proves it."

The jury that exuded opposition at the outset now nodded their weary heads, jaws slack, hearts blooming with sympathy. Detective Berman sat there and listened, noting the jury members' empty stares glued to her. After a long day seated still in a warm room, it came as no surprise to see a few pairs of glassy eyes in the jury box fluttering. One's head nodded forward briefly. The detective scoffed to himself quietly, arms crossed in indignance.

What a farce. He would have felt utterly incensed at this sheer injustice had he not been both so unsurprised at her underhanded tactics and so prepared against such tactics himself. Indeed, if he had one consolation, it was that his own glazed gaze was not that of a hypnotized mind, merely that of a weary man in an airless courtroom. While others lost themselves in her words, he remained vigilant and aware, observing her in her element, her voice bobbing and weaving.

"We've observed these things for over a hundred years, since the dawn of the scientific method in its most modern form. We all enter hypnotic states all the time. If you've ever stared out the window, or zoned out, daydreaming, listening to someone else drone on and on...almost boring you, really, though not quite...simply letting your thoughts flow freely, your mind not focused on any particular sort of thing, or on the contrary, even intensely focused on something that has all your attention. You know what that's like. It's warm. Familiar. Very natural. Very safe."

Even Damon side-eyed Detective Berman nervously, clearly aware of the effect this woman had on those around her--including himself. He'd warned the prosecutor of the doctor's command, but he only now felt her draw for himself. His breathing slowed, heart thudding in his chest, muscles slackening. His body remained heavy, glued to his seat, forced to endure her incessant stream of words. There were no objections for him to make, for nothing objectionable had been said.

The detective, on the other hand, was not going to succumb today; no. He knew better. He straightened up in his seat and looked directly at Doctor Angelos, shoulders squared, countenance stern, chin raised just slightly in a subtle sign of defiance. Her orbit was tangible, requiring constant reminders and self-checks to ensure that he remained awake and aware of her words and not drawn in. He wouldn't fall. Not this time.

Suddenly, she met his eyes again. This time, he didn't shy away. Their gazes remained unwavering, caught in perhaps the most inconspicuous game of chicken ever played. It was as though she were speaking directly to him, the others still enthralled but completely unaware of the intense rencontre occurring right under their noses.

"Our brain waves fluctuate through various frequencies, you see, and we enter various states of alertness throughout the day, and the night, when we're so tired, drifting, needing to close our eyes and rest now. It's only natural to allow such a thing to happen when we're safe, so very safe, and in such dire need of rest."

With a start, his eyelids fluttered almost imperceptibly, his mind for a brief moment falling away from him and losing track of her speech. His breath became shallow and steady, heart rate increasing ever so slightly. The muscles in his neck twitched as her voice filled the room, filled his ears, filled his head with her words.

His mind urged him to fight.

He resisted, resisted hard, struggling to remember, to find the strength in his mind that would keep him from slipping away when he needed it most. Feeling himself leaning forward ever so slightly, subconsciously in agreement to her words, awareness slowly but surely draining out of him, his eyes shot open. She was still talking.

His mind urged him to listen.

He desperately sought something in her words that would snap him out of it. He found nothing but her voice moving further away. He was no longer listening. In one swift pivot, he was no longer staring deeply into her eyes as her adversary, but as her thrall. Despite the fact that he knew her song and dance so well at this point that he could predict every beat, like every other warm body in that courtroom, he couldn't possibly tear his gaze away from those sparkling eyes, nor his ears from that lilting voice dancing from those clever, smirking lips.