Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 5

Shifting sands...

I feel like something is changing within me, and I'm not sure what it is. But I don't want to go out into the world unless I have to. Don't want to explore like I used to. I just want to stay home.

I have a doctor's appointment on Wednesday and cannot see myself leaving my apartment till then. At which time I'll get some groceries I need...especially DPZ. Then come home and stay the fuck away from people.

Thanks to social media, I'm growing to really dislike humanity. Not just the ridiculous MAGAt Class who are slavishly devoted to Felon47, but those who ignore the whole situation that's building. As if they think so long as they aren't affected it won't matter.

It will, eventually. The country is sliding into a form of theocracy, something that's already taken hold in too many states, and now is verging into totalitarianism. For example, Greg Abbott threatening to arrest Democrats in the Legislature because they left the state to kill his ability to redistrict Texas for the MAGAt Class. All to gain 5 more seats in the House. Now California, NY and Michigan are threatening to retaliate, for Democrats.

Abbott has no legal basis, but that doesn't stop those people. What matters to them is force and, like Felon47, a willingness to ignore the courts and do as they damn well pleases. Tearing people's lives apart as they go.

Like Paley's and Walstead's actions in PvSH do Simon's. In response, his poems have become more angry and threatening. His art is growing more extreme. He's 69 and lost and wondering how he wound up where he is. What his reaction will be when, as he expects, he will be found guilty by the court.

We've walked that followup back from murder...maybe. I think. But too much is still locked in Simon's shadows and I'm only catching glimpses of it, when he doesn't want me to.

And if this sounds fucking crazy, you're right; it is. But these are becoming crazy times and that affects me and my characters.

Scary me...

I'm sitting here trying to figure out what the fuck is going on with Simon and myself, and I wind up making the attached artwork (cropped to be SFW) and then writing the following poem.

I think it's in free-form...

Blood is coming.Hear it flow Closer. Cruel. Unstoppable. As furies laugh And beg me cry. I cannot. It was long ago. 
No midnight shrouds it In love. No careful step To soften echoes. No prayers or dreams To stay its spread. The pool of crimson Will be met By life of one So filled with dread. 
The silence Deep with screams Lies where it fell And all one knowsIs three cold words Softly echo In your head... It is done.
I don't know what it means and Simon is being no help. He's pushing to kill Paley at the end of the story. Despite my own feelings about it. He hates the man, and that builds as the city keeps demanding he surrender to their claims against him.
That adds to his emotion, increases his anger, but basically he wants to do it because the man took away the one thing he had left to himself--that he'd never been in trouble with the law. Despite living for years in a state that would have jailed him, given the chance.
He now knows that he's spent his life in the shadows for nothing. A crazy way to view it, but that is what's eating him up.
I don't know how to handle this. I mean...well...how would he do it? No, I...I do have an idea as to how. It's getting Paley close enough for it to happen that's the problem...
Man, I really do not like the direction this is going...

Psycho-me...

I read back over some of the posts I've made on this blog regarding The People v Simon Harper and I am all over the place with it. Totally out of control. Which only means I have no idea what the intent of the story is...or about...and the characters aren't working together, yet. Even the outline I did, initially, is scattered everywhere.

It really startled me, because I thought I was honing in on PvSH's through line...but that is nowhere near the case. After a dozen comments regarding Simon and his actions, I was completely confused about what was going on, and why. So I did what any normal red-blooded American gay male would do in a situation like this.

I made hot tea and ate two small Marie Callendar's chocolate pies. 88 calories. Totally killed my diet...hell, the structure of my existence...but it comforted me enough to kick back and reconsider why this story is coming to me, right now. Why it won't let go, even as it refuses to give me a reason to hold on. I think I need to know that, first.

All I have right now is questions.

Is Simon filled with a rage he's fighting to keep control of? Is he depressed about how fucked up everything is? Is he hurt about being arrested for the first time in his life? He's 69 years old and lived in a state that would put him in jail for loving a man, especially in the 70s, yet he never once had to face that. And now he does, over nothing.

Is he resigned to the hatefulness of the world against people like him? Where even people who claim to be allies will support those who want to hurt him? Something he honestly can do nothing about...except not let them get close to him.

