Sullivan had been looking at the defendant only obliquely up until the climax of the trial.
Yearning for a display of fear, devastation, regret, or some other proximate emotion, she now devoted herself to the study of her begetter’s features and was distressed to see that his default look of supreme indifference persisted even despite the looming verdict.
Earlier, she had seen that he’d made his way to the defendant’s table as if walking toward a refrigerator for a routine glass of water—briskly, blandly, and terribly unperturbed. She remembered seeing that face and gait before the performances she’d been forced to attend as a child—the man presenting himself before thousands of critical spectators as if ‘fuck ups’—a term Donovan used to categorize many of the women whom he fired for the crime of musical imperfection—were impossible. Such a level of assuredness was unprecedented in Sullivan’s mind and undoubtedly intimidating to one who seeks to help condemn such a tranquil foe. He seemed indifferent not only to the trial itself, but also to the one who’d launched the trial—his very own daughter. This fact, although heavily magnified by the media, seemed to have no effect on the now billionaire whatsoever. But as Sullivan scrutinized him, she half expected the man to at some point turn in her direction with either pleading or resentful eyes.
No…
He remained as detached from his status as her father as he did the threat of the coming verdict.
While studying his profile, she noted once again as she had before that he looked different than he did in her childhood. He had at some point before the trial apparently gotten a nose job himself—though his was constructed so that the bridge wasn’t a bone-straight ski slope decline like Sullivan’s, but a thick-bridged, squarish result that was a stark difference from the convex, six-shaped nose he and Sullivan both previously had. Despite this altered feature, the air of suaveness caused by his elite expression and his white, slicked-back hair, Donovan was not an attractive man. However, as the majority of his strongish face was covered with a glistening closely-cropped white beard—always ideally groomed—most of the flaws of symmetry were neatly obscured by this secondary sexual characteristic. At 6’4 and 290 pounds he was a large man, but his face demonstrated more contour than roundedness. He was nearly fat, but he had long since taken to wearing tuxedos that were a trifle too small as a strategy to maintain his excess bulk just as butchers maintain the flesh of ground meat inside the casing of sausage. His stomach binder assisted with this as well.
Although his face held the angles of masculinity, his eyes were soft, not predator-like as one would imagine a person accused of his crimes to possess, but somewhat melancholy and perpetually bright in an inordinate gloss that shone even brighter during his performances—and his sexual assaults.
As Sullivan took in her doner’s visage with a minute grimace, she began to recall the many variations that face had shown in the past. She recalled her first indistinct feelings of confusion arising from the spontaneous artificiality of its multifarious displays, as though there was no intervening movement of muscle, but instead a rapid jump from one species of expression to another in a local process of physiognomic saltation. The excessive, teary-eyed bouts of laughter that always exceeded justification, the almost volcanic displays of superficial anger used to frighten employees into obedience, and the way he would forcibly jut his face out toward his children and acquaintances with undue excitement to prove that he was a fun father and friend… Still, even during the trial that would confine him indefinitely, that face, so capable of transmogrification, maintained its eerie, glossy-eyed stillness—a profound vacancy of emotion.
Sullivan swallowed angrily when the judge’s return from deliberation inspired little change in the defendant.
Donovan turned his head resignedly upward toward the semi-bald, gown-wearing figure as he limped toward the bench. The defendant gazed upon his magistrate with still, fish-like eyes that looked but didn’t focus, the corners of his mouth seeming to ease slightly downward in a look of absurd neutrality—of an almost clownish normality. Despite the unremarkable expression, its juxtaposition against the dire circumstances—which demanded twists of trepidation—caused it to seem an almost monstrous display well worthy of the coming tabloids. Along with Sullivan, reporters and media folk noticed the visual stasis and, despite his gaze differing from the standard features present in the so-called psychopathic-stare, enemy news outlets used this indifference to accuse him of harboring the disorder.
