The Witness

10

A new nightmare joined the ranks that night.

Instead of my usual trio of torture chambers, my mind chose to plant me in a new circle of hell. By 2:00 AM, I was back to banshee shrieks and sweat pools.

John stumbled into the bedroom, a compact handgun in tow. He took only seconds to diagnose the situation before jerking his head in an indication that I should get up. "Shower off. I'll make us some tea."

In these moments, the odd late hours where my dreams attacked me in ways that John couldn't see, my Handler looked defeated. He was gentle, despite his enormous stature, and never made me feel like a burden for waking him.

Plus, he made a kickass cup of peppermint tea.

"So." John poured me a cup of a steaming, Christmas-scented beverage after my emergence from the bathroom. "Which one was it this time?"

*****

July 11, 2008

My boss stared at me, his mouth set in a grim line, as I explained to him that I might not be able to work next Friday.

"What exactly is so important that you might have to miss work?" Henry stared at me over his horn-rimmed glasses, accusation lingering in every angle of his gaze. "You do realize that we have a meeting with the Times next Friday?"

"Yes, I do." I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, remembering my guidance from the attorney. Under no circumstances was I to reveal any material fact about the trial itself. "I just...I might have to appear in court."

'Might' was the key word here. I hadn't decided yet whether I was going to take the stand.

"Speeding ticket?" My boss clucked, judgment oozing from every syllable. "I didn't know you had a car."

"I don't, sir." I interjected quickly, eager to stop his train of thought and retain some shred of dignity.

Authors received reputations and awards for creativity, but publicists' wild imaginations deserved Pulitzers. In an attempt to remain vague, yet honest, I offered another general piece of information as I pulled a crisp sheet of paper from my messenger bag. "Actually, I might need to testify in court next Friday. I have a letter for you from the courthouse to excuse my absences."

"Absences?" Henry snatched the paper I offered with trembling hands. "Plural?"

I nodded curtly. Absences. A Mafia trial certainly wouldn't be a one-day event. These organized crime lords had infiltrated every major bureau and law agency in the tri-state area. I had been warned by the prosecuting attorney that the defense team would likely be both aggressive and crooked. During the trial, an officer would have to stay with me in a hotel and manage all of my incoming messages from the outside world.

The arresting precinct's captain had already received an informal warning - of sorts. Just the day before, I had been down at the station giving another statement when it happened. A package addressed to the captain was brought to a nearby table. The captain, expecting his new laptop, eagerly went to open it. When he did, something which was once his cat - only recognizable by its collar amongst lumps of putrid flesh - oozed onto the table.

Before that moment, I hadn't ever seen a man in uniform cry firsthand. And now they wanted me to take the stand?

"This letter says that you'll be gone for an indeterminate time period." Henry's voice snapped me back to the conversation at hand. "You didn't just witness a fender bender or a mugging...what did you see? A bank robbery or something?"

"Or something." I replied sheepishly, not wishing to return to the scene I'd been reliving every night in the past week's broken hours of sleep. "Really, it's nothing like that."

"Nothing like a robbery?" Henry's quizzing grew increasingly more uncomfortable. Ever since his wife left him, he'd been a stickler about not missing work. He wouldn't give up until he knew everything about my court date. I should have known that this conversation was going to be difficult.

Was this a sign that I shouldn't testify?

Trying to avoid further inquiry, I stood and paced slowly about the roomy office. When I saw the newspaper on Henry's desk, I froze. There, in bold text, stood the headlining story: "Multiple Mafia Arrests in Manhattan - Mob Behind Bars!" Henry noticed my discomfort and followed my gaze. "No...you aren't...Jesus, the Mob Sam? How did you get involved in this?"

"Wh-what?" My nostrils flared and my heart plunged toward my stomach. Each cardiac beat echoed like timpani through my skull. Could he hear it, too? "That's just - "

I couldn't lie and deny it - Henry was my boss and knew my every behavioral ism. A lie would only confirm the situation. But I was strictly forbidden from revealing anything to a civilian.

"Incredible!" Henry finished my sentence with a word that would never have crossed my mind as a descriptor for this situation. "You're just what we need right now."

"I am?" I was now thoroughly confused. "What does a Mafia case have to do with a publicist's office?"

"Publicity." Henry's answer was so matter-of-fact that I felt stupid. Noticing my confusion, he sighed and deflated in his oversized chair. "The truth is...the economy crash is bankrupting us. All our clients are downsizing their accounts and we've even lost a few big ones. We somehow 'lost our edge'...whatever that means."

I could feel the anger emanating from Henry, especially when he used finger quotes at that last line, but I didn't interject any commentary. Without pausing for a breath, he continued the unraveling of the rest of my world. "Next week, we're looking at announcing layoffs - I'm going to have to lay you off at the end of the month. Sam, if you become this gutsy hero who takes on the Mob, we get a new brand! You could save us!"

"I can't d-discuss the trial w-with you." I stammered out a line that the attorney coached me through as a standard response. No matter how twisted everything suddenly felt, I forced myself to finish the line. "I'm not sure what you're implying."

"Sam. If you do this - " Henry paused and whipped off his glasses. His meaty fingers pinched the bridge of his nose as he exhaled deeply. "If you do this, you'd rebrand us during this recession and we'd have a leading edge to win back our clients. I'm begging you here, Sam. Go show the world that our team is relevant and that we will fight to do right by them. We can run a promo on you after the trial! I'll give you whatever you want - a promotion, an office, a company card. Anything! Go out there and get us that win. Our jobs literally depend on it."

"I...." I fell back into my original seat, a migraine exploding inside my cranium. Every fiber of my being had been leaning against testifying. If the attorney had asked me an hour ago, my answer would have been 'no'.

Hell. Fucking. No.

But now...what choice did I have? Without a job, I couldn't afford to make rent. I couldn't even afford a plane ticket to New Jersey with what I had in savings. Like everyone else, the market crash had eviscerated my meager investment accounts. If I lost my job, I was fucked.

In the silent internal conflicts that ensued, one thing became clear: the dictionary's definition of 'witness' was all wrong.

Being a Witness meant becoming a Prisoner.