by K. M. Szpara
“No! No, I’m coming home with you. My Patron amended my contract to say that my debts were satisfied and we would continue to receive the stipend. He took me home after six months.”
“Why don’t you sound more excited? What happened?”
“I refused Dociline.”
Her face tenses as she clutches her chest. “Goodness, Elisha. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I didn’t want what happened to you to happen to me!” I say, louder than I mean. “I’m sorry. This is— A lot’s happened. I’m still working through it all.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie; we don’t have to do all this now, if you don’t want.”
“It’s okay. I’d rather now than later. In front of everyone.”
“So, who was this man? Why did he amend your contract?”
I look at the floor. “You just met him.”
“Alex?”
“His name’s Dr. Alexander Bishop the Third. His family makes Dociline, so it didn’t sit well with them when I refused. He … hurt me,” is all I can manage. The thought of bringing everything back up with my mother is too much. “I haven’t talked about it with anyone in our family. It’s too personal. I’m sorry I can’t give you any more, right now.”
“It’s okay, sweetie.” She closes her hand over mine just as my phone rings.
We both look. Verónica’s name shows on the display. “That’s our attorney. I have to answer.”
“We have an attorney?” Mom asks.
Before she can ask why, I answer. “Hi, Verónica.”
“Hey, Elisha. Are you free? I’ve got some news—a settlement offer from Lex Bishop. We should look over this together.”
* * *
“How’re you holding up?” Verónica asks, as we settle in. The community room in my building is decorated with modern furniture and historic art. Scenes of the city from hundreds of years ago, when all the streets were cobblestones.
“Okay.” I sit beside her at the end of a long SmartTable. “Never need to attend another deposition, again.”
She snorts. “Tell me about it. Though I was pleasantly surprised by Dutch Townsend’s testimony. He’s since contacted me, volunteering to testify on your behalf during trial.”
“That’s great.” I try not to look too surprised. “Hey, before we get started, I need to tell you something.” I decided, while I was walking up here, that I was going to tell Verónica about my mother. She’s my attorney. Even though she’s with Empower Maryland, I want her to have all the cards. I don’t want her to be surprised in the courtroom, on Monday.
I’m relieved when she doesn’t get angry. When she says, “Maybe that’ll finally force them to pay attention to her—assuming you don’t want to accept this offer.”
I look at her, waiting. I’m supposed to ask. Ask the question, dammit. “What’s their offer?”
She pulls up an email on her phone and reads it to me. “‘Plaintiffs will dismiss all claims against defendants on the following conditions. One, defendants agree to sign a nondisclosure agreement detailing that Elisha Wilder will not discuss, with anyone, his time as Alex Bishop’s Docile, his relationship with Alex Bishop since then, or Abigail Wilder’s experience with Dociline and/or her current medical condition.
“‘Two, defendant Elisha Wilder will prepare a public statement, to be approved by plaintiffs, apologizing for taking advantage of Alex Bishop during the six months Elisha was his Docile, denying any alleged resulting relationship, and stating that Dociline is not harmful and is not the cause of Abigail Wilder’s current medical condition.
“‘Three, defendants consent to plaintiffs’ filing a Protective Motion with the court, stating that all defendants will keep a specified distance, to be agreed upon, from plaintiffs.’”
Verónica sets her phone down. “Basically, plaintiffs want you to deny that they ever hurt you or your mother, keep the details to yourself, and stay away from them. In exchange, they’ll dismiss all charges. Your debt remains resolved. I’m not sure about the monthly stipend, it’s not mentioned, but if you’re interested in this, I’ll contact plaintiffs’ counsel to discuss.”
“Should I be interested in this?” I’m not, but what if I should be? We could lose this case. Eugenia said Empower Maryland would cover it, but not if I can’t tarnish Alex’s reputation thoroughly. It suddenly occurs to me that we never agreed on what that meant. How bad do I have to make the Bishops look? Eugenia is the real judge. If I take this deal, her judgment won’t matter. My family won’t have any debts. I could resolve this on my own.
