The fabric of my pants is coarse against my slick palms as I run my hands over my thighs. My heart thunders in my chest, echoing in my ears. Today has arrived a lot sooner than I anticipated.

We both knew it was coming, though we haven't really spoken about it to one another—if, of course, you don't consider the conversation we had the evening before, when I'd stayed a little longer in her cell than I've been able to for a while, now that the security has lightened up a little.

"I did it. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know." I nodded, running my fingertip in circles along her knuckles.

"They're, um they're gonna know." She breathed, looked down at our connection through the corner of her eye.

My brows furrowed slightly, and I pulled her hand further into my lap, cupping it between my own. "You'll be okay."

She shook her head. "They won't have a choice, Laur."

"What are you saying?"

When I turned to face her, she was wearing the deepest frown I think I'd ever seen. "I'm a murderer, Lauren. I know you might not believe it but... I am. I deserve it."

"I believe you, I've seen it" I retorted, "But you don't deserve... that."

"I do-"

"You don't."

"I want the chair. Please, please just make sure I get the chair."

Huffing, I pulled her hand up to press my lips against the back of her palm. "It won't happen, not if I have anything to do with it."

There was a moment of silence. I knew she didn't quite believe what I was saying, but she didn't argue any further. Instead, when she did speak up, she asked, "You've seen it?"

I cleared my throat, releasing her hand, though she let it lie where I dropped it. "When I first took you on, I did some research and I found a video. I- I think it was you, but you were wearing a mask-"

"A bunny," she completed for me. "I was always the bunny, because I thought they were free. They didn't have to kill anything, ever."

"I saw you shoot a man," I continued, and she slowly drew her hand away, "But I also saw you shake, and hesitate, and right before you pulled the trigger, I saw your father tell you to. You didn't want to but your father made you just like in the van and, I'm sure, many times before then."

She nodded subtly, pulling her legs up to her chest. "Just in case," she whispered, "I want the chair."

Instead of focusing on the upcoming event, Camila and I largely rooted ourselves in the present. We worked determinedly to combat the symptoms she says she struggles with the most, and the most often: her nightmares. We tried a few things before choosing to put her on medication. Since being put on a prescription of prazosin, she says her nightmares have lessened slightly and, when they do occur, they're no longer detailed reinstallments of her most distressing moments but based in a strange plane so unbelievable that she can easily distinguish between the truth and falsehoods within them. It's an improvement, she claims.

Since the diagnosis, I've met with Normani a few more times per her request. She asked me about my experience with Camila in a more formal manner, taking notes here and there, and took a copy of some of our recorded sessions to use in the trial. She thanked me for the items she could use as evidence and invited me to attend the trial as a spectator. Anyone is free to sit in the stands at the back of the room, she told me, so long as they pass a security check. I have absolutely no issues with this if it means I get to see firsthand exactly how the process goes. I'll know exactly how Normani defends her, exactly what the accusers say about her, and exactly how the judge reacts. Now, I sit near the back of the surprisingly-full gallery at the rear of the room.

Despite somewhat popular belief, even a psychologist can struggle with their own thoughts and feelings. Perhaps I'm more equipped than most to find healthy ways to cope, but I have my fair share of unhealthy mental processes. Most common among these is that I am easily unnerved. Once I feel control over a situation slipping from my fingers, I often fall into a bout of anxiety. Regaining some level of control helps me ease my mind. Being here is my way of doing that now. I find that being a part of the process often gives me a sense of control, even where it's impossible for me to really have any. I haven't been able to stop thinking about Camila's case—or, if I'm being honest, Camila herself—since I met her. Being here today is my way of squashing my absurd worries about her future, my way of pushing down the repeated thoughts of her life coming to an abrupt end. Quite honestly, I'm not sure what I'd do if that ever happened. I'm far too invested in her.

I take a deep, grounding breath as she's led to her seat by a top-heavy bailiff. When he releases her, the sleeve of her stark orange jumpsuit remains crumpled where he'd tightly grasped her upper arm. She trembles slightly as she stands beside Normani. From the back of the courtroom, I can't see the faces of the prosecutors. There are two men, though; one in a neatly-pressed black suit, the other's less well-fitted. They stand behind a desk similar to that at which Camila and Normani sit. Due to this symmetry, and the difference in suits, I assume their placement is mirrored, too, making the rather wide, balding man the lawyer, and the skinny man with tattoos twisting up from beneath his collar the one who'd pressed charges in the first place. As he turns his head ever so slightly towards Camila, I notice a subtle tug at the corner of his lip. It seems more like a smirk than I smile. My fingers dig into my legs.

