Blackout

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

On the morning of the hearing, I wake up early and dress in my normal baby-blue cotton pants and white crew neck. There isn’t much I can do about my face; we aren’t allowed makeup here. But I pull a brush through my brown curls until they hang perfectly across my shoulders and fiddle impatiently with my shirt, trying to flatten the fabric, making it as unwrinkled as possible, until Rita comes to my room accompanied by two burly policemen, who are obviously going to be my escort. She kisses me on the cheek and wishes me good luck as the officers place heavy shackles around my wrists and ankles. What seems like the whole ward is lined up in the hallway outside my room door, whispering prayers for me and reaching out to pat my back. The one face I’m hoping to see, however, is missing. I guess I was stupid for thinking Clarisa would get over her issues in time for my hearing. What was I expecting, anyway? Some warm farewell scene? Her begging for forgiveness and wishing me luck?

The van used to transport me is quite impressive. Once I am securely buckled to the seat, my wrist shackles are cuffed to an iron bar running through the center of the vehicle. The officers kindly inform me that the whole van is bullet and missile-proof, including the tires, and fitted with state-of-the-art technology that keeps everyone safe. I wonder if these technologically advanced add-ons are for my protection or the public’s.

I inhale sharply as the van exits the last of many security checkpoints and leaves behind the perimeter fence. The last time I was outside of those stone walls was over five years ago, and I can’t even remember what it looked like then. I am blown away by the beauty of the area beyond the fence’s boundary. The long dirt road leading away from the facility is bordered by a low hedge, but a few yards beyond it are all kinds of bushes and trees, some hanging with fruits and berries, others dotted with colorful blossoms. While these views may be normal to some, they are utterly fascinating to me.

Soon we reach the asphalt road and the crunch of the gravel under the tires surprises me. It takes me a minute to understand the sound. I ask the officer in the passenger seat to roll his window down as we reach the first roads leading to the downtown district. I just want to smell the smoggy scent of the city. The gritty aroma is unfamiliar, but it warms my heart.

The courthouse is still the same as I remember, and I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Its ivory stone walls, gray columns, and domed roof remind me of a catholic church, or maybe a capitol building. My stomach sinks as I notice the huge crowds lining the stairs leading up to the front doors of the building. There are loud chants coming from the crowds, though I can’t understand what they are saying. News crews rush around the van when it pulls up to the rear entrance, and I resist the urge to cover my face. I wasn’t expecting this level of attention.

Of course someone, probably a family member of one of my many victims, has let slip that there was a hearing today to discuss my possible release, probably to stir up some type of reaction, some kind of backlash that could keep me locked up. I guess I would expect that. If it were my loved one who had been murdered, I would never want the murderer to be set free either. I would want the world to know everything about the case.

The officers unchain me from the metal bar, unbuckle me, and escort me through the hordes of cameras and microphones being jammed in my face by eager reporters. I remain silent and look down at my shackled wrists until I am in the doors and they are closed behind me. Then, I am guided to the courtroom where my hearing is to take place. Seeing Bobby’s face calms me a little, and I wipe my sweaty hands off on my pants before the inevitable handshake between attorney and client.

Bobby and I exchange pleasantries and he passes me a glass of water, which I drink quickly, just then noticing how thirsty I was. I should have eaten something this morning, but I was too nervous to even think about food. Someone calls my name and I turn to see Dr. Dillinger seated next to a familiar man. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’ve seen him somewhere. He looks tall even though he’s seated, and his short dark hair perfectly matches his brown eyes. Before I can become too enthralled by this new mystery, however, a deep voice announces, “All rise, the Honorable Judge Carlton Thomas presiding, court is now in session.” I stand with the rest of the courtroom and watch as the judge appears from a door behind the witness stand and hurries to sit at the bench. He puts his glasses on the tip of his nose and reads his notes importantly as the bailiff instructs us to be seated.

I can feel my breathing speed with my heart rate and my hands pool with sweat again. I am so nervous that I can’t even think straight. The judge’s lips are moving, but what is he saying? Please don’t let him be asking me a question, because I can’t hear anything beyond the loud ringing in my ears. But I can’t take my eyes off his moving mouth.

Bobby says something next to me, but I can’t force myself to pay attention. It takes a great effort to make any words come together in ways that make sense right now. By the time the nervousness has subsided somewhat, the judge is calling for Dr. Dillinger to take the stand.

I see her move through my peripheral vision, and I can tell that she’s working a little harder than usual to maintain her almost runway-like gait in her ever present stilettos. By the time she sits down on the witness stand, I have almost regained all of my focus, and I am staring at her so hard I feel I might bore holes into her face.

The judge starts out asking Dr Dillinger questions about her qualifications and degrees and years of experience, but soon begins asking questions about me. How long has she been treating me? What medicines do I take? What’s my daily schedule like? My diet? Some of the questions make no sense to me, like how many visitors I’ve had in the last couple of months (zero besides my attorney, since I have no family or friends) and what religion I practice (none). He even asks her if I have shown any signs of having romantic feelings for anyone since I have been hospitalized. I don’t understand why anyone needs to know this information, but luckily for me, the answers are pretty basic. I’ve been focused on nothing but staying conscious and murder free.

