No Place to Hide

by Opa Hysea Wise

  Smythe began to slowly pace. Her nerves were starting to fray. She focused on each step she took and breathed in to the count of eight before breathing out to another count of eight. She looked toward Artie, who stood before the conference table.

  “So, what now?”

  Artie approached her carrying a backpack Dennis had given her, placing it at Smythe’s feet. As she unzipped the bag, she asked Smythe to disrobe from the waist up, leaving on only her bra.

  “Even my vest?” Smythe asked.

  “Yes, because we are going to replace it with this,” Artie said as she pulled out a different bulletproof vest from the backpack.

  “Try this on.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “It’s better,” Artie said dryly as she checked the fit.

  Once satisfied, she instructed Smythe to re-dress.

  “Now, we wait. Deputies will come for you and escort you into the courtroom in a bit. I can’t follow you, but I will circle around and enter the courtroom from the front entrance. Once you have testified, I’ll meet you back here.”

  “Wait, I thought I would be leaving the courtroom from the normal public entrance and leaving with you at the end of the day?”

  “Mmm, no.”

  “Then it’s through the back corridor?”

  “Perhaps,” Artie said, averting her eyes away from Smythe.

  Smythe peered at Artie and her shoulders tightened. Her heart began to race.

  Remember, Smythe, listen only to Artie. She told you to trust your gut; so, what does your gut tell you?

  It tells me Artie hasn’t told me everything, but… I trust her.

  Then trust her.

  She slowly tightened her hands into a fist. “Ok.”

  Time seemed to come to a standstill, and Smythe found herself using the restroom several times, more out of nerves than anything else. Besides, the last thing she wanted was to have to “go” just as she was called to the courtroom. In between her bathroom runs, she paced, played games on her phone, and forced herself to sit down again.

  Artie, on the other hand, sat at the conference table unmoved. To Smythe, Artie seemed unusually quiet, but given the preparation to get her to this point, Smythe chose not to press her for conversation. Smythe eventually settled down and entered into a semi-meditative state, concentrating only on her breath.

  Without warning, Artie stood up and walked over to Smythe.

  “It’s time.”

  Smythe opened her eyes. The room seemed to become very still. She could hear the whirl of air as it passed through the vents. She could hear herself swallow, and a small bead of sweat trickled down the base of her neck. Artie extended her hand to Smythe, which she accepted. As Smythe rose to her feet, Artie pulled her into her arms and kissed her.

  “Be the truth,” were the only other words Artie spoke before the door opened.

  Two deputies escorted Smythe out of the conference room. She walked behind them, matching her pace to theirs. She walked through the frame of a door. All eyes turned to her as she appeared into the courtroom and walked toward the witness stand. The packed room hushed to a whisper. Smythe could hear her own nervous breathing, her footsteps loud and heavy with each step onto the tile flooring.

  Through the throng of reporters, families, and an assortment of law enforcement officials, Smythe searched for Artie’s face. She found her as she took a seat at the back of the courtroom. A sense of warmth washed over her as she noticed Artie had taken a seat next to the baker. At once, all of the months of a very long year came flooding back to her. From the moment she witnessed the murder, to her first encounter with Artie; their ongoing battle of wills to allow Smythe more freedom than she should have had and her attempted suicide, to the baker and the stake he had in all of it—it all came tumbling into her consciousness.

  It’s all come down to this.

  Smythe had been told by her hairdresser once that sometimes when in the greatest need of divine guidance, the only prayer necessary was one of “help me and thank you.” She took note that there was no better time than this to seek out her Beloved’s assistance. She quickly glanced up and silently uttered the words, “I need your help, please. Thank you.”

  In a matter of moments, she was sworn in and took her seat in the witness box.

  Trust My Words

  SMYTHE’S TESTIMONY LASTED A DAY AND A HALF. ON HER FIRST DAY, she was on the witness stand until the end of the day. While nervous, she offered a timeline of events leading to the murder. She then described her actions directly after that. The prosecution drilled her time and again to offer in meticulous detail what she heard and saw.