“It’s not a bad deal—not outlandish in terms of its demands,” Verónica says. “But it would undo everything you’ve been working for.”
Everything Empower Maryland has been working for. Not that I want to apologize publicly or deny what happened to me or sign something that means I can never see Alex, again. Maybe we are working for the same things—at least some of them. Maybe Verónica is right.
“Do you think we can win?”
She rests her elbows on the table and leans forward. “Most jurors will be working-class city dwellers. Bishop Labs’ own CFO—well, former CFO—admits they’re the ones at fault. Our expert is credible and his report on your behavior is a damning indictment of Alex. You’re extremely sympathetic, Elisha. As is your mother, regardless of her current state. How anyone who meets her would think that’s not Dociline’s doing baffles me. So, yeah, we have a solid chance at winning.”
“Then, no. Tell Lex Bishop we don’t accept his deal.” Even though I’m terrified—even though every nerve in my body is strung like a grand piano—this is right. I won’t let another Bishop buy his way out of responsibility. We can do this. We can win.
70
ALEX
The morning of the trial, I dress in a forest-green suit, pale yellow button-down, and navy-blue tie with “ABIII” monogrammed with gold thread. I lace my brown leather oxfords on a chair by the windows, then select a matching belt. The leather pulls soft between my fingers and fastens with a cinch around my hips.
I do love it. I love these beautiful materials, their expert craftsmanship, and their history. I want to think of my family in the same way. Wanted to. I’m terrified of losing them—not as they are but as I want them to be. The idea of them. The stability, no matter how harmful.
The velvet curtains hang heavy and closed. These past few weeks, I’ve tried to pretend this was my home and not a cloister, but that got harder when Dutch was fired and my new conservator stopped approving requests for outings. I run my fingers down a vertical fold. Dust springs into the air, from where it had gathered in the thick fabric. I refused a Docile to clean up after me.
Today, I am done pretending. I am done playing along with my father’s narrative and letting others hold my life hostage. Like a bandage, I rip the curtains back and force myself to look out at the thousands of people living anonymous beside me.
Today, like Elisha did months ago, I refuse.
71
ELISHA
The jeweler is hard to find. None of my working-class friends are familiar with the market for custom-printed precious stones, and if I know Alex, he wouldn’t patronize an easy-to-find store. Not one I can search for on Empower Maryland’s computers. Not one with price tags. When I cave and ask Dutch, he’s only able to suggest a few addresses.
I know I’ve found the right one when I see a sign on the door that reads: “By appointment only.” I don’t have one, but I knock, anyway. I knock loud enough that someone in the back couldn’t miss me if they were asleep.
An older white person wearing a sleek black dress walks slowly into view. They don’t acknowledge me until after they’ve unlocked the door and cracked it open. “Our hours are by appointment only,” they say, tapping the sign with a many-ringed finger.
“I know,” I say, “and I’m really sorry. This is kind of a jewelry emergency. I have to be in court in two hours.”
“A jewelry emergency?” They look me
over for evidence.
I hold up my left wrist, hook a finger through the loop, and pull out the diamond chain. “Did you make this?”
Their body relaxes as they push the door the rest of the way open. “You’re Alex Bishop’s Docile.”
“Was Alex Bishop’s Docile,” I say.
“Right, right. I read the news.”
“So, can you take it off?”
They recoil. Their mouth forms a frown. Then, they reach out and take the chain from me. “May I?”
I allow them to hold my wrist. Smooth their nimble fingers over the opalescent rose-gold surface, up the length of the chain. With a long, deep breath they say, “I can take it off, if that’s what you really want.”
With conviction, I say, “It is.”
72
ALEX
Walking into the courtroom feels like stepping into a holy place. Like a temple carved from mahogany. High ceilings, raised daises for the judge, jury, and witness. Benches like pews for the assembly. We sit at a long table in front of them—Reginald, Gabriela, my father, and me. Supplicants.