As Sullivan was not a psychologist, she wasn’t willing to entertain such fanciful speculations regarding his psychological orientation. He could have been sane or insane, a psychopath or empath, an autist or a schizophrenic—none of that would have mattered to her at all. She wasn’t interested in the man himself; she was interested only in justice being enacted upon the man. The ‘reasons for his transgressions’ were quaternary, leveled firmly behind exposing him, incarcerating him, and justifying her life’s dedication, respectively. She would let the theorists and philosophers dissect the albatross once liberating herself of the burden.
“Apologies for the delay…” the judge said, clearing his voice and triggering a brief coughing fit. “Sorry,” he proceeded before beginning to shuffle through a sheaf of papers acquired from the jury, continuing in his announcement all the while. “The court has received a message from the jury indicating that they’ve reached a verdict…”
There were indistinct vocal stirs in the audience that were silenced by the judge’s initiation.
Judge: “Alright, jury members…before we continue, I want to be sure a foreperson has been elected.”
Juror: “Yes, sir.”
Judge: “Great… and uh…the adjourn number please…?”
Juror: “77”
Judge: “And has a verdict been reached with regard to each count of the information?”
Juror: “Yes, sir. We have multiple verdicts.”
Judge: “Alright, you can hand all your paperwork over to the bailiff…”
Juror: “Alright, sir.”
Judge: “Can you hand that (stack of papers) over to me please…thank you.”
Judge (after receiving the verdicts): “The defendant will rise to face the jury.”
The defendant stood up immediately, and with neither confidence nor fear, but as if he was rising from a regular and unremarkable meal. He proceeded to turn absently toward the jurors after being instructed to harken to its verdicts.
Foreperson: “State of California versus Donovan Hoffman…as to the first count of the information, Terry Krueger, we the jury find the defendant, Donovan Larry Hoffman, guilty.”
Showing no sign of hearing the news, the defendant maintained his eerie calm and seemed oblivious even to the nervous members of his defense who sat with him on either side of the table. One suited man, Sullivan noted, had been afflicted with a severe case of restless leg syndrome which caused the water in the glass beside him to seek escape—a little starting to touch the rim once the first indictment was observed. On his right, the defendant’s chief lawyer, a woman named Joan L. Kitt, feigned extreme composure. But Sullivan could tell by the increasingly aggressive chewing of her worn-out gum (which caused her mouth to take on a near blur by the time the verdicts were read) that the woman, experienced as she was, wasn’t completely unruffled.
Sullivan had been disappointed when finding out that Joan was to lead the defense, as they had been friends up until the point of Sullivan going public with her evidence. Indeed, Joan had seen the talent and resolve in Sullivan early on and had elected to be Sullivan’s supervisor in law school, even giving her the recommendation that helped secure her current position at Sunny Side Law. Being only a little older than Sullivan (in her mid-thirties) and taking her job with the same deadly seriousness, the two had seen reflections of each other in themselves. And as Joan was the only woman that she’d personally known who was about as tall and as bull-headed as her, she felt a certain comradery that extended their kinship of experience. When Sullivan found out that someone she revered so highly would be joining the ranks of a degenerate now accused of raping and (or) assaulting several women, she felt just as betrayed by Joan as she had by her neglectful parents.
She’d confronted Joan and ruthlessly interrogated her after her decision to defend Donovan was made public, but Joan’s responses were evasive and dismissive, and the cognitive dissonance Sullivan observed left her with a sick, sinking feeling that made her lose hope in all things human. And she felt sicker still knowing that the only reason why Joan was being ‘used’ (as Sullivan thought of it as) was because she was a woman—a blatant tactic that Donovan employed to lessen his misogynistic image.
Feeling a wave of hatred toward the traitor whose anomalous motives she could not discern, Sullivan nudged her dark-rimmed, authoritative spectacles to their proper place—which had fallen somewhat seemingly by the force of her glare alone—and refocused her attention on the judge, who allowed his glasses to remain perched on the tip of a bulbous, high-colored nose riddled with blackheads and sebum.
