Survivor Stories

by J P Barnaby

  “No….” Spencer said as he pulled the door handle and got out. He wasn’t ready, not at all. He’d spent Friday night and Saturday night in Aaron’s arms, having quiet conversations about power and control. Aaron hadn’t said anything about what he would hear in court today. It loomed over his head like storm clouds threatening to open up the sky and drown him in a deluge of Aaron’s pain.

  “It is not pretty. I will not lie to you. But you love him, and that is what matters,” his father signed as they shuffled to the front of the car together. He put a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, and they walked to the front doors together. They went through security, and his father signed the instructions to him. His signs attracted the attention of the guards, earning them a pat down once they went through the detector.

  His father led him down a long hallway, and they found Aaron’s parents standing outside a room with open double doors. They could have been going to church in their Sunday finest, but they didn’t look much like rejoicing. Aaron’s mother’s face had grown far more lined since the last time he’d seen her, and his father’s hair had gone further toward gray than black. Their eyes were haunted.

  Spencer glanced into the room beyond the open doors, but it was empty.

  “Where. Is. Aaron.?” Spencer asked them without even saying hello first.

  “He’s in the bathroom,” Aaron’s father answered with a slight wave toward the restrooms at the end of the hall.

  “Has. He. Seen. Them. Yet.?”

  Mrs. Downing shook her head and clutched tighter at the purse on her arm, like it was the life vest that might save her from drowning in her son’s anguish.

  “I. Am. Going. To. Go. Check. On. Him.,” Spencer said, already walking up the hall toward the sign for the men’s room. He went around the corner and panicked a little when he didn’t see Aaron. Only the second stall door had been locked; the others stood open. He waited, hoping Aaron would be behind the closed door.

  He couldn’t hear what, if anything, came from the stall.

  “Aaron., I. Am. Here.,” Spencer said, but it took a few minutes for the door to open. When it did, Aaron wiped his mouth on a bit of toilet paper and trudged to the sink like the executioner’s ax waited for him at the end of his trip.

  Aaron flipped on the faucet, which thankfully hadn’t been replaced by one of those sensor ones. First he washed his hands, and then he rinsed out his mouth.

  “I don’t have any gum or anything,” he said, his gaze holding Spencer’s in the mirror. Spencer reached into his pocket and pulled out a little plastic container of Tic Tacs. As he handed them to Aaron, his own stomach heaved at the look of sheer lost panic on his boyfriend’s face.

  “It. Is. Going. To. Be. Okay… They. Can. Not. Hurt. You. Any. More… They. Have. No. Power… You. Have. All. The. Power….”

  Aaron closed his eyes and took a deep breath, which he held for a few seconds before releasing it slowly.

  “I have all the power. They have no power,” he repeated to himself. Spencer brushed Aaron’s hair off his forehead and kissed it before wrapping his arms around Aaron.

  “I. Am. So. Proud. Of. You….”

  “You will still love me?” Aaron asked, looking up into Spencer’s face.

  “Forever….”

  Aaron stayed in Spencer’s arms for another long minute and then stepped back.

  “They don’t want me to be in the courtroom until after I testify. So they’re going to put me in a room to wait. I wish you could come with me.”

  “Me. Too., Baby….”

  They left the bathroom together, walking hand in hand up the hallway, where the prosecutor, Mr. Sorensen, had joined Aaron’s parents and Dr. Thomas as they waited outside the courtroom.

  “Aaron, how are you feeling? Are you ready?” he asked as Aaron got closer. Spencer wanted to wrap Aaron in his arms and protect him until they got out of the building and could go to some deserted island where no one could hurt him anymore, but he knew Aaron had to do this. He had to take his power back and send those bastards to jail. He only hoped that the truth, the unvarnished, horrible truth, would set Aaron free.

  “I am as ready as I will ever be,” Aaron said, squeezing Spencer’s hand.

