DAY 115:  Sunday, January 31, 2010:  You’re too big for coffee to take effect, or even electricity.

Severance Pay; continued . . .                                                                                

 CHAPTER SIX

 IMP IS IN PLAY

The famous east coast lawyer Samuel Smith of Smith, Olive, and Shotenheimer couldn’t believe his ears, nervously hunching and bunching a custom suit into wrinkled elephant skin as he settled closer to a long maple conference table – elbows out and braced – eager little eyes hungrily scanning hospital personnel, and a specialist named Marty who never spoke.  Ferg and Rhiannon were both keeping Janelle company elsewhere, under close supervision.

Fiona was angrily squeezing a rubber hand ball to alleviate raging emotions.  She had been working the same type of ball for several years now, and could break a logger’s wrist in the wink of an eye.  She found out the hard way; immediately banned from sanctioned arm wrestling for life in the United States.  Fiona weighed 123 pounds.

“Super . . . Accelerated . . . Hypnotism,” Smith said, drawing the term out slowly, committing it to memory as a speaker gave him the floor.  “You’re trying to sell me on something never proven by anyone outside of this medical facility; a term you’ve concocted in the last couple of years because my client was able to make you people do outrageous things by . . . let’s see . . .”

He cleared his throat and looked to the ceiling for guidance, recalling the term.  “Blasting dormant images of past events into a person’s active consciousness, ahem; with a distinct pattern of words that overtake and alter their thinking.”

He lowered his broad face and studied the audience closely.  “Benchmarks in the memory bank, I think you told me.  Trigger points.  Close enough?”

Nobody spoke a word as he pushed away and stood to pace slowly, unleashing an audible aerial attack.

“Find the trigger points very quickly, and unleash holy hell upon the here and now.  Last I heard, that’s called a vivid conversation.  Every snake oil salesman and televangelist could be accused of doing the same damn thing.  Audibly unleashing overpowering emotions drawn from shared or general experience has been around since spoken words, and I will not have you twisting it into a specialized weapon used by Doctor McCrory. 

“Thank god you’re a private institution, for so many reasons.”

This was the same Samuel Oscar Smith (S.O.S. of S.O.S.: When You Truly Need Help) who had legally horse whipped the United States Government into handing over a seven figure compensation package to his client, now carefully watched two floors above them in a luxury suite.  The private infirmary was covered indefinitely, and any other medical assistance was provided for Janelle, courtesy of a horrible chemical and the U.S. of A.

When Smith was done negotiating his greedy split, seven figures magically became six on their receiving end, and taxes reduced it even more, but the mortgage was paid off, and their bank account remained prosperous.

What people failed to notice during that fateful day in court was Counselor Smith huddling with his famous client during a prolonged recess, hypnotized beyond belief as impish Janelle coached his attack, Smith nodding like a bobble head doll, utterly trained to seek and destroy during intensive cross examinations.  When she was done frying his brain, Smith could’ve sold fire to the devil for a very high price.  Two hours after the hearing, he was ordering old footage of Boston Bruins hockey games from Amazon.com, for no apparent reason.  He took it all the way back to Eddy Shore, learning new and exciting terms like “penalty killing” and “icing”.  His wife thought it was just stress.

He was on a roll now, letting them have both barrels as a prelude to what could happen in a court of law:  “You’re going to go before a jury and explain this fancy hypnotic term, and then somehow convince them all how petite little Janelle – tortured and weakened by starvation and bounds – could drive people nuts with a short conversation, and mentally control an entire room full of highly trained professionals?”

He started circling the table as if in a courtroom, which was his natural environment.  “You’re going to describe the isolating torture you enforced upon this beautiful, suffering mother, and I’m going to put a little video up on the screen, of today’s final struggle to see her child.”

He held his thumb and index finger up high, less than one inch apart.  “A tiny glimpse of little Rhiannon, her angelic face frozen in absolute terror, with private SWAT team gunners aiming to blow her mother’s head off, with no  . . . official . . . police . . .  in SIGHT!”

He paused for emphasis.  “And that courageous mother was completely unarmed and crying when she ran out, after some security lackey attacked her sister-in-law, right in front of that gorgeous little girl.”