Before proceeding toward the verdict, the judge licked a finger suspensefully as he turned a page in his sheaf of stapled papers.
“As to the second count of the information, Bobby Schwartz, we the jury find the defendant, guilty.
As to the third count of the information, unknown woman, we the jury find the defendant guilty.
As to the fourth count of the information, unknown male, we the jury find the defendant, not guilty.
As to the fifth count of the information, Josh Brown, we the jury find the defendant guilty.
As to the sixth count of the information, Sarah Bosh, we the jury find the defendant not guilty.
As to the sixth count of the information, unknown female, we the jury find the defendant not guilty.
As to the seventh count of the information, Jeremy Scroggins, we the jury find the defendant not guilty.
As to the seventh count of the information, Samantha Thompson, we the jury find the defendant not guilty.”
In the court of Santa Monica’s judicial district, the state of California versus Donavan Hoffman…verdict form C, Donavan Hoffman is found not guilty of—
Overpowering the judge’s voice, raucous applause broke out immediately on the defendant’s side of the courtroom. This outbreak prompted Donovan to loosen his silk tie before rising, in the same casual way as before, to a stand. In an instant, the null expression turned toward one of the fluorescent lights attached to the ceiling and made an astronomical leap to one of almost teary-eyed sublimity. The look was made even more significant by the accompanying movements, which included the fingertips of his right hand pressing lightly against his broad chest and the left raising in a saintly gesture—the better to assist the modulations and facilitate the coming vocal celebration.
“You are no longer under any conditions…you are free to leave…” the judge said, but the baritone had already begun his operatic exertions by the time the judge uttered these words of dismissal; he was only a split-second late of requiring order in the court.
Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Sullivan’s neck went slightly beyond its 90-degree allowance in the direction of the triumphant figure, her astoundment being recognized by exactly no one as everyone present began observing, in silence and wondrous awe, the impromptu performance of one of America’s most celebrated virtuosos.
There was no piano present, but with the buildup of his intricate movements and gestures in lieu of the typical reactions of victorious defendants, the spectators began to imagine the accompanying theme.
“Ave Maria
Gratia plena
Maria, gratia plena
Maria, gratia plena
Ave, ave dominus
Dominus tecum
Bendicta tu in mulieribus
Et benedictus
Et benedictus fructus ventris
Ventris tui, lesus
Ave Maria…”
***
“The papers made quite the fuss about your little performance,” Joan said, sitting at a large oak desk in the semi-darkness of her poorly lit office. She had already finished her paperwork for the day and was now checking emails on her computer, one of the eavesdropping streetlamps just outside the shut window affording her a clear visual of her computer’s keyboard. Donovan, who had just arrived for their pre-scheduled severance talk, was annoyed that she was giving more attention to the computer than him. “You’ve even got a few supporters enthusiastically proclaiming that a ‘voice like that’ couldn’t possibly be guilty…”
“That was nothing,” Donovan said as he leaned forward, his previously obscured face now exposed by the glow of the streetlamp which gave his still features a yellowish, waxy cast. “Just wait until my performance next summer in Milan… I’ll have a full orchestra behind me, specially selected by yours truly. I’m always at my best when being backed by the most gorgeous of the tender sex… Perhaps that’s why I was able to beat this case; it was all because of your intimate understanding of my situation. Joan…I thank you.”
“I can’t believe the case is finally over,” she proceeded, oblivious to the compliment and feigned gratitude as her fingers and eyes kept working at the screen and keyboard. “Your little opera did get a lot of attention…but, aside from the near-crazed reactions from the many women who are still baying for your blood, the look on your face during the trial was what excited the media the most…”
“Is that so?”
“Yea…something about a new iteration of a ‘psychopathic stare’” she continued as she hacked away at her keyboard. “There’s a shot of your daughter glaring at you as if you’re the living plague after the verdict was read. But most of the tabloids took the time to sensationalize your look much more than they did hers. All because…” she continued, stopping for effect and briefly analyzing him to confirm her coming statement. “Your expression was no different than it is right now.”
