After the Golden Age (Golden Age 1)

Now that it was over, it didn’t seem so bad. She breathed a sigh of relief. It could have been worse.

“Does the prosecution wish to cross-examine?”

“Yes, your honor. Ms. West? You underwent psychiatric evaluation immediately following the two months that Mr. Malone referred to, is this correct?”

“Yes.”

“And what was the conclusion of the evaluation?”

She took a deep breath. She hoped those reporters were still paying attention. She and Bronson had crafted this answer. “That I had acted irrationally, that I suffered from a variety of traumatic stress disorders related to both the uncertainty of my parents’ lifestyle and the kidnapping by the defendant that I suffered the year before.”

“In fact, the conclusion was that you suffered temporary insanity and could not be held accountable for your actions.”

“Yes.”

“Could you tell me briefly what you’ve been doing in the eight years since then?”

“I went to college. I earned an MBA, passed the CPA exam on the first try, was hired on at Smith and Kurchanski, and I’ve been working there for two and a half years. I have an apartment in the west downtown area. I live quietly.”

“Would you say that in that time, your actions have been influenced either by hatred of or identification with Mr. Sito or his organization?”

She hesitated. In an indirect sense, Sito had influenced her entire life. Her parents wouldn’t have become who they were without Sito, and she wouldn’t have become who she was without that.

But Mentis was right. The last eight years were her own. “No.”

“Thank you, no further questions.”

The judge turned to the defense. “Mr. Malone?”

“No further questions.”

“Ms. West, you are dismissed.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

She kept her chin up, her eyes up as she walked back to her seat. Bronson flashed her a smile. She felt exhausted.

“You look like you’ve run a marathon,” Mentis said as she sat beside him.

“I need a drink,” she said.

After another hour, the judge finally called a recess for lunch. Reporters mobbed Celia. She only heard a fraction of their questions.

“—how did your parents react when—feelings toward the Destructor—why a secret for so long—affect your job—affect the trial—”

She was afraid to say anything that would undermine what she’d already said under oath. Teenage rebellion wasn’t normally considered a form of temporary insanity.

Arthur stepped in for her. “I’ve known Celia for ten years, and I can assure you I have the utmost confidence in her.”

They escaped to Bronson’s conference room.

“They’re going to bring up that first day of the hearing, when he talked to me and no one could figure out why,” she said. “They’re going to think there’s still a connection.”

Helpfully, Bronson burst in then. “It’s all irrelevant, I think we convinced the jury of that. You did great, Celia, just great. Hey, Rudy—” He went off to harass an assistant.

Mentis handed her a cup. Coffee, not bourbon, alas. She said, “I’m never going to get away from all this, am I? Even if my record never came out, it would always be something else. Why aren’t I a better citizen, why don’t I do more, why aren’t I more like them?” He didn’t respond; merely waited, calmly, for her to spill her thoughts. It was easy to do; he already knew what she was going to say, didn’t he? “People tell me how great it must have been, growing up with Captain Olympus and Spark for parents.” She shook her head.

“Overrated, you think?”