This also leads into does he really hate Alain so much he wants to see the man die? Why would he feel that way if I take out the sexual abuse? Is emotional abuse enough to trigger it? Or is it just him being too weak to reject Alain and thinking the man's death is the only way to truly end his relationship with him? That sounds pathetic.

For a moment, I thought I'd reverse the situation at the end and have Simon kill Paley...but I hate the thought of writing a killer queer. And don't point out that Dirc set men up to be killed, in DDB; he had justifications and enough cover to avoid feeling responsible in any way. If Simon killed Paley, it would be at close range and without excuses...and would strengthen the impression in people's minds that queers are dangerous.

I won't be part of that...even though I have been. I just...I won't with Simon's story.

Old tricks...

I tried something I've done before, to get out of a funk like this. I ran my errands, this morning and early afternoon...then just lay on the couch, fully dressed, thinking about nothing. Told the world to fuck off and let my mind go blank to see if something would filter up through my malaise.

What did is odd...but maybe makes sense. Calm Simon down even further. No sex referenced in the story except in the abstract. Same for his poetry...but that being done with gentle illustrations instead of wicked ones. His life is one of hiding. Not wanting to be noticed or seen due to his mistreatment. Lack of self-esteem. Mistakes he's made and cannot shake off.

He has no hate boiling up. No anger at the world. Just a sadness over how things are. His life was one of vagueness and drifting. Silence being his preference. He doesn't fight because he's strong, deep within, or unwilling to be pushed around or blackmailed. He doesn't spit or moan or howl about what's happening to him. He simply will not go along with what the prosecution wants.

His one attribute during this whole situation is his stubbornness. His motto is still, I did nothing wrong or illegal...and that's it. But it kicks this hard-headed part of him into gear, and that's his whole fight. They want him to give in to their overwhelming superiority and he simply won't. And in doing so wreaks chaos in the DA's office and the police force.

Which would be very difficult to make interesting...I think. No big dramatic moves on his part; just a silent refusal that becomes a brick wall. Not through any overt intent, but still impermeable. 

I'm reminded of a novel that was suggested to me by a German professor I had, at Trinity University, and his wife. A Man without Qualities. (Der Mann ohne Eigenschaften.) It covered a wide range of existential themes concerning humanity and feelings, with no central core to link everything together. But it did have a vague concern with the values of truth and opinion and how society organizes ideas about life and civilization.

Why am I thinking of that book...unless it's something I'm aiming for? It's been centuries since I read it. Don't remember much about it. I think there was a man accused of murdering a woman or a prostitute. But even that was low-key...

Oh, Lord, why can't I just write another erotic horror story and have fun?

Contemplation...

I'm 73, today, and feel like I'm caught between heaven and hell. Old in body, not in mind or sprit. Wondering how much longer I can keep going with the writing. I've been at it for fifty years...and I feel no closer to success than when I started. When I shifted away from art and thought I could make a career in film. Bad choice.

I'm working on PvSH...but I'm not enthusiastic about it. Not angry. Not even really fighting about it like I did for so many years with APoS. Simon wants to take it directions he thinks might excite me, but that doesn't work. I feel only slightly connected to him and the story. Doesn't matter what I do, it's never more than something to work on it.

I had lunch with some friends at a place with okay BBQ. This is Buffalo; they don't really know how to make that or good Mexican food, up here. And I got a few cards. And I saw a doctor about gall bladder surgery that I do not want to do. Talked to my sister in Texas. And took a long nap.

I did buy myself some chocolate chip cookies at Wegman's. Theirs are pretty damn good. Had those as my cake. Nothing more. So I'm just floating, right now.

Not one project I have on tap is exciting me. Nothing grabs me enough to make me feel the need to do it. For all the complaining I did about writing APoS, I never lost the sense I needed to write it. Like I once felt about Bobby Carapisi. I had a need to write it, all of it...which included the third volume. Which I've been told was unnecessary. Which was wrong; it absolutely had to be done.