"Your honor," the bald man speaks up as his client hooks his hands behind his back, bowing his head a little. "This is a case about a woman, Karla Cabello, who has murdered her own parents in cold blood. Miss Cabello is a violent criminal."

I wince as I glance back at Camila because that's not her name. She tips her head to the side, straining her neck, but otherwise remains collected.

"My name is Mr Johnathan Lee and I represent Mr Roger Ortiz. On the evening of August 21st, three years ago, Miss Cabello was with her parents and committed forced abduction of my client, then brutally attacked both Mr Ortiz and her parents, resulting in the deaths of the latter, Alejandro and Sinuhe Cabello." He turns to the jury, spread along the side of the room. "Ladies and gentlemen, we all know that the accused's parents were not law-abiding citizens, but we can bring justice to all those whom this family have hurt and end their reign of terror by treating Miss Cabello as she deserves to be."

The judge, an older man with small oval glasses perched upon his nose, nods slowly and turns to the defendants' side of the room. He gestures for Normani to speak, and I hold my breath.

"Your honor, for the sake of those present today, I'd like to recall our plea. Karla has pleaded innocent of first degree murder. It is true that my client acted in a way that resulted in the death of her parents. She did so, however, under an unavoidable—when left untreated—episode, leading to culpable negligence and, as a result, diminished responsibility. Karla struggles with numerous mental disorders caused by her outlandish upbringing and years of repeated physical, emotional, and mental abuse, all of which combine to create these periods during which she is no longer in conscious control of her actions. She deeply repents the outcome." I nod subtly, pursing my lips. "Furthermore, before their deaths, my client acted in accordance to commands from her parents. She did not wish to stray from the law, and was in fact saving Mr Ortiz's life in ending her parents'. I ask the jury to keep an open mind as we discuss this case, and to understand that these aspects of the crime make it illogical and immoral to sentence my client in accordance to the accusation, nor to any extended period of time in prison. Thank you."

The judge gives a curt nod and turns towards the center of the room, announcing in a croaky-voice, "As both opening statements have now been presented, we will proceed with the examination of the plaintiff's witnesses and evidence."

I take a deep breath, watch as Camila shakily takes her seat along with the others, and run my hands over my thighs once more. The air is suffocatingly tense as Mr Ortiz is led to the witness stand first.

"Mr Ortiz," his balding attorney begins, moving around the table to lean back against its front, hands planted on either side of his hips. "Would you mind telling the court what happened on the night of the incident in question?"

The plaintiff sniffs sharply, nods, and shifts in his seat on the stool behind the podium. "I left my apartment at around 7pm to go to a nearby gas station to pick up some snacks 'cause I wanted to watch a movie that night. As I was walking, a van pulled up on the side of the street a little way ahead of me. I didn't think nothing of it and kept walking but when I passed it, someone jumped out and grabbed me. I was thrown into the van, where Karla was along with her parents. Karla violently restrained me, slamming my head on the floor of the van, and began to take tools from some boxes in the van. She, um," he frowns, looking down to the podium. I take the pause to look over to Camila. Either Normani has trained her well or he's telling the truth; she doesn't so much as shake her head at his words. "She used the tools to threaten me, then turned on her parents and attacked them. She hit them repeatedly with one of the tools, and somewhere along the line they stopped fighting back. I was in shock and still restrained somewhat, so I couldn't do anything but escape. I managed to get out before she turned on me."

Mr Lee hums. "And you are sure that this is the woman you watched bludgeon to death that night?"

"Yes." He nods, glancing at her momentarily. "I recognised her right away, from news coverage. There isn't a Floridian who doesn't know a Cabello when they see one."

Mr Lee asks a few more questions and they go back and forth, further solidifying his story. His face morphs from the slight frown to a more smug expression throughout, as he seems to grow more comfortable. Then, it's Normani's turn to speak. She turns to the witness, confidence oozing from her to settle me somewhat.

She doesn't circle her desk, doesn't lean against it. She folds her hands politely in front of her, standing with perfect posture. When she speaks, it is with conviction. "Mr Ortiz, you say you had not met the Cabellos before the incident, that you simply recognised them from the news, but isn't it true that you were financially indebted to them?"

I shift, leaning forwards slightly. His Adam's apple bobs, but he quickly regains his coolness. "No, that's ridiculous."