  After a long, arduous day, she felt grateful to be done with the first bit of the trial. Her temples throbbed and her jaw ached, and she quickly realized it was from clenching. The clenching was an unconscious reaction as she focused on answering each question, and her shoulders felt as though she had been slammed against a wall from the tension she carried. She was released for the evening with an admonishment to speak with no one about the case. Her exit out of the courtroom went without incident, and once in the SUV, she fell asleep. Later that evening, Artie had pizza and salad delivered and ensured Smythe was occupied with a couple of movies.

  “The movies, especially comedies, will help release any pent-up anxiety. It’ll help—I promise,” Artie said as she turned the first one on. And indeed, the movies did help—Smythe laughed often. A little over halfway through the first movie, Smythe rested her head upon Artie’s shoulder and fell asleep. Artie smiled and listened to the quiet purr of Smythe’s breathing, allowing her to continue to sleep until the movie was over, putting her to bed after a peaceful rest on the couch.

  Artie’s preparation for the second day varied only in that each team was given a different driving and station assignments. Artie again outfitted Smythe with several tracking devices and the latest in bulletproof vest technology.

  Bolstered by the prosecution’s questions the previous day, Smythe seemed more confident in herself to continue her testimony. However, at the start of cross-examination by the defense team, it was apparent her second day would become more challenging.

  Constant objections from both the prosecution and the defense made her testimony tedious, and she began to wonder if she might have nightmares that evening. Forced to recount the murder in minute detail for a second day, she offered the same answers she gave the day before. At one point, it seemed to Smythe that her memory was being called into question with reference to her father’s diagnosis of a degenerative brain disease. That brief line of questioning was followed by recounting her recollection of her statements to police dispatch and first responders at the crime scene. Yet, instead of buckling as anxiety began to mount within her, she focused in on every word of questioning. Her memory intact, she did not waver.

  When it was clear Smythe’s testimony was solid and consistent, the defense mounted a half-hearted attack against her character. Smythe remembered her conversation with Artie.

  Bring it.

  He attempted to besmirch her recent employment decisions, her LGBT status, and her decision not to enter WitSec or any other federal protective custody program. The prosecution quelled each attempt, with several sustained objections ending the defense’s meager nipping of her character. With a final redirect of questioning from the district attorney, Smythe’s testimony ended. She received a final admonishment from the judge to discuss the case with no one and was excused. As she rose from the witness box, she heard the judge excuse the jury for the day and to prepare for final arguments in the morning.

  I was the last witness? Maybe just for the prosecution? I don’t understand.

  Hurried along by two deputies, she looked around for Artie, but could not locate her in the crowd nor find her as she approached the conference room. She watched as the deputies opened the door, allowing her to move past them into the room.

  “Here she is,” the deputy said to the person in the room. Smythe w
alked in, smiling brightly at the thought of seeing Artie’s face again. She certainly had a few questions for Artie, including what appeared to be the end of the trial. She abruptly stopped short as she crossed the threshold. Her pulse began to race, her breathing quickened, and her vision tunneled, for it was not Artie standing before her but two of Artie’s security detail.

  “Where’s Artie?!” she snapped, her anger and shock evident by the frown upon her face. She looked toward the back of the room to the bathroom door, hoping perhaps Artie was in there. The door, however, was open.

  A member of Artie’s team Smythe had not met before stepped toward her. “Ms. Daniels, there’s been a breach in security within the courthouse. Please come with us. Time is of the essence.”

  “No, something’s wrong. I will not go with you—this is not part of the plan! Artie would want me to stay here. I’m not going!”

  “Ms. Daniels, Artemis said you might refuse. She asked us to give you this note,” said another team member.

  He stepped forward, holding a small piece of notebook paper in his hand. She took the note and read it.

  “Sweetheart, I ask that you follow my team out. They will protect you and get you back to the apartment safely. I’ll meet you there. Walk closely behind them, and they will lead you away. Trust my words.”