I see Verónica Vasquez, first, followed by Elisha and his parents. They sit at the next table, but ignore us as if there is a glass wall separating our parties. Once, Abigail looks at me and smiles. Reassuring, since several days have passed since I last saw her. I don’t know how long the counteractive will last.
The judge enters. Then, potential jurors.
Our attorneys review and select jurors like trading cards. Reginald and Gabriela do not consult me; they consult my father. Verónica speaks with Elisha in hushed tones, pointing people out and asking his opinions. I sit quietly, waiting my turn.
It does not come next. Next are the opening statements. While Reginald stands to speak, I watch the judge. Was he the one who declared me incompetent? Elisha doesn’t deserve this trial at all, but he at least deserves a fair one. I doubt he’ll get it.
“Today,” Reginald addresses the jury, “I am going to tell you about a good man who wanted to help debtors and was, in return, taken advantage of by someone he trusted.”
Only if that someone is my father.
“His friends and colleagues will tell you Alex Bishop has worked for years to create a product that smooths out the rocky path to a debt-free life. That he is caring and kind and hardworking and honest. That Elisha Wilder targeted Alex and refused Dociline so that he could, during their time together, gain Alex Bishop’s trust, in order to defraud him for his family’s three-million-dollar debt—revenge for a perceived and slanderous accusation that Dociline harmed his mother.
“Our experts will report that it is Elisha’s influence that led to such drastic changes in Alex’s personality, that caused him to shirk his friends, family, work, and responsibility. To amend his and Elisha’s Docile contract, such that Elisha was able to go home after only six months of a life term debt-free—and still receiving one thousand dollars per month, from Alex.
“There is no doubt that life is hard for many, in Maryland. Together with the Office of Debt Resolution, Bishop Labs has sought to salve the burn of debt—but Elisha Wilder would see that undone. His offenses against Alex Bishop will rip apart the very systems set up to help debtors like him recover their livelihoods and become productive members of society, once again.
“You esteemed members of the jury get to decide. Do you allow this to pass? For one debtor’s misguided revenge to destroy our institutions for his peers? I urge you not to let this injustice go unpunished.” Reginald sits.
Vasquez stands. She walks to the center of the floor, nods at the judge, then looks imploringly at the jury.
“That was a good story Mr. Moore just told you. During this trial, he’s going to attempt to convince you of it with people who look important on paper. Who can afford credibility. Unfortunately, his story is fiction.
“Elisha Wilder will recount his journey with you. How, since returning from her contracted Docile term, his mother has continued to live as if she were still injecting Dociline. That, because of her condition, he decided before meeting any potential Patrons that he would refuse Dociline—his legal right.
“He will tell you that he did not know Alex Bishop in advance of signing with him, and that his reasons had less to do with Dociline and more with the unexpected promise of a stipend that would change his family’s life, back home.
“More upsettingly, he, his family, our experts, and even Alex’s friends and colleagues will tell you how Alex Bishop brainwashed Elisha slowly over a period of six months, chipping away at his sense of self until he was reduced to a state similar to his mother’s. Elisha Wilder has been genuinely and irreparably harmed by Alex Bishop. Since the end of their relationship, he has suffered from depression and suicidal ideations, the latter of which he acted on, once.
“During the past few weeks, Elisha has worked diligently with debtor support organizations, friends, and family, to learn basic functions, again. He’s learned how to ask questions. How to make his own choices, rather than defaulting to Alex’s preferences. How to pick out his own clothes and feed himself.”
She points at him. “A young man who was so manipulated that he literally could not live, on his own, is incapable of the level of strategy and manipulation that Bishop’s lawyers would imply. How, if Elisha could not change his own clothes without direction, do they expect that he could change Alex Bishop’s entire personality?
“This lawsuit is an attempt to destroy a young man even further than he already has been. To demonize Elisha and defend the man who abused him. During this trial, I ask you to pay attention. Do not let the Bishops’ attorneys brainwash you like Alex did Elisha.”