“My expression?”
“Yea…” Joan said distractedly, refocusing on the structure of an email she was working on. “I think it’s all bullshit media hype. Probably best you avoid the products of the media just as much as you plan on avoiding the actual media…but if you’re curious about their feelings about this so-called expression of yours then some keywords on the articles I’ve seen are—hmm let me pull it up here…okay: Cold, detached, emotionless, lifeless, blank, empty, callous… Basically, what this all seems to mean is that a substantial subset of the world now believes that you, Donovan Hoffman, are a bona fide psychopath.”
“Psychopath?” he said with breathless surprise, as if the accusation was less a shock than a revelation. “A bit contradictory when considering the verdict…” And then he put a hand to his mustache. “Hmm…even if that is the case, then I suppose that’s just one of many available personality types that Mother Nature or God—whichever you prefer—has blessed me with. And if this accusation is even remotely true, then I’ll say it right here and now that if being a so-called ‘psychopath’ has allowed me to achieve the lifestyle that I have and has helped me evade what seemed to be an inevitable prison sentence, then maybe I’m better off for it.”
Joan laughed at this response, but her humor was quickly diverted by a relevant flash on the screen that gave better light to her more prepossessing features. “Never thought you’d be the type to buy into that B.S.,” she said, continuing to sift through her sundry emails. “They’ve been saying similar things about me for representing you. But I get titles like ‘sociopath’ ‘traitor’, and ‘self-hating misogynist’. Of course, I don’t pay mind to any of these and neither should you.
“Modern psychology is presented as being ‘empirical’—and therefore valid,” Joan elucidated. “But as it’s on the softer end of the scientific continuum, we can assume that the falsifiability of its claims is commensurately vulnerable—subject to inevitable appraisal and eventual dismissal. That’s why I dropped out of my Clinical Psych Ph.D.—disillusionment. I’d rather be a liar—sorry, a lawyer—than a quack.”
“Hmm,” Donovan wondered, taken as always by her incisive observations.
Then perhaps that makes you less an innovator than a wo—(woman was what he was going to say, but he remembered to moderate himself), worker, as it is well known that true innovators nearly always initiate themselves as ‘quacks’ before earning more coveted titles.”
“Unfortunately,” she responded immediately. “‘Quackery’ doesn’t pay the bills—not in the capitalist society that we live in… It’s a dog-eat-dog world here. I can’t afford to be an intellectual martyr.”
“Pay the bills eh…?” Donovan said, leaning back in his chair as he gazed at Joan with low, disinterested eyes. “And I assume that’s why you insisted on such a considerable fraction of my net worth for accepting this job?”
There was a reflective silence before Joan responded. “Your daughter believed in me…” she said, stopping mid-type and looking regretfully at the almost lethargic figure before her. “But…I’ve been dealing with B-list celebrities and so-called social media ‘influencers’ for far too long. If I want to keep my way up the greasy pole that I’ve chosen to climb, sacrifices have to be made…”
“Even if that means ascending by nefarious means?” Donovan pressed, showing more interest in Joan by his words than his expression.
“Under normal circumstances…I would have seen to it that you spent at least a decade kicking rocks in one of the lots at one of California’s not-so-finest penitentiaries. But, I’ll admit, a multimillion-dollar bonus is a difficult proposition to reject—not to mention the publicity I gained from representing you… Sorely needed for leveling up in the game of law. I still care about your daughter way more than I give a shit about you…but my own ambitions take precedence.”
“I see…” Donovan said, sighing as if in slight disappointment.