  —Artemis.

  Smythe re-read the note several times. She did not move, save her eyes as she canvassed the room. There was no way out except through the door they now stood in front of.

  Walk closely behind them… trust my words.

  Her faced relaxed, and she nodded. The team turned toward the door, double-checked the area to ensure it was safe to proceed and cautiously but quickly escorted her out of the conference room, leading the way through a back corridor toward a stairwell.

  Sweetheart…Walk closely behind them. She’s never talked about walking closely behind a team, they always—

  Smythe furrowed her brow and gradually began to slow her pace as they approached the stairwell. She darted her eyes from side to side. There was no one around. No hidden door to run through, only the long corridor walls. Her hands began to tremble, and she grit her teeth. To quell her mounting fear, she clenched her hands into fists.

  Trust. My. Words…Oh God, no—I’m going to have to either turn and run or stand and fight my way out of here—

  Without warning, she heard the sound of quick-moving footsteps from behind her and the sound of Artie’s voice.

  “Smythe, drop!” Artie screamed.

  In one terrifying movement, Smythe fell to the floor and covered her head. The security detail turned and drew their weapons. With her weapon drawn, Artie took a defensive stance without cover and shot several times at her own security detail. Smythe squeezed her body tightly into a ball, her ears ringing at the sound of the exchange of rapid gunfire.

  And then silence.

  Just as quickly as the gunfire began, it ceased. Smythe lifted her head slightly, peering in front of her, terrified that she would see only the barrel of a gun. Instead, what she could see through blurred vision were both men, a mere few feet to the side of her, unmoving, face down on the tile floor.

  She looked behind her toward the previous sound of Artie’s voice. Artie was splayed on the floor, barely moving, along with another man. Additional members of Artie’s teams and sheriff’s deputies were running in her direction. As though propelled forward by some unknown speed she did not know she possessed, Smythe jumped up and ran toward Artie.

  “No, no, no, please God, no.”

  She slowed her pace and slid to the floor next to Artie, who lay face down.

  “Artie, honey, it’s ok. Baby, please—”

  “Smythe, let us through,” a team member directed as he approached.

  “No! Stay away from her!” In an instant, Smythe grabbed Artie’s weapon, which lay at her side.

  “Back away, I mean it! None of you can be trusted. None of you!”

  The team members halted their advancement. Smythe held the gun in between both hands, her index finger on the trigger.

  “Back away, I said!”

  “Smythe, we didn’t do this. Let us tend to them,” another team member said.

  Holding back tears, Smythe refused.

  “Two of you did this! Two of you! You’re not going near her!” Smythe screamed.

  It was in this here-now moment Smythe paused to wonder at it all. Here she sat on the floor, the weapon in the palm of her hand cold to the touch. It was a weapon that had just splayed two armed security agents assigned to protect her on the floor. To Smythe, it was symbolic. It was a weapon that so many in the United States owned. Touted as a recreational outlet, the right to bear arms had done so much damage. The daily gun violence ravaged her nation—the almost monthly mass shootings, with no real action to stem the violence. The inaction of elected national officials charged to serve and protect the citizens of the land—here she sat, with a weapon, focused on protecting only her part of the world.

  “Baby,” Artie muttered.

  Smythe did not respond. Her eyes darted from one team member to another, glaring at the them, gripping the weapon so tightly her hands began to shake. Two deputies pulled their weapons from their holster and aimed them toward Smythe.

  “Don’t shoot her. I repeat, don’t shoot her. She’s friendly. Lower your weapons!” yelled one of the team members. He walked cautiously before the deputies, placing his body between their weapons and Smythe.

  Smythe swept Artie’s weapon from side to side in an effort to keep everyone at bay. She neither heard the others around her or Artie’s voice.

  Artie, still face down, opened her eyes and looked at Smythe and tried again.

  “Baby, give me the weapon. I’m ok. Give me the weapon.”

  Artie slowly rolled over onto her back. Smythe noticed Artie’s movement and momentarily glanced down at her. Smythe growled, willing the cold terror she felt to release its grip upon her.