What did I write after that? Was it The Lyons' Den? Working up something so completely different and off the wall some people can't even get into it? Break me out of the mood I was in after BC? Maybe. Maybe I should do that, again...

Is this what happens to writers? They finally reach the point where they've tapped out all their creative impulses and just thrash about seeing new inspiration?

Simon's escape from Alain...

Not sure where this is going in the story, yet...

------

Do you know how long it took me to get to the point where I was brave enough to publish those sketches? Thirty years after Alain’s death. And even then I self-published the book rather than submit it to be considered by a publisher of any kind. Made certain everyone knew it was an adult coloring book, not for children, to give it an even safer veneer. Toned many of the images I wanted to use down into sketches that were cartoonish, almost. Not on the level of Manga or Bara or Yaoi but workable. I’m a practiced artist, not a talented one. 

 My one talent was composition of a simplicity that could indicate far more, depending on my use of color. Black and white images in a kodalithic style, very stark with no mid-tones. Then a drop of deep rich red to contrast. I did a series of them...a total of thirteen that a collector in North Carolina loved and bought and made me a bit of a name. 

I made more. Of course, none were as blunt or raw as those for the coloring book, but I still built a small catalogue of prints for purchase, and that fueled my ability to buy a car and pay for insurance.A ten year old Honda CRV, which has been a great car. Carried my canvasses to various art festivals. It’s twenty years old, now, and cranky. Like me. But it got me here and back to Afton Springs, twice. I’ll drive it until it falls apart. 

That’s how I am. I hate to make changes unless absolutely necessary. That’s why it was so hard to leave Alain, prior to that night. Because for all the horrible things he did do to me...I’d felt like I was important to him. Needed. Necessary. A part of him. You don’t know how that notion can hand control of yourself to another. And I’d thought treating him like a king would protect that sense. Let me stay near him. 

That was the reality of my life, at that time. I wasn’t afraid of what he would do to me. I knew he’d never take me to the point of death. He was too selfish for that. And too stupid to do it in a way that couldn’t be traced back to him. Nor would the pain he caused be extreme. It was merely an acceptable punishment, on a symbolic level, for having turned out wrong, as my family had let me know more than once. 

No, I finally left because a cold, clear understanding crept into my mind...that he only saw me as a toy, nothing more. Something to use. For fun. Bring in a little cash, even. About as human to him as a blow-up doll. It was always me there for him, never him for me...and, eventually, he would move on to someone new and exciting, and I would be left adrift. 

It wasn’t a slow decision. I didn’t take weeks or days to consider all the ramifications. It was simply...one day I couldn’t leave, the next day I couldn’t stay. Like a switch was flicked in my brain, shining a light on what I’d been tolerating. 

Of course, I couldn’t depart too fast or sudden. Leave him by just walking away without a plan. I needed a bit of time to let this new belief permeate through me to the point where no matter what I did, I knew would be all right. So I took some time off from the newsstand, rented a car and drove to Houston. I wanted a larger world in which to disappear and find my way. But also one still familiar enough that I wouldn’t have to learn a whole new way of dealing with the world. 

It was a massive city, exploding skyward. Not only downtown but at a medical center and around a high-end mall called the Galleria. Malls always had book stores, back then, and I found a position at one, there. Not well-paid but enough to live on. To start the following Monday. 

Next, I drove down Westheimer to seek a small apartment. I didn’t have much money, and since I was going to abandon my lease I wanted a place and a job already arranged. I found one near Montrose, close to a Kroger, and knew the bus was right there. I could move in whenever I wanted. So there was y plan.

I had to tolerate him using me as his whore, one more time. He thought it was funny, me not liking it. Not wanting it. While the men who were with him thought I did and was just pretending to struggle. 

At least, I think they did. But there were two bastards with thick wedding bands who...who took special pleasure in binding me with that wrap and ripping apart my clothes and abusing me as Alain chuckled and shot Polaroids of it all. Both had children at home. They were the worst. The angriest. Probably because they didn’t have the balls to be what they wanted to be. 