“And I just so happen to genuinely believe that your boorish interactions with women tend to be to their benefit—in most cases, at least. In representing you, I’ve researched all your accusers—most of them (regardless of talent) come from nothing and go from 0 to 99 in a matter of moments just by sucking your cock or licking your ass. It’s a devastating but rewarding trade-off—like getting a six-figure settlement for a degloving incident at a minimum-wage job…”
“Your agreement with me on that point is one of the main reasons why I hired you…” he responded, sounding more pleased than he looked. “It begs the question: are my so-called ‘victims’ better off as nobody’s with their purity—or ‘morality—intact and with nothing to credit themselves with except that purity and morality? Or are they better off as mental amputees of sorts, robbed of their ‘innocence’ but with a status and income that would have otherwise been unattainable had they clung to said morality?
“The answer can go either way, of course, but of those who choose the second, it makes you wonder if they’re doing their descendants a favor by setting them up with the means gained from satisfying my…” he paused to find the right words before Joan, still multitasking, finished Donovan’s sentence for him.
“Your impossible libido,” she said before sending off one email and starting another.
“Sure…” Donovan conceded with a smile-free chuckle. “But if we are to follow my observation to its logical conclusion, then we can assume that by sacrificing their ingrained notions of morality, my ‘accusers’ can—and do—gain the status and wealth necessary to lessen the chances of their daughters and granddaughters having to resort to prostitution-like behavior—let us call it—to ascend the social ladder.”
He leaned forward and admired Joan’s finer angles before proceeding. “It may be disgusting or immoral…but they do what they do for hierarchical ascendance—and if their children are already born high, then there would be no need for them to engage in the low task of selling their bodies for profit. In this context, I suppose you can say that ‘sucking my cock’ or ‘licking my ass’ is an evolutionarily advantageous pursuit.”
“If you say so…” Joan said distractedly, having at some point lost the thread of Donovan’s elaborate justification. Joan is, indeed, intelligent, but is a much better talker than listener.
Annoyed by her continued neglect of his presence, he narrowed his eyes as he watched this ambitious woman actively carry out her duties. Now, in quiet antagonism to her presence, he began seeing her less as an admirable ally than a decorated hamster on a golden wheel. “Now that I think about it…” he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the desk before interlacing his fingers and resting his head on his thumbs. “These so-called victims of mine are just like you… The only difference is they use their bodies to climb up your ‘greasy pole’ rather than their mind. The coveted ‘morality’ is lost in either scenario, don’t you think?”
“I don’t think…” she said firmly, continuing to type. “I do… If an ingrained sense of ‘morality’ as you call it—obsolete in my mind—conflicts with decisive and gainful action, then is it worth heeding at all? No… I made a conscious decision to let all that go a long time ago.”
“Could it be then…that you, too, are a fellow psychopath?”
Joan laughed dismissively before responding. “Psychopath or not…just be sure you keep your habit of secrecy,” she said as she searched for the elusive PrtScr button. “If word gets out about you threatening the families of the jurors…both of us will be right back in court facing a somewhat less than favorable verdict than before.”
“Certainly…” Donovan responded. “Under normal circumstances, ‘bribing’ jurors simply won’t work—no matter how much you offer them,” he explained. “That’s why I instructed Walter to have his lackeys do what they did. Because most people value others more than they do material possessions, you can’t reliably ‘bribe’ those who have distinguished moralities. But you can threaten them—or those closest to them in our case.
“The question of morality becomes immaterial when you present the moralist with a… ‘profound dilemma’ shall we say. The evidence of this claim is in the outcome of our trial. Had the jurors we coerced voted guilty, then all of their first-degree relatives would have been at risk of being surreptitiously slaughtered. That’s their dilemma: ‘What is more immoral—lying in court, or allowing all of your nuclear family members to die? The answer is obvious, but I just want to say—in contradiction to your previous gripe—God I love psychology. If you have good instincts then even a layman like myself can…uh…maneuver, let’s say.”
Intrigued by the angle of the discussion but at a loss of a counterargument to the latest point, Joan continued typing as if she hadn’t processed what he’d said.
