Senan Nullified - The Courtroom Incident

[ultimatenegative]

Senan is standing in Rin's would-have-been pipedream club, a cell phone pressed to his ear, his thin shoulders hunched and his eyes fixed sightlessly on the parquet floor. (Rin would have changed the floor out, he thinks inanely. They'd have picked something better; tasteful.)

A specialist is on the other end, using words like acute and failure and transplant. These words are hypotheticals nearing an event horizon.

His replies are soft, yes and I understand.

Across the space that should be, hopefully still could be, Null Set, Rin and Darius are in consult with Custis Pendleton, their voices agitated. Contrary to the promises of television courtroom dramas, murder trials aren't concise and swift (and don't contain interludes for coffee or Prozac advertisements.) This one has been dragging on for a year. Though at first it seemed the pair would be given a fair and unbiased trial, it's becoming evident that Darius has burned too many bridges and Rin -

Well. Is Rin.

And life isn't, it turns out, any kind of fucking fair.

Sen disconnects the call. His mind is and isn't on the trial. How it could drag on for years at this rate, as the prosecution picks apart every detail and parades their witnesses, and the Pendletons send forth a deluge of paperwork, motions to dismiss, motions to suppress, object and redirect and engage in an endless fucking dance. Darius might become someone's one percent boogeyman, sacrificed on the altar of lower class outrage. Rin might become someone's punchline.

And meanwhile, Null Set - Rin's dream - stands empty. Maybe never to be.

It will take years.

Senan Wilkes doesn't have years.

While they are still engaged in their conferral, Sen turns off his phone and slips out into late morning Manhattan.

His first stop is the apartment - his apartment, which no one knows he shares with Rin; he gathers items of dubious importance into a folio: his passport, some cocktail napkins, some sentimental items.

He pulls the handgun from the nightstand by Rin's bed; he sits at the table in the small alcove that feigns a dining room, removes it from its case and handles it, passing it from hand to hand, taking it apart, piecing it back together. Counting the bullets and replacing them. Wiping it down and repeating the process. Wiping it down again. Handling it again.

Again.

Again.

The folio eventually ends its journey in a safe deposit box in New Jersey. The gun ends its journey thirty feet away from where it began, stored in a box under Sen's bed.

And then he makes two phone calls. The first is to Darius Scarlett's burner phone.

The second is to the prosecution.

When they call their surprise witness to the stand two weeks later, smug as you please, Sen doesn't look at the Pendletons (they are certain to be apoplectic.) He doesn't look at Darius, who has throughout this process been outwardly a paragon of calm and confidence.

He doesn't want to look at Rin.

He looks at Rin.

He stares, searching their expression, wondering if what he's seeing is panic, betrayal, pain. (And how his heart aches. How he wants nothing in the world but to go home and find all of this has been a nightmare from which he can wake all three of them. Himself, and Darius, and Rin.) What he's seeing is incomprehension, of course.

The prosecution approaches and leads off with the expected mundanities: name (Senan Wilkes), relationship to the defense (Oh, you know. Friend. Business partner. Confidante. Whipping boy, when the mood takes Darius there -), and a cleared throat, a yes, that will do.

And.

Mr. Wilkes, were you present on the evening in question.

Yes. Yes, he was there.

And Mr. Wilkes, could you tell the jury, in your own words, what you witnessed.

There is a pause for Sen that stretches out eternal, a silence in which time stops utterly, and the room around vanishes. His eyes hold Rin's, and though he registers the disbelief (he thinks betrayal will follow on its heels), what he sees is Rin some twenty years ago, wreathed in smoke.

What did he witness? Angelic androgyny. Breathtaking surliness. A young, wary, stunning Rin, ready to fight the world for no reason, any reason, every reason. Dangerous, erratic beauty.

He thought, What are you?

What are you, and can I know you?

What are you, and can I keep you?

What did he witness? Them. Oh, Rin.

He loved them. Simply, wholly.

He hears echoes across the vibratory thread of their lives, from that moment to this.

Oi. Are you a man or a woman? It's hard to tell these days, hey?

Neither. Nothing. Whatever.

He must have looked momentarily puzzled. It was a puzzling thing, back then. But he remembers he smiled, and nodded slowly as if to say yeah, yeah, that sounds really good, that's all right a thing to be. He remembers vividly that he thought, but never said, You are farther from nothing than anyone I've ever met.

On the same vibratory thread, there are knotted moments in time containing Rin's ill-concealed defensiveness, their anger, their surliness. The times they picked fights, or ended them. The times Sen cracked his own knuckles raw across the teeth, jaws, eyes of their tormenters. The times he didn't need to, because Rin could handle themself.

On the same thread, forward now, in a future that exists (thus far) only in Senan's mind's eye: they'll go to prison. They'll be placed in general population. With men.