The judge asks specific questions about my treatment. About my counseling and group sessions, about my attitude towards it all, about the changes she noticed in me once the medicine started to take effect.

“I didn’t notice that there were any significant changes at all, besides the subsiding of the blackouts, of course. From the first time I met Iris, she was very remorseful for what she’d done, and she has always hated the condition that she felt made her a prisoner. She has never had any of the markings of most people who are considered mentally ill; she is very aware and extremely intelligent. No, she’s been the same from the start. Seemingly willing to do whatever it takes to be a good person.”

“What,” the judge asks, “can you tell the court about Ms. Kilpatrick personally? Things about her demeanor, things you feel the court needs to know to help with the decision?”

“Iris is a model patient at Tampa Palms, and has been from the moment she arrived. She is a leader. We have a lot of patients with serious issues, and when we can’t calm a 1patient down or bring them back after an episode, Iris can. She has helped our facility tremendously; made it better. She has even received a degree while hospitalized.

“People have been asking how someone who admittedly murdered at least eight people could ever be considered rehabilitated. Further, adding the mental illness, how could they be rehabilitated in just five years? I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. I am in total awe of Iris. Without the blackouts corrupting her, she is such an incredible human being. I am beyond confident that she is not dangerous. More than that, though, I feel that if anyone deserved a second chance, it would be Iris.”

I look over at the prosecution table to see the state attorney jotting down notes; I wonder what he’s going to say to try to keep me locked up. This thought instantly distracts me again, and I lose focus again as Dr. Dellinger steps down back into the gallery.

I vaguely hear the judge say something, but it sounds like gibberish in my current state. Another figure passes by and Rita is sitting at the witness stand. This is something of a shock. I wasn’t expecting to see her here. She looks nervous, and I immediately feel terrible for being the cause of her having to be here.

The judge asks her full name and her qualifications. Then Rita is telling the court about me from the day I was institutionalized until this morning. She even tells the judge about Clarisa, although she leaves out the nasty things I said to her. I’m really grateful for that. She, like Dr. Dillinger, stresses that I will not be a threat to society, and then she’s stepping down from the witness stand.

I watch as she walks to sit by Dr. Dillinger, and that’s when I make the connection. The guy seated next to Betsy is Marc, Rita’s son. She’d shown me his picture what seems like forever ago, and I hadn’t even put two and two together until she sat next to him. What with all she’s told me about how close they are it doesn’t surprise me that he is here to support his mother. I am surprised by the intensity of his gaze. I feel my face flush in response as I turn away.

I am still pondering about him when the first family member of a victim takes the stand. He is tall, pale, and glaring intently in my direction. It is obvious what direction his testimony will be going in, and I can tell that his hostile blue eyes will not leave mine until he is seated back in the gallery behind me.

“Your name, sir?” the judge asks.

“Charles Mcguffin. Ker’ was my girlfriend for five years before she died- before she was murdered.” His glare turns icy cold.

“Ker’?” The judge mutters.

“Kerry, Kerry Walsh. I was going to ask her to marry me. But she took that away- took her away from me.”

“Sir, I understand you’ve written a victim impact statement. Would you like to read it to the court?”

“Yes, I would.” He stands up and clears his throat while pulling a piece of paper from his back pocket. Once he’s seated again, he unfolds the paper and, leaning forward into the mic, he begins, “Seven years, four months, one wee and one day ago, Kerry Walsh was stolen from my life and from her family’s lives. Her killer, Iris Kilpatrick, claimed that all she could remember was Kerry pushing her to the ground. My Ker’ wouldn’t hurt a fly. And who’s to say the murderer is being honest?? I still say everyone at that joke of a trial, from the judge down to the jury, was taken for fools.”

He looks away from his script and continues, “She should never be given the chance to inflict anyone else’s life with the utter loss and despair I have had to experience. The hole left by Kerry’s murder has never even begun to heal. I am lost without her. And if I, and the other victims’ families, have to suffer, why should she be free? It’s already a slap in our faces that it’s even being considered.”

He leans back into his chair as if his testimony has aged him years, and it’s obvious his unscripted tirade is over. I wonder how everyone in the courtroom is reacting to his words. Are they in agreement with him? I can’t tear my eyes away from his to find out.

The judge asks him if he has anything further, but he’s done. He steps down and spares me one last scowl before sitting in the back of the courtroom.

The rest of the victim impact statements are pretty much the same. But when little Chris Elliott Jr. sits at the podium and tells the court what his life has been like not knowing his daddy, I am nearly undone. The tears start flowing without warning, and it’s lucky Bobby is holding my hand, because I almost jump to my feet and beg them to lock me up forever.

Finally, mercifully, there are no more witnesses and both Bobby and the State Attorney have said their piece. My hands are sweating again. What’s next?

The judge takes off his glasses and looks down at me. His face is smooth, expressionless; I wonder what he’s thinking.

“Would you like to say anything on your behalf?” he asks me.