“And I have to ask…” he continued. “Do you feel no guilt at all about co-conspiring with me in this…uh…joint enterprise?”
“I needed a big win…” she responded simply. “And your proposal sounded promising. If it wouldn’t have been me, you would have hired some other woman to do it, so the outcome was inevitable. But the short answer is…” she proceeded, fondling her computer mouse. “Money…talks…”
Donavan raised an ankle over his left knee. “But why the pursuit of even more wealth when you were already well into seven-figure range before? You don’t have a family or children… And there doesn’t seem to be any noble ideal you’re working toward that requires tens of millions of dollars. So…what’s the goal? I’m genuinely curious…”
“Well…” she said, now maneuvering her mouse for a series of skillful clicks before continuing to type. “I could turn the question back at you and ask you why—despite your abundance of sexual conquests, both earned and unearned as far as I’ve gathered, do you feel the need to physically possess every attractive woman you encounter…What’s the goal there?”
“Hmm…” he was caught off guard at this sudden reflection and assumed a look of contemplation before responding with the first and only answer that came to his mind. “Truth is…” he proceeded, shrugging his shoulders. “I could take the Darwinian stance and say, ‘survival and reproduction’, but it’s been quite some time since I’ve elected to have a child. I could say because it ‘feels good’—but so do countless other things that I don’t feel the need to—as you say—‘possess’. I suppose I keep doing it because…well…it’s because I want to and because I can.”
“You do it because you can?” she said, dissatisfied by the response. “That’s a shitty answer…”
“But it is an answer,” he said. “And remember…you never gave a response to my question…”
She was silent for a while before uttering a recap. “Why, despite already having wealth, status, and no children—as of now—do I continue to expand? Well, maybe because I can…”
There was silence after this, but Donovan’s shoulders began to tremble lightly in response to a coming guffaw, and he dropped his head so that Joan was able to see the balding around his crown.
Although she was at first confused, the laughter was contagious, and by the time his face was tossed up so that she could see his trembling uvula and the white hairs protruding from the dark caverns of his nostrils, she found herself reciprocating this humor.
“The hell’s so funny?” she laughed in spite of herself.
“My my my…” he said, wiping a tear before arising and locking the entry door. This had been the first time he’d visited her office and was doing so as a mandatory token gesture for her contribution. But with her oblique confession of her displayed Machiavellianism, he felt more than justified in carrying out his most recent fantasy. “I don’t know why I’m only just realizing this,” he proceeded. “But…you and I are just the same…kindred spirits, as they say—one insatiable for pussy and music, and the other for wealth and success…”
“Your point is?” she said, reassessing her computer monitor after assuming that he was about to leave.
“My point is…” he proceeded, unexpectedly moving back toward the desk but now standing near the chair where she sat instead of taking the visitor’s seat. “You are an apple…”
“A what?” Joan uttered, shocked both at the strange declaration and his sudden approach.
“An apple—as in…an apple-shaped woman.”
She stopped typing and glowered at him.
“There aren’t a lot of women like you—apple-shapes that is—who I find attractive.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked as if repulsed by his words.
“I’m talking about…narrow hips; wide, fleshy waists; and ill-proportioned, rail-thin legs that miraculously support broadened shoulders—all topped off with a magnificent potbelly.
There was only silence, as she, now appalled and distracted from her duties, glared at him.
“Confused?” he said, starting to move closer toward her, his hands jammed in the pockets of his blazer. “You see…as you’re already aware, I have an obsession with the many variations of the female form, and hourglasses and slender pear-types usually do it for me… But you’re one of the first apple-shaped women that I’ve ever been so attracted to.