I left in the middle of the week. A Thursday. Gave half my furniture away to people in the complex, put what I could in a small UHaul cube truck, and mid-afternoon left my key on the kitchen counter and drove away. Told no one where I was going.I didn’t put in a forwarding address at the post office. I never got much mail, anyway. I did have to change banks, but kept that to as minimal as possible. Made sure I emphasized no one was to know what I’d done. 

We call that ghosting, now. Back then, it was escaping.

Zombie work

Not a great day. Barely slept, last night, thanks to a nerve in my left foot acting up. Finally put a cold pack on it and that seems to have helped. But I've been something of a zombie, all day, including during an eye appointment.

I'm doing Simon's trial in transcript form so dug up copies of court transcripts to use as templates. And it's not easy work, since I don't have the template of machine for it. As you can see, it's very precise.

1. Number every page, including covers, indexes, certificate (no Roman numerals). 

2. “Certified Transcript” must be on the cover. 

3. Each day must be a separate volume. 

4. Electronic transcripts must be in searchable PDF format. 

5. Certificate for electronic transcript must have an electronic or digital signature. 

6. Covers must indicate volume and total number of volumes; Volume 1 of 4. 

7. Cover must indicate pages included. For example, Pages 101 through 179/300. 

8. The Master Index is Volume 0, blocked Pages 1 through 100, no certificate. 

9. Indicate on last page of Master Index:(Pages * through 100 are utilized for block numbering purposes. The next pagenumber is 101 in Volume 1. Nothing is omitted.)

10. Lines are numbered

11. Text is double-spaced.

And it's legal size (8.5x14"). It's not proving to be very easy.

Last of that chapter

Here's the rest of the chapter from the 2 previous posts. Simon is getting to be nicely pissy.

------

I managed to keep my voice level as checked around the corridor and saw Paley standing over near security, talking to one of the guards. I said, “Look...look at his face. His jowls. His skin. How he...he...he’s even got bitch tits...” 
“What?” she snapped. 
 I smiled and almost chuckled, feeling more in control. “Moobs, if you prefer. The way his nipples are more like a woman’s than a man’s.” 
“How do you know this?” She was all but disparaging. 
 “Pay attention! I told you! He was in a tight athletic t-shirt. A wife-beater. And his muscles, they’re blown up like balloons. I got the feeling if I stuck them with a pin, they’d pop.” 
Walstead forced a chuckle. “C’mon, man, don’t you gay guys go crazy for muscles? And you did approach him.” 
“It wasn’t his muscles I liked. It was his profile. The way he was standing...the image he made...” 
Such a lovely image. The light rushing down from above, a bit behind him. Gleaming over the rear of his head and his back and ass. Highlighting the flow of them. With his profile in silhouette against that soft mist, just past him. The rest of him in shadow. That’s what stopped me. I’d seen his moobs and puffy jowls in the store and shown no interest, but seeing him posed like that...with those things hidden by the streaks of darkness...I wanted to capture it in pen and ink.I’d snuck a photo of him when I exited...
That was still on my phone...
Yes...it was... 
I opened it and went into photos. Scrolled through to find him. Right there, looking so elegant and welcoming and should have just used that instead of wanting him to model and... 
“Is that him?” 
It was Walstead’s voice, and it shook me. For a moment I’d forgotten where I was, and in truth I hadn’t wanted him to see it. But too late, now.I nodded. 
Manville also got a look at it and in her sneering voice said, “Nice. Small wonder you were thinking of ravaging him.” 
I laughed. No surprise she was resorting to stereotypes to make a point. But still, “Don’t be ridiculous. If you’ve really done research about me, you’d have seen I’ve done a number of illustrations for book jackets and this would’ve worked well, as one.” 
Walstead almost chuckled. “Book covers? What about this?” He held up the printout. 
Of course. Like a dog with a bone. All I could say was, “This is why people like you should never try to discuss something about which they know nothing.” 
He actually almost growled. “We can still use this artwork against you.” 
Manville smiled. “They show inclination and maybe even intent.” 
I looked at her in awe. I’d actually thought she was the smart one. Instead, she’s the worst aspect of a team player; even though she knows what they’re doing is wrong, Walstead’s made his decision and she will back him up. Like a dutiful wife or victim of abuse. 
I sighed and said, “I’ll give you a list of the work I’ve illustrated. They’re on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Books a Million, and available for order through your local independent book dealer.” 
“You’re pretty cavalier about what these could do to you, in that courtroom,” Walstead said. His voice had an edge to it. Obviously, his attempt at intimidation wasn’t working. 
“Again, pay attention. My name is on every coloring book and listed as illustrator for a dozen titles. Google me as an artist and the first one that usually comes up is The Best Way to Make a Straight Man Gay. It’s been banned a few times. People thought it was a how-to manual.” 
Elissa tried to keep her voice snotty and mean, but I could sense surprise behind it. “It’s not?” 
“Another reason you should read the work for yourself.” I turned back to Walstead, smiling, “I’ve posted some of my shorter poetry on the gay sites, as well. I just wrote one little ditty that would fit you perfectly. How’s this?” 
Big bad boy Paley decided to gloat That he’d seen how Walstead would quietly dote On him walking by, so he sneered to quote, “Y’know, it’s not sex if I cum down your throat.” 
 Walstead stiffened and I think he was close to hitting me. Instead, he just snarled, “I’m not gay.” 
“So you say.” Then I put my portfolio in my backpack. 
“Simon,” he said, his voice low and growling, “if we don’t deal, here and now, I’m aiming for jail time.” 
“You will address me as Mr. Harper!” 
“I mean it. Six months, thanks to the special enhancement. Thousand dollar fine.” 
I rose, laptop in one hand, and slung the backpack over my shoulder, saying, “It amazes me that you graduated from Harvard Law, never mind passed the bar exam. And that is taking into account you were a legacy entrant. That school has lost all respect I had for it.” 
Elissa circled me to return to Dillon’s side. “You’ve been doing your own research.” 
“And it’s better than yours, obviously. Courtroom’s open. I’m going in. I prefer you both stay away from me.” 
I crossed to the door, checked security but still no ReShawn, so showed the guard my driver’s license and a text on my phone. A reminder of the time and date for the trial. The guard passed me in.Dillon and Elissa followed. 
If they were going to call me by my first name, from now on I would call them by theirs. It’s petty, I know, but right now I’d take anything I could get.

