The judge spoke: “Mr. Espinoza has requested that Mr. Bennett—” Cormac Bennett. I’d never heard his last name before. Even such a small detail as that made the scene surreal. It was like Cormac should have been beyond something as mundane as a last name. “—be held without bail, on the basis of his past associations and the belief that he is a flight risk.”
Ben argued: “Your Honor, my client has dealt with law enforcement agencies in several jurisdictions, and has always been cooperative. He’s never once given the indication that he’s a flight risk.”
“Perhaps his past association with the Mountain Patriot Brigade hasn’t been an issue until now. It is the experience and opinion of this court that members of such right-wing paramilitary organizations are, in fact, flight risks.”
Again, the world shifted, becoming even more surreal, if that was possible. I’d heard of the Mountain Patriot Brigade: it was one of those militia groups, right-wing fanatics who ran around with guns and preached the downfall of the government. When they weren’t actually blowing things up.
That didn’t sound like Cormac at all. Not the Cormac I knew. Well, except for the running around with guns part. The number of backstories I didn’t know was getting frustrating.
Ben’s hesitation before responding was maddening. Hesitation meant uncertainty. Meant a weak position. Maybe even guilt. Which made me wonder: Where had Cormac learned about guns? Where had he become such a great shot?
Ben said, “Your Honor, Mr. Bennett’s association with that group ended over a decade ago. It hasn’t been an issue because it isn’t relevant.”
“Mr. O’Farrell, I’ve granted the prosecution’s request that Mr. Bennett be held without bail.”
“Your Honor, I’d like to lodge a protest. You’ve got his record—he’s never jumped bail.”
“And don’t you think it’s just a little odd how often your client has been arrested and had to post bail? Don’t you ever get tired of standing with your client at these hearings?”
“Frankly, that’s not your concern.”
“Careful, Mr. O’Farrell.”
“Your Honor, I’d like to move that the case against my client be dismissed. Miriam Wilson’s attack was so brutal, lives were at risk. Katherine Norville’s attempt to stop her without lethal force resulted in great injury to herself. My client was well within his right to use force against her under Title eighteen dash one dash seven-oh-four of the Colorado Criminal Code.”
Espinoza countered: “The law protecting the right to use deadly force in cases of defense does not apply in this case. On the contrary, the accused was in fact lying in wait for the victim’s appearance.” That was wrong. I almost stood up and said something. I had to bite my tongue. The prosecutor continued. “Your Honor, the victim was a twenty-year-old woman weighing a hundred and twenty pounds. Her ability to inflict lethal damage with her bare hands is questionable. Moreover, the evidence suggests she was highly mentally disturbed during the incident.” He consulted a page of notes. “She was wearing a wolf skin at the time and it has been suggested that she believed that she was a wolf. I find it hard to believe that in such a mental state, judging by her physical attributes, she was at all a danger to anyone. Especially when she already had three bullet wounds in her chest. The victim was already incapacitated when the defendant fired the final, killing shot. In that moment this stopped being a case of defense and became a murder.”
And nothing about any of that was false. She had been wearing a wolf skin. That it actually turned her into a wolf—suggesting that would sound ludicrous in this setting. And maybe she’d been fatally wounded. Maybe she wouldn’t have lashed out with her skin/walker magic. But Cormac hadn’t know that.
Ben offered another volley. “Seeing that a psychological evaluation of the victim is impossible, I would like to offer evidence and precedent that such a mental illness would in fact make her a danger to those around her, even while injured.”
Heller asked a question. “The witness who was involved in the physical confrontation with the victim— how extensive are her injuries?”
A moment of silence weighed heavily on the room. How extensive were my injuries? They weren’t, not anymore.
I had a few scabs, where the worst of the scratches had healed, a few pink marks. In a couple more days even those would disappear. But if I hadn’t been a lycanthrope I’d be in the hospital. If I hadn’t been a lycanthrope, we could say, Look, this is what Cormac saved us from, this is why he shouldn’t be in jail. But we didn’t have that.
In lieu of an answer, Heller continued. “Was Ms. Norville even examined by a doctor after the confrontation?”
“No, Your Honor,” Ben said softly. I should have let him take me to a hospital. He’d wanted to take me to a hospital. We could have at least taken pictures of what the wounds looked like.
None of us thought we’d be here arguing it in court. That we’d need the evidence.
“Then the violence of the victim’s attack has perhaps been exaggerated?”
I should have just let Miriam Wilson kill me. That would have gotten Cormac off the hook. Made everyone’s lives a whole lot easier. Nice defeatist thinking there.
Ben’s voice changed, falling in pitch, becoming tight with anger. “You have the witness statements, Your Honor. At the time, they all feared for Ms. Norville’s life. That’s the scene my client encountered, and that’s what should be taken into account. The only reason there’s even a question is because Sheriff Marks has a grudge against him. This court is biased.” He landed his fist on the table. From behind him, I could see his breathing quicken, his ribs expanding under the cheap suit jacket.
Heller shook her head, preparing to close out the hearing. “I am not inclined to dismiss this case on the basis of the evidence you’ve presented, Mr. O’Farrell.”
Hissing a breath, Ben bent double almost, leaning on the table in front of him, bowing his head. The pose was familiar—it’s what I did when the Wolf fought inside me, when she was close to the surface and trying to break out.
I stood quickly; leaning forward as far as I could, I was able to touch Ben’s back. It was stiff as a board, in pain. Cormac gripped Ben’s arm with his bound hands. Please, not here, I begged silently. Feel my touch, stay human, keep it together. I tried to see his hands—that was where it usually happened first. The claws—did he have claws or fingers?
“Mr. O’Farrell, are you all right?” Judge Heller frowned with concern.
Everyone in the courtroom stared at us. I didn’t care. I kept my hand pressed against his back, hoping he’d respond. Cormac and I both watched him intently, waiting.