“To be honest…” he continued. “I’ve resented apples my entire life, but never have I seen an apple-shape so—I would say well-proportioned, but that’s not the case—well-structured as yourself. Even through your clothes, I can tell you seem to embody all the typical features of an apple, but they’re molded in such a way that intrigues rather than displeases me—they exist by necessity rather than abundance. Sure, you’re top-heavy and your waist isn’t slim, but your softly rounded belly—not quite flat, but not pudgy either—fascinates me extremely. And sure, your ass is flat, but your legs are quite conspicuously elegant by comparison. And your chest and facial features…they seem softened to an almost angelic degree by the excess fat you carry around your neck and shoulders…”
“How dare you…!” Joan spat.
“Ah, ah, ah…” Donovan said, grabbing her by the upper arm as she tried to storm toward the door. “Remember…jury tampering is a grade A offense. You and I will both end up right back in that courtroom if word ever gets out.”
“Is this a fucking joke?” she said before looking closely at him and observing first-hand the variation of the ‘psychopathic stare’ he’d been accused of possessing. She proceeded to rip her arm away from his grasp before making a beeline for the exit.
He moved with a quickness that seemed impossible for his size and almost playfully stepped in front of her, preventing her from reaching the door.
“Get out of my way…!” she shouted.
“I’ll say it once more…” he reasserted, walking toward her alert, backing form, maintaining his stone-faced expression, as though looking upon his hands during a routine wash. “Jury tampering is a grade A offense… “You and I will both end up back in the courtroom if…word gets out.”
“You’re out of your mind…!”
“I’ve lived a full life…” he went on. “Music, fucking… I don’t do what I do for reputation or gain like you, I do it only for the pleasure. I do it because I like it. Being this way is what got me this far. The want of nothing more than music and women… The relentless pursuits of those—hobbies, let’s call them—have gotten me everything that I have in life after coming from absolutely nothing. And you just happen to be one of the features of my hobby. One of the things that I covet—that I have been coveting—since the start of this trial.”
“I’ll tell!” she blurted out in a fit of desperation, continuing to back away from his suddenly giant, slowly advancing form, nothing except the observative streetlight aware of what was happening. “You’ll go to prison!”
“I’m in my sixties now…” he responded. “I’m old…and have nothing to lose. Send me to prison, death row even…I’ll have a lifetime of memories to reflect on until facing the needle. Those memories, I suspect, will sustain me to the end. But you…what are you…30 something?”
“Thirty-six…” she spat automatically.
“Yes, indeed… With your relative youth and apparent ambition…I’m not sure if you’d last in confinement.”
“What are you trying to say?” she said, continuing in her slow backpedal.
“So, just give me what I want, right now, without complaint…and then we can part ways and let bygones be bygones. After all these years of repulsion and curiosity…I finally want to try something new. I want a bite of your apple and to devour the core…”
“You’re sick!”
“As I already said,” Donovan continued, part of his face now darkened by a shadow. “Normally, I find your type unacceptable, but after so many pears and hourglasses—especially—one begins to develop more…exotic tastes. “
“You’re insane, I’m leaving,” she uttered before having her arm snatched once again as she made another attempt to flee.
I’m just carrying out justice…” he said. “You did betray my daughter after all, as well as all the innocent, pure, and ‘moral’ women who relied on her to send me to the gallows.”
“But you…you don’t even love her!” Joan shouted in a panic as she tried unsuccessfully to pull away. Like Sullivan, she, too, often stayed behind late at work, and both her assaulter and she understood that staff security and her firm’s employees had long since gone home.
“That observation is irrelevant…” he said in a 61-year-old’s admonishing tone. “The facts are what matter. You betrayed a father’s first-born daughter, you acted in a selfish way that was detrimental to countless innocent others and beneficial to yourself, and you seem to show no contrition whatsoever for your actions… Allowing a ‘beast’ like me to remain free without even a hint of remorse comes with its consequences. Consider it justice for my daughter and for all those future victims who will succumb to my phallus.”
“You wouldn’t…” she said, a layer of sweat lubricating her entire body, her mouth stuck in a conspicuous tremble.
“Oh…?” Donovan proceeded before engulfing her like the lid of a Carnivorous plant. “Sweety… I already did.”
The Trial of Eve 