  “Okay, you should be on sometime after we break for lunch, but I wanted you to be here early so we wouldn’t have to delay anything. Mrs. Downing, would you like to wait with Aaron? I don’t want him in the courtroom until he testifies, but given the circumstances, it shouldn’t be a problem for you to wait with him.”

  “I would,” Aaron’s mother said and put a hand on Aaron’s shoulder. Aaron didn’t flinch. Either he was so overwhelmed by all of the emotions bottled up inside him or he’d taken something so he didn’t freak out on the stand. Either way, he seemed to be in better control than Spencer had imagined he would be.

  “Okay, then let’s get you into the room to wait. Mr. Downing, Dr. Thomas, and Spencer, you can head into the courtroom when you’re ready,” Mr. Sorensen said and then led Aaron’s mother and Aaron down the hall, Aaron giving Spencer one long last look.

  His father followed Mr. Downing into the courtroom, where he took a seat in the first row behind a table to the right. His father took the next seat, and Spencer took the one after. He would be able to see Aaron clearly when he testified. Either he would read Aaron’s lips, or he’d use the voice to text program he’d downloaded for his phone so it would convert Aaron’s testimony into text. He didn’t want to distract Aaron by watching his father sign.

  People filtered into the courtroom a few at a time and slid into different seats around the small room. Only about a dozen people attended the trial, including an older-looking couple, who sat in the row directly across from them. The woman wrung her hands, clutching a rosary in her thin fingers. Her clothes, and those of the man next to her, were old and worn. The wrinkles in her blouse were evident even from a distance. They sat quietly waiting, like the rest of those gathered.

  “Oh,” Mr. Downing said as something in the back of the room caught his attention, and he stood up. Three people entered the courtroom and looked around for a moment before they focused on Mr. Downing. The older man and woman appeared to be a couple, and the bald younger man might have been their son. They walked slowly up the center aisle toward the front where Mr. Downing waited for them, and Spencer and his father watched.

  The woman, small, with a mousy brown but graying bob, clutched at her husband’s cardigan as they walked, and the other guy walked behind them. The husband, a tall, balding man with angular black glasses and a sharp expression, had an arm around the wife. They reached the front, and the man shook Mr. Downing’s hand.

  “John, it’s good to see you. How are you?” he asked while the bald man put a hand on his mother’s shoulder.

  “As well as can be expected, and you?” Mr. Downing’s voice sounded suddenly tired and old, like he hadn’t slept in a while.

  “The same. Ben is doing better since the accident. How’s Aaron?” he asked, giving a small smile to his son before putting his arm back around his wife.

  “He’s… managing. This is Aaron’s boyfriend, Spencer, and his father, Dr. Thomas. Spencer, these are Juliette’s parents, Nancy and Gerald Martin, and their son, Ben.” Mr. and Mrs. Martin both inclined their heads, but Ben stepped forward to shake Spencer’s hand. When he got closer, Spencer saw a thousand tiny scars along the right side of Ben’s shaved head and face, trailing down his neck and beneath the white collar of his shirt. Spencer shook his hand and then moved down a seat so that the newcomers could slide into their row near the aisle. Mr. Martin sat next to Mr. Downing, and Spencer looked away so he didn’t have to follow their conversation.

  He disconnected from the rest of the room for a long time, staring at the seal behind the big wooden bench where he presumed the judge would sit. A small collection of chairs sat behind a wooden railing to their right for the jury. The prosecutor and a few court officers came in, and then a stoic man in a silver-gray suit and purple tie
went over to the table on the left side of the room. As he set up a laptop on the table, another man, a much younger one in a discount suit, beaming with high expectations, wheeled in a small rolling cart with boxes that he set next to the table. The older man, with his nondescript corporate hair and bland expression, began to pull files out of the boxes and organize them on the table. Spencer watched for a long time, until the man had everything just where he wanted it.

  A few minutes later, two other men entered wearing the same sort of bland suits. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil had appeared from the pages of a children’s book. Only they weren’t the things of fairy tales. They were the champions of monsters.