Bobby nudges me, but I want so badly to say no. What if I say the wrong thing? What if whatever I say hurts someone? I’ve caused them enough pain. But I know I have to speak, so I say, “Yes I would, your honor.”

I stand up and the bailiff walks over to escort me, still chained, to the stand. I haven’t prepared for this, and my mouth is as dry as the desert.

“You can speak, Ms. Kilpatrick,” the judge says, but I am speechless.

Finally, I unstuck my mouth and look around the courtroom. I don’t stay on any face for too long until I catch the eyes of Christopher Elliott’s son. It is to him that I speak.

“You all will probably never believe me when I say how I truly hate the pain I’ve caused your families,” I say, “but I really do hate it. I have listened to each of your statements and while I can’t say I understand your pain-having never been through what you have- I can’t imagine it ever gets any better. I know that you feel justice was not served when I was sent away, and I am so sorry. None of you deserve the pain that I’ve put you through, and none of your loved ones should have died at my hands, regardless of my sickness. No matter what happens today, I will never stop trying to be a better person and beat this disease.”

There is complete silence in the courtroom for a minute, and then the judge says, “Is that all, Ms. Kilpatrick?” Do I detect a note of some emotion in his voice? He’s been pretty monotone throughout the whole proceeding, but now, I can hear something… Is that surprise? Or something else? Well, what’s done is done. “Yes, your honor,” I reply.

Once I’m seated back at the table next to Bobby, I am more at ease. The hearing is behind me now, win or lose. Now the only thing that is left is the decision. The courtroom is buzzing in anticipation, waiting for the judge to hand down his ruling.

Judge Thomas reads over his notes again, and then calls the courtroom to order.

“I have a lot to consider here. We’re going to adjourn for today and have a hearing a week from today at nine AM for my decision. Court is adjourned.” He hits his gavel on the bench and stands up and the bailiff instructs us to all rise. Then the judge is gone and I am being whisked through the crowds to the van to return to the place I am longing to escape.

When I wake up the next morning, sunlight is streaming through the slats in the skylight above my head. I am surprised by this, since we are normally woken up before dawn for morning group. I guess, after yesterday, they decided to give me a break. Fine by me. That hearing was stressful, to say the least. I need some time to collect myself.

I sit up and look around me, though I’m not seeing much. My mind is full of the past, the present, and the future; I am wondering how everything is going to turn out. Am I going to be freed? Or will I be stuck here for the rest of my life? I truly hope the latter isn’t true, because if it is, I might as well give up on everything. Because what was the point in me trying to be a better person if there was no reward? I push that thought away. The point was not to get better just so I can leave this purgatory, because, if anything, I deserve it. No, the point of getting better was to be safe, and to never hurt anyone again.

As I sit in my bed brooding over the hearing and the victims’ families and all that has happened, I decide that I’m going to try to forget about this. I am not going to let this hearing weigh on me for the next week. There is nothing I can do anymore; the ball is in the judge’s court, no pun intended. All I can do is wait. But I don’t want to wait too anxiously. I must act and live as normally as possible until the judge has made his decision.

So I get out of bed, get dressed, and brush my teeth thinking of nothing but each task I complete. This distracts me a little, and by the time I’ve left my room, I am completely preoccupied. I have lost track of the time, having woken up so late, but I figure it must be around ten or eleven, because everyone is in the game room for the second group therapy session of the day. I creep in and sit behind everyone else in the back of the room. Dr. Dillinger is saying something about forgiveness.

“… You must forgive; it’s important to your recovery. I’m sure every single one of you feels wronged by someone in your life. You can feel that way, yes, but isn’t it healthier if you forgive them rather than holding on to that feeling of hurt and pain?”

A hand rises, but the person is blocked by an armchair, as they are sitting on the floor. “Yes?” says Dr. Dillinger.

“How?” asks Clarisa. “How can you forgive? When I think about how pissed I am at… certain people, I can’t think of any way to get over it besides getting back at them.”

“That’s actually a pretty normal feeling, Clarisa,” Dr. Dillinger says with a slight smile, “and most normal, sane people feel that way all the time. But you won’t feel any better once you’ve gotten back at them. Because the pain they caused you will still be there.”

Clarisa snorts and I see a couple of other patients showing their disagreement with the statement as well. I can understand why they disagree. It’s easier to just want revenge than to pretend as if it’s okay. I seek forgiveness daily, but it’s doubtful I’ll ever get it. I am a notorious serial killer, regardless of my state of mind at the time of my crimes. I will never earn any forgiveness.

This thought brings other thought to the front of my mind. What if the victim’s family members ever wanted payback? Most of them I don’t see as capable of any type of violence, but there are other ways of getting revenge. I imagine Charles McGuffin following me around, probably with some sign labeling me as a vicious murderer, informing every potential job, love interest, and friend that I killed ten people. He doesn’t believe that I was ill when those things happened; he thinks I simply got up on those days deciding I was going to murder. And I can totally envision him spending the rest of his life ensuring that mine is a living hell.

I guess, in some ways, I deserve that.