Normani raises a brow. "Then the bank statements clearly showing large sums of money coming from the account of Alejandro Cabello to yours monthly and the phone calls between yourself and the Cabellos declaring that you must pay them back can be explained away?

Mr Lee, the opposing attorney, straightens his back. "Objection—"

"Overruled," The judge dismisses him with a wave of the hand. Normani nods gratefully in his direction.

"Your honor, these questions have nothing—"

"Mr Ortiz," Normani prompts.

"Those aren't public, how did you—"

"Might I remind you that you are under oath, Mr Ortiz. Were you or were you not financially entangled with the Cabellos prior to the 21st of August?"

His eyes glance about wildly before landing on his attorney, where they narrow into snake-like slits. "I had never met them before," He argues. "I had no relations with them."

"Assuming what you say is true, why did you not call the police to report the double homicide you witnessed? Why did you wait three years to identify yourself as a witness?"

His jaw clenches. "I was in shock. I wasn't thinking about that.."

Normani nods curtly and returns to her seat. "No further questions at this time, your honor."

Mr Lee seems less than satisfied, but calls his next witness to the stand. As she stands from the front row of the gallery, dread settles in my stomach.

"Your honor, Inmate 776 is a feral creature. She has carried out numerous unprovoked attacks on many of my fellow guards and I. She is vicious, unrelenting—I have proof right here, look. Look what she did to me!" Hartley scoffs, turning and pulling back her hair to reveal the jagged edge other ear.

Camila's seat creaks as she shifts. The bailiff tenses, but settles. Mr Lee turns to watch her for a moment, tipping his head, visibly daring her to do something, to make a wrong move. Her chains clink quietly as her hands move below the table, out of view, a steady rhythm. Still, she remains silent, contained. She doesn't even glance to the officer standing at the witness stand. Meanwhile, I send a full-blown glare to her, wishing I could speak up, wishing I could do something, anything, to help.

"Whatever it is she's got messing her brain up isn't going to go away, no matter how many drugs we pump into her system or how many ways we sedate her. We have had to go out of our way numerous times just to protect yourself from her."

I look to Normani, hoping she'll do what I so desperately want to, but she's busy looking through papers on her desk as if nothing is being said at all. My hands find the edges of my seat and hold tight, preventing myself from leaping to my feet and contending her nonsense.

"She is entirely out of control and can not be trusted. I just hope the justice system I know, love, and serve will fulfil its duty to protect innocent lives."

"Objection!" The attention of the courtroom immediately turns upon me.

My dad always says that he realised he loved my mother the moment he broke his own rules for her. Since childhood, he'd been led to believe that he'd end up with a good, Christian woman, catholic if he could help it. He'd had it instilled in him by his parents that he would find a woman who would stay home and cook and clean and care for the children while he worked to support them; a submissive woman with a belief in two powers: God and her husband. This is rather backwards, of course, but it's simply how things were 'supposed to be.' Moving to America in his early 20s, he planned to attend an American college before moving back to Cuba with the rest of his family. It's here that he met my mother. She was a strong, passionate woman, paying her own way through her studies to become a teacher, a leader, not a housewife. At first, he tried to avoid her, still believing that he had to find his family's idea of a perfect woman, but when she approached him and asked if he'd like to attend a study date with her, sharing a literature class with him, he'd agreed, unknowingly sparking the now decades-long relationship.

"Excuse me?" Hartley laughs bitterly.

I clear my throat and avoid her gaze. "What she said— it's just not true."

"Lauren," Normani hisses quietly, though loud enough that I can hear.

The judge narrows his eyes, though I think he's only squinting in an effort to see me, as he pushes his glasses further up his bulbous nose. "You know this woman, Ms Hamilton?"

She turns back to him, but I speak again before she can. "I'm Dr Jauregui, Cam- Karla's psychologist."

He sighs, looking back to Hartley. "You'll have to wait your turn on the stand, Doctor—"

"Wait!" I call out, "I won't get that chance. Your honour, please, listen to what I have to say." My eyes find Camila, who is looking over her shoulder as if to better hear me without looking up from the ground. There's a slight pout on her face, brows tented in worry.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but there's nothing I can do. If you're not on the list of witnesses, you cannot participate in the trial."

I sigh, sinking back into my seat. "I understand. My apologies."

He regards me for a moment more before turning back to the prosecuting attorney. "Proceed, Mr Lee."