Smith stopped and looked to Fiona, who patted the camcorder tucked in her coat for reassurance. 

“To just . . . SEEEEE . . . her little baby girl.”

The room was silent as Samuel Oscar Smith, renowned prosecutor for the Tiny People versus the Very Huge People, returned to his place and leaned way over the table, taking in the moment, working to his dramatic conclusion.

“Here’s something to consider if this ever goes public:  In a serious maximum security mental health facility, Janelle was able to obtain not one, but two high end automatic handguns . . . a person you considered dangerous and mentally incompetent.” 

He leaned even further.  “You have GOT to be fucking kidding me.”

There were a few seconds of silence, until a very nasal voice spoke up from his left; one of the hospital attorneys finally weighing in.

“Once again, we’re recording.”

“Duh.”

The hospital attorney frowned.  “If we release Janelle McCrory and are sadly proven correct in the general populace or – god forbid – at home ( he glanced at Fiona), the consequences could be absolutely catastrophic, and I don’t care how good you are.  We will have this tape, and your head will roll forever and ever, amen.”

“Nicely put.”

“Thank-you.”

Smith got smug.  “But it’s doubtful.”

“Really.”

“You’ve screwed-up in so many ways, I’m still making a grocery list.”

Silence as he smiled; Fiona slowly squeezing the rubber exercise ball with her Kung Fu Hand of Death, regarding the room with spiteful vengeance, rock hard knuckles going from white to red and back again.  In a quick money bet, she could probably clear the room like Bruce Lee.  Suits and lawyers just naturally pissed her off.

Smith cleared his throat. “I have a specialist with me who knows Janelle’s case intimately, and he has just spent the last hour in close contact, examining her state of mind.”

“Brave man,” someone mumbled, and Fiona’s rubber ball thwacked off his forehead like a hard slap, driving him back with serious velocity.

As others tried not to laugh, the victim’s dainty and manicured fingers gingerly checked for blood, dazed eyes glaring across the table with the hurt expression of a little boy.

Fiona was wishing on a throwing star.  “It’s rubber, you idiot.  Now pay attention.”

Smith continued.   “Ahem.  Thanks for a quick physics lesson, Fiona.  You all know Marty Crandall through medical journals, treatments, and the ivy league lecture circuit.”

Marty stood and gave a short bow.

“He’s very eager to sign her out and take full responsibility.”

Smith inhaled deeply to play his final hand.  “So we’re taking this little freak show out of your private hands, and I’m telling you right now that if Janelle isn’t home for supper, this whole thing is going to hit national news tomorrow, and Brian Williams will be speaking her name over and over and over, liked a broken record.  By the time we’re done talking to reporters, they’ll be filming in your goddamned rubber rooms, and half the world will know how you starved and tortured little Janelle, then put two deadly weapons in her possession.”

“We’ll sign those papers right away.”

Everyone except Marty, Smith and Fiona blew a huge sigh of relief.

“Did they just agree?” Fiona asked.

“A little too quickly.”

One of the doctors pumped a fist, and Marty looked around uneasily at a group who had finally found the easy way out of a very tough situation.

Marty may have interviewed and tested the beautiful and charming Janelle, but he hadn’t spent a single second with “No Nonsense” Spense or her kinky lover, Max, both loudly singing show tunes and rolling against every rubber wall in sight.    

Marty also neglected to interview any of the meeting room hostages, who were still very much enslaved to fond memories and an odd assortment of stimulated flashes going off in their brains like Fourth of July fireworks.  No, they did not want Marty near any of those people right now. 

“You da man,” Smith told Marty, bolting from the room like a flea bitten carpetbagger to tabulate a very large bill, making one final mistake before heading back to New York.

In a cocky and fateful move that would come back to haunt his entire life, Marty had ordered the duct tape removed from Janelle’s mouth, and Smith quickly stopped in to say good-bye as Ferg stepped out for a moment, taking Rhiannon down the hall to relieve herself.

Five minutes later, every single fee was dropped, including shuttle flights.

Duct tape was off; the imp was in play.

To be continued . . .