  “Can you sit up, honey? We’ve got to get out of here. I have to get you to safety.”

  Safety? How safe was she really with a weapon?

  “You need medical assistance.”

  “No, baby. We’re already safe.” Artie craned her neck and looked behind her to her teams, who had slowly gathered around. “They’re the good guys. Trust me. Lower the weapon,” Artie said, in between gasps.

  Artie forced her eyes to remain fixed onto Smythe. She nodded toward her slowly, mouthing “please.”

  “It’s ok, baby,” Artie said. “It’s ok.”

  With no fight within her frame, Smythe lowered the muzzle of Artie’s weapon and then burst into tears, tenderly laying her head on Artie’s chest.

  Artie’s team moved in.

  Smythe bolted upright. She screamed so loud all activity ceased momentarily.

  “NOOOOOO!! NO!” Smythe cried out. In the here-now moment, the choice was hers to make. Lash out in fear, and perhaps hatred, or choose love. Fury coursed through her veins. Artie reached her hand to Smythe’s chest and pulled her down to her own. Smythe began to sob, her hand releasing her grip upon the weapon before lightly touching Artie’s cheek.

  Step by step, a team member slowly approached Smythe. He bent low and held out his hand.

  “Smythe,” the agent started.

  Her body tightly cocooned around Artie, Smythe looked out to his outstretched hand. She could feel the ache in her back as she raised her torso. The agent’s fingers reached toward the weapon and gently placed his hand over it.

  “Let me have it, Smythe. You don’t have to hold onto it any longer.”

  Smythe watched as the agent removed the weapon from her hand, slowly standing up and offering Smythe his other hand. She grasped it as if she were grabbing onto a lifeline, allowing him to help her to her feet. He placed one arm around her shoulders, bearing her weight in his quiet strength and walked her to the wall across from Artie.

  “I’m going to stay with you, Smythe. You’re safe now.
Let us help Artie.”

  Smythe sat back against the wall. Refusing to have another tear fall from her eyes, she watched intently as the agents began assessing Artie.

  “Damn, God, this hurts… it hurts,” Artie groaned.

  “You caught them in the vest,” a team member said as he examined Artie’s torso.

  “Yeah, I know, but now I think my ribs are broken this time. The rounds didn’t feel like issued caliber,” she gasped.

  “We’re taking a look at their weapons. They don’t look issued.”

  With help from one of her team members, Artie slowly sat up. She looked over to find two of her detail working on Dennis.

  “He caught some bullets, boss—we’re trying to get the bleeding under control,” one of the team members said. Artie pulled herself next to Dennis. He bled profusely from his upper body, a pool of red seeping out around him.

  “We’ve called for paramedics. They’re on their way,” a sheriff’s deputy offered.

  In the ensuing minutes, paramedics and additional sheriff’s deputies and police officers arrived at the hallway. Paramedics worked quickly to stabilize Dennis, while deputies and police began questioning Artie’s teams. With the help of another team member, Artie moved next to Smythe against the corridor wall and watched the activity unfold.

  To Smythe, the scene felt surreal. The cacophony of voices ricocheted off the corridor walls. She stared down at her hands, noticing they didn’t quiver. She then scanned her body. She expected to feel fear, but her energy was not fear. It was rage, and she consciously chose to hold that rage, not allowing it to dissipate from her body.

  Paramedics transported Dennis to the hospital with a team of agents following behind them. However, it would be over two hours before Smythe and Artie would be released from the courthouse. Both were questioned endlessly about their roles in the events leading up to the weapons fire in a courthouse. Once the necessary reports were taken, Artie and Smythe were escorted to the hospital by Artie’s security team.

  Along the route, Smythe argued with Artie, finally convincing her to tend to her injuries with a promise she and the teams would check in on Dennis. With Artie placed on a gurney and wheeled into the emergency room, Smythe and two teams made their way to the surgery ward to await word of Dennis’s condition.