Shame burns through my body as Vasquez takes her seat. She’s right. That’s the true story. I hope the jury believes it.
* * *
Mariah is the first to testify on my behalf. As during her deposition, she tells the sad story of a friend who lost who he was because of time spent with his Docile. She makes me sound helpless. Pathetic. And I believe that she believes that’s the truth. Mariah wants everything for me. For me to marry and succeed. For my Dociline dreams to come true.
I’m surprised my attorneys even subpoenaed Jess, after the way they treated her during her deposition. I’m even more surprised she maintains the same opinions as during her deposition. No one pushes her too hard, but when Vasquez asks whether, in Jess’ opinion as a professional in the field of Dociline, Elisha behaved like an on-med, she says yes.
When Vasquez asks whose doing that was, Jess says, “Alex’s.” Ever so slightly, Jess nods at me. This isn’t a betrayal; it’s help.
Our expert certainly doesn’t help. My doctor takes the stand with the same cool authority she projected at Ellicott Hart. She speaks clearly, describing in plain language about how I threw tantrum after tantrum, destroyed my suite, needed to be restrained. She compares my behavior to my earlier mental health records and makes her point: that after six months of near isolation with Elisha, I was a different man. Reckless. Besotted. Unkempt. Lost.
The jury must think, after the defense expert testifies, that both Elisha and I are pitiable, incapable shells of our former selves. The battle for our parties to undermine each other exhausts me and I haven’t moved from my uncomfortable wooden chair since we entered. Haven’t spoken.
When my name is finally called—when Vasquez says, “I now call Dr. Alexander Bishop the Third to the stand”—my body is in such shock, I cannot move.
I need to, though. I need to disprove everything my expert witness said. That Reginald and Gabriela and my father have pushed me to portray.
Standing is like pressing a weight over my head. Walking is like learning how for the first time. I climb up the steps into the witness stand and sit facing the court. I’ve never been so nervous in my entire life as when Vasquez asks my name, for the record. My mouth dries upon answering. I can’t swallow.
I pour myself a glass of water, while she continues, careful to drink slowly. Like a n
ormal person.
“In your own words,” she says, “please describe what happened the morning you met Elisha Wilder.”
“When I arrived at the ODR, I was provided a selection of Dociles that the Bishop Labs Board had prescreened.” Speaking becomes easier, the more I do it. “But I wasn’t interested in anyone on their list. I’m a discerning person—any of my friends or family will agree with that. I knew what I wanted, so I asked my Patron Liaison for access to the larger database. Presented with more options, I selected Elisha myself. As soon as I read his profile, I knew I wanted him as my Docile, and I’d do anything to get what I wanted.”
“Thank you, Dr. Bishop. We all know Elisha refused Dociline, so let’s fast-forward. How did you respond? Tell us about your relationship with Elisha when he was your Docile.”
I shift on the hard wooden chair and focus on Vasquez. If I don’t look at my father, I won’t be tempted by the memory of him. Of how he used to make me feel—how he inspired and validated me.
He doesn’t, anymore. He’s toxic.
“I wanted Elisha to be my companion. I set him up with tutors in the arts and sciences. He cooked and exercised regularly. I gave him access to my entire library. Even brought him to work, sometimes.”
“Sounds pretty nice,” Vasquez says.
“On the surface.”
My words stop her. Slowly, she turns her head, the slightest of smiles appearing on her face. “What do you mean?”
“I was under intense pressure to show the Board, my family, friends—and pretty much all of Baltimore—that I could control a Docile without Dociline. I’d been informed before I signed with Elisha that my position as CEO was at stake, and I was further informed by my parents that his refusal to take Dociline was my failure. So, I set rules.”
Vasquez holds up a hand to stop me. “I have something for you.” She walks back to the defense table and picks up a small leather-bound book. As she nears, I blanch with recognition. The notebook I made Elisha keep when he was a Docile. I gave it to Tom to destroy. She holds it up for the jury to see and says, “Defense counsel enters Exhibit D: Elisha Wilder’s—”