  Movement beyond the defense table caught his attention, and Spencer looked over to see a door open and two officers come through escorting three men, with another two officers bringing up the rear. Spencer’s breath froze in his chest. God, it was them, the men who had hurt Aaron. They stood not twenty feet from him. An insane urge to take one of the wooden chairs at the defense table and beat each man to death in turn grabbed hold of Spencer’s soul with teeth and serrated edges until he couldn’t stand it. The first man, the tallest of the three, slouched into the room with wrist and ankle cuffs attached with a thick set of chains. In his early thirties, his long brown hair had been pushed back off his face where it curled down around his ears. A well-trimmed beard and moustache covered the lower part of his face below cold gray eyes. A thin but prominent scar ripped from just above his right eye down to his cheek. Tall, lean, and angry, he didn’t look around as he came in but sat sullenly next to his lawyer.

  Another man followed him in, also in restraints. His suit didn’t look quite as good as the first guy’s—in fact, it looked like a suit a guy might have worn to a wedding in the eighties. A bit older than the first man, his blond hair appeared to be thinning. It had been cut short and parted to one side in an attempt to make him look respectable. He even had a close shave on his doughy face.

  The couple in the first row on the defense side clutched at each other as the third man came in, shackled as heavily as the others. He was younger, maybe midtwenties, with a baby face and doe-like brown eyes matched with short, sandy-brown hair. Where the first two men appeared defiant, this one was terrified. His eyes lit up when they found his parents, but then he quickly looked away again, shame written into his features. The three men sat down at the table with their attorneys, and two guards stayed in chairs along the wall while the others retreated back through the door.

  Jesus, it was real. Aaron would have to come in, see them, and talk about all of the horrible things they did to him. Until he came face to face with Aaron’s attackers, the whole concept of testifying had been abstract. Yes, Aaron would have to talk about it, yes he would have to see them, but it didn’t become a concrete barrier on the highway right in front of him doing seventy until that moment.

  He tapped his father on the arm.

  “I do not think I can do this,” he signed and whispered in the growing tension that filled the room like a rush of water, threatening to drown them all. His father glanced at the men sitting at the table and then turned to face Spencer.

  “They were real before the trial started, and they’re real now. Nothing has changed. How do you think Aaron will feel when he looks for you from the stand and you are not there for him?” His father gave him that look, the one that nearly burst with disappointment, and Spencer’s gaze landed on the men once again. He had promised to be there, to support Aaron. The greenish hue to Aaron’s skin in the bathroom still haunted him. He would have to deal with so much worse than Spencer.

  Spencer nodded and sat up straighter in his chair just as a court officer came in and asked them to rise. The prosecutor and the woman sitting at the table next to him both stood, as did the defense lawyers and an assistant. While the third man shot out of his chair at the instruction, it took the other two a moment longer, and only at the insistence of their attorneys, to follow suit. Spencer stood with his father, Mr. Downing, and Juliette’s family, one solid line seeking justice for the ones they loved.

  It took a while after the jury came in—the judge gave a series of instructions, ruled on things the audience couldn’t hear, and generally got down to business before the prosecutor questioned his first witness, one of the police officers who responded that night. Spencer had to read what the lawyer had asked on his phone, but he could see the witness and read his lips. He couldn’t help but watch the horrified expressions of Juliette’s parents as the cop described how they found her that night: naked, bruised, and lying in a pool of her own blood. Pictures were given to the jury, but thank God they didn’t show them to the audience. He noticed tears on the brother’s face before the officer moved on to Aaron.

  “Officer Diaz, please tell the jury what you observed about the male victim, Aaron Downing,” the prosecutor said as he stood at his table and faced the witness. Officer Diaz looked first at the jury and then back to Mr. Sorensen. The policeman was dressed in an impressive dark blue uniform, cut to his muscular frame. The patches, a badge, and other adornment set off the dark material, giving him an air of authority. Though solemn, the man had a kind face, earnest behind the sadness in his eyes at the substance of his testimony.