They are not a man. (They are not a woman.)

(They are not nothing. To him.) (They are in danger.)

Mr. Wilkes? A prompt. Sen breathes in slowly. He closes his eyes and they are there, in his mind's eye again, on a different trajectory. They are in a thriving night club. They aren't as happy as they could be, but they are safe. They are alive, and vital, and breathtaking.

What he witnessed on one night out of thousands doesn't matter. What he witnesses before he shuffles loose this mortal coil - that matters.

He breathes out. He opens his eyes and finds them - Rin, lovely Rin - again, and smiles faintly.

It's not betrayal in their expression after all. It's dawning comprehension. It's horror. Sen thinks, Sorry, Pookie.

And.

I'll keep you safe. Tous mes jours, tout mon couer. I love you.

And.

"Of course." He nods and returns his attention to the prosecutor. "That evening, I went 'round to the deceased's place - you know, you keep referring to it as an 'apartment', but really, apartments have amenities. Rubbish removal. Air conditioning. Doors. -"

"Mr. Wilkes, please -"

"Yes, yes. As I was saying, I went 'round to his -" Sen raises his hands and performatively offers air quotes. "Apartment. to inquire about some of his more underhanded dealings. In particular, it seems he was not only embezzling money earmarked for a joint venture between the defendants and myself, but attempting some manner of shit-tier mafioso extortion. One shouldn't, I think, embezzle if one isn't good at avoiding detection or discovery, nor should one attempt to extort the individuals on trial if one isn't particularly threatening or capable of following through on their thinly-veiled threats, but I'm not in either business, myself."

He smiles charmingly enough. There are nervous titters from the jury. The prosecutor waves a hand to indicate he should get on with it; the man has become familiar with Sen's patter.

Which is good.

"And what time was it when you arrived?"

"...Asked and answered, truth be told."

"I'm sorry?"

"It was the time that I arrived."

A heavy sigh. The judge leans over and intones flatly, "Mr. Wilkes, please answer the question."

Sen leans slightly away, as though the judge's proximity is suggestive of unwanted flirtation. He pulls a faint face, then catches the eye of a woman in the jury box and jerks his head judge-ward. (Can you believe this?)

More soft laughter.

"Mr. Wilkes, I won't warn you again."

He's already waving his hand, yes, yes, all right. "I don't know. Must have been after eight. P.M., not the other one."

He hopes. He seriously hopes the prosecutor says A.M.? and permits some Abbot and Costello back and forth.

"Mr. Wilkes, was the victim alone when you arrived?"

Alas.

Still...

"Ah. Well, no. Once I arrived, he wasn't alone, was he? What with me being there."

Another burst of low sniggering. The prosecutor (and, indeed, most of this circus) looks unimpressed. (Rin is still courting a look of horror. He can't look at them anymore.) "Mr. Wilkes, was there anyone else present?"

He cocks his head, considering as though puzzled, then counters, "How do you mean?"

"Did you witness anyone else in the apartment that night."

"Yes, of course." Again, he smiles. "The deceased was there. Obviously." Again, there's a strain of laughter. "He was alive, though. Which is rather the crux of the matter, isn't it? Now that he's 'the deceased'?"

"...Mr. Wilkes -"

He raises his voice slightly to speak over the other man. "I suppose we wouldn't be having this conversation if he wasn't 'the deceased.' But, here we are. Funny old life, isn't it? To think, we all make choices -"

"Mr. Wilkes-"

"- such as, for example, embezzlement, or extortion -"

"Your honor, is it the prosecution's intent to continue wasting my clients' time -"

He tuts and sinks in the chair, slouched down to his shoulders, throws his head back in exaggerated aggrievement, and announces, "Oh, calm down, Penny. You and your doppelganger there bill by the hour. Ought to thank me, really."

"- Mr Wilkes!" He raises his head and focuses on the prosecutor, his amusement evident. "Did you or did you not come forward with information regarding the murder of Art Sheppard?"

He feigns scraping his memory, eyes unfocused, his frown studious. Then, with a sudden jerk, he raises his hand, index finger emphatic, and gestures theatrically toward his interrogator. "Yes. Quite right. Yes, I did do that. Which makes sense, as I'm now here, testifying at a murder trial regarding what dirty deeds I witnessed at the deceased's -"

"Sen, don't!" He wants to look at Rin. He wants to hush them, to reassure them. He hopes Darius or one of the Pendletons has a hand on their arm, is keeping them grounded - or at least leashed.

"-'apartment'. Christ. It didn't have a door, that's one thing I witnessed. Apartment. Honestl-"

"Would you repeat for the jury what you told the prosecution during your interview?"

"Hm? Oh, I couldn't possibly. That would be perjury."

"Senan-"

"Mr. Pendleton, control your client."