  “When we entered the building, the male victim was facedown on the floor, naked and severely injured. We cleared the room with a sweep and allowed the paramedics to work on him. His throat had been cut, and his face was covered in blood. There were marks all over his arms, back, buttocks, and thighs which appeared to be cuts and burns, as if he had been systematically tortured.”

  “Objection, the witness is speculating as to the source of the victim’s injuries,” the defense attorney called from his table on the dark side of the room.

  “Overruled, the witness may answer,” the judge said and looked at Officer Diaz. “Continue, Officer.”

  He continued to describe the conditions in which he and his partner had found Aaron, and the work paramedics did on him until they could transport him to the hospital. The bit of breakfast Spencer had managed to get down that morning rose up in rebellion. He wished he could rid himself of the images in his head of Aaron covered in blood, but he couldn’t. They danced there like the flames of his destruction.

  Then the defense attorney for the long-haired man got up and asked Officer Diaz a few questions. The final question gutted Spencer, and he wanted to pound the stupid man in the face.

  “Officer Diaz, did you observe any restraints at the scene?”

  “No.”

  “Did you find any ligature marks on the victims?”

  “We found no markings from things like cuffs, zip ties, or rope,” he replied, and then in a hurried tone, like trying to get an answer in before a bell, he added, “But we did find bruising on their arms and legs from being held down.”

  “No further questions, your honor,” the defense lawyer said, and Spencer couldn’t decide if the last bit of questioning favored the prosecution or defense. The other two lawyers had no questions for the witness.

  The ER doctor who cared for Aaron testified next, listing the extent of his injuries. The coroner talked about the horrific way in which Juliette had been murdered, and through it all, the three who stood accused sat quietly in their chairs as if it were a PBS special feature. The second lawyer cross-examined the ER doctor, clarifying protocols and the handling of evidence. A forensics expert took the stand next and testified in scientific terms, charts, and graphs about DNA evidence and matching semen samples. After a while, Spencer looked away so he wouldn’t have to see them talk about Aaron in such a cold and detached way. God, didn’t they care how the semen got there? It didn’t appear by magic. Three men brutally raped Aaron and left him there like a used Big Mac container.

  They broke for lunch then. For a long moment, Spencer sat with his head pressed against the wooden railing in front of him, counting floor tiles in an attempt not to lose his fucking mind. A hand rested on the middle of hi
s back, and he knew it was his father’s.

  He looked up and found the same sick expression on his father’s face.

  “Come on, son. Let’s get out of here for a while.”

  The monsters who hurt Aaron had already been led out, back through the little door where they’d appeared, he supposed. He followed his father back up the middle aisle and to the double doors, through which his life had been irrevocably altered. Neither Juliette’s parents nor Mr. Downing were in the hall when they came out.

  “Where. Is. Aaron.?” Spencer asked as they walked up the hallway, back the way they’d come in that morning.

  “He is with his parents. They brought lunch in, and they’re trying to keep Aaron calm. Mr. Sorensen said that the defense would cross-examine the forensics technician, and then they’ll put Aaron on the stand.” His father put an arm around Spencer and squeezed and then pulled them to the side of the hallway. “I thought it might be better for you not to see him right now. You are upset, and he needs to focus.”

  “That. Is. A. Good. Idea… I. Just… I. Cannot….” Spencer stammered, a helpless kind of whimper clawing its way out. His father put both arms around him, ignoring the rest of the traffic in the hall.

  Spencer pressed his head against his father’s shoulder and grieved for the boy he loved.

  THEY ATE lunch at a small diner near the courthouse, where they said very little and ate even less. As he pushed the dry turkey sandwich around in the gravy on the plate, Spencer ached for Aaron. He wanted this to be over already. He wanted to go home, hold Aaron, and never again think about the gruesome images of him lying naked and bloody on a concrete floor. Even without the pictures they’d shown the jury, pictures he hadn’t seen, sick, twisted snapshots played over and over in his head like a vintage View-Master held up to the light.