Recovering, the prosecutor shakes his head and starts again, but Sen thinks if he hears Rin one more time, he'll lose his fucking nerve.

He straightens in his chair, hands gripping the seat between his thighs for purchase, leverage, sliding him upright. His volume increases, tone turned to a street magician's patter (now you see them, now you don't).

"Here's the thing. What I told you wasn't entirely accurate." Scratching the back of his head, he goes on, "You see, I haven't the foggiest idea where Rin Renault and Darius Scarlett were, but they absolutely were not in the, ha, 'apartment' with us. I may not be the best and brightest, but those two, I'd have noticed lurking about committing heinous acts. You'd notice them, wouldn't you? I mean, fucking look at them. Couple of daft pricks, them.

"No, no. It was just me and Art there that night."

His eyes flicker to Rin's and hold for a breath, a beat, an eternity.

And then he lifts one thin shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. Unconcerned. Let it come. Let it rain down.

(I'm sorry, Pookie, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-)

"Until I shot him."

He frowns, theatrically pensive, eyes raised to the ceiling as the courtroom erupts into chaos, and muses:

"And then it was just me, I suppose."

Comments

A Letter

[ultimatenegative]

Pookie,

First things first. There's a contractor coming by to look at the wiring. He's going to give an estimate; compare it against the one I gave you on the 20th. If it's higher by no more than 2k, go with him anyway. It's still within the budget and he's a solid electrician.

In my desk drawer, there's a composition notebook, which I know you'll resent for its plebian, juvenile mundanity, but I trust you'll endure. That holds all the information for the rest, including estimates and copies of finalized invoices.

On the 5th, a painter is coming. Make sure he brought the shade you want, because I'm almost positive he's colorblind.

The couches will be delivered on the 12th. The bar will be installed on the 13th.

I called all of them & let them know they'll be dealing directly with you from now on. Layne will help if you run into trouble. If you're overwhelmed, she's standing by. A fine woman, Layne.

My assets are frozen, but you should be relatively unscathed. Any money in the joint accounts should now be in your own personal checking. If not, Darius will loan whatever you need until things settle down. Of course I spoke with him, as well.

Don't be angry with him. Or be angry as you like, but don't burn that bridge.

I'm sure you're not thrilled with me. I'm sure you're horrified by what I did, and that I didn't tell you. No doubt you thought, 'Senan tells me everything,' and so this struck you like a damning blow. But please, rest assured: I do not tell you everything.

Rest assured: I am not sorry. I don't apologise for what I did.

Rest assured, Pookie: I don't miss you. To say that I miss you is to suggest that I want you here. That I would have it so events had unfolded differently. No: I'm glad, for the first time in twenty-three years, that you are not with me. I'm glad you're not beside me. I'm glad I won't have to look at you.

Here.

Don't come here, Rin. Don't put the image of you against this wretched backdrop into my head. I've had nightmares enough about that to last a lifetime.

I don't miss you.

Don't worry. I'm inured to the unpleasantness of this place. I am beneath the notice of most, and capable of making myself uninteresting to the rest. I am untouched by any misery save one: that I won't spend my days watching you thrive. I would have enjoyed that. You noxious, vainglorious, surly little monstrosity.

You beauty.

I don't miss you.

You wonderous, incomparable changeling. You, who are duality and all-encompassing, wrathful and benevolent. Omnipresent.

I breathe and know you breathe the same air. I close my eyes and turn my face up to the day; I feel the warm sunlight we share. Rin is free, Rin stands at the horizon of a new world full of everyday miracles. Rin, who never needed salvation, who never needed protection, who never needed a champion.

I don't miss you.

In mind's eye, I see you directing the bustling traffic of preparation for a grand opening; you're barefoot, of course. Your nails are painted deep purple, nearly black. You have a hat I've never seen before, but it's terribly flattering. You aren't happy, much as I might wish you to be, but you're ablaze with ambition, burning like a midnight sun. The world is not ready for anything like you, and you will burst through its barriers. You'll set it on fire. You'll build your kingdom on scorched ground.

For now, that's enough to compose every dream I'll dream.

Happiness will follow, in time.

Happiness is long overdue.

If ever I had the bad grace to suggest you owed me for anything, this is how you repay me:

Rin Renault, get that fucking bar open. Make it incredible.

Thrive.

I don't miss you, Rin. I'm not haunted by your absence - you, whom I have known all my life. You, my constant companion, my truest friend. The world is not dull or airless without you. My life is not cold, lonesome, or miserable without your every ethereal gesture, your every fantastical whim. Of course I don't notice that I could reach out a hand and find that you aren't here with me, ready to offer a twining of fingers.

Because - and I cannot stress this enough - I don't want you here.

I don't fucking miss you at all. Not with every fiber of my being. Not with all my heart.

Lovely Rin.

Don't waste this.

Or me.

- Sen