Continuing from yesterday...

Simon is talking to Walstead and Manville prior to the beginning of his trial, and they threaten to use his art against him.

-------

“He’s a very up-to-date kind of guy...” 

I chuckled. “Up to date? What? Are we in the Fifties?” 

“I just mean, he’s not...he’s not some innocent, not unaware and...and even he was freaked out. Said it all got brutal in the...how’d he put it...non-con area. He told me about one...” 

He held up a printout of one page. Ray Who Was Taken. Just the first section, since it had spread over nine pages, with a midnight-style sketch of a man grabbing a younger man...

The hour was late before Ray headed home 
From the party his best friend had held at Le Dome. 
The blues and the blacks of the night's monochrome 
Made him feel so easy, he thought he would roam 
Since he had a condo that wasn't too far. 
But he didn't notice when that big blue car 
Pulled out of the parking lot next to the bar 
And quietly followed. Its back doors ajar. 
He passed his street and as he started to turn 
For the park, the car pulled up. Now too late to learn 
The four men inside of it each had a yearn 
To force Ray to join in their weekend sojourn. 

He continued with, “It made me wonder if you planned to get Paley back to your hotel. Drug him. Abuse him.”

I rolled my eyes and closed my laptop. It was nearing ten a-m and obviously these two would not let me do any work, so I said, “That comment is why you should have purchased a copy of my coloring book, for yourself. Then you’d have seen in all the artwork I do that every one of the men who’re kidnapped and abused are well-built. With hair on their chest, legs, arms and belly. All around the age of thirty. Good strong features and a thick mane on their head. Paley is their polar opposite, except in age.” 

“He’s well-built.” Now it was snottiness from Manville. 

I cast her a cool glare. “He shaves the hair off his body. Including his pubes. I think it’s to de-emphasize the growing male pattern baldness.” 

“How do you know that?” Walstead asked. “Are you going to claim he exposed himself to you?” 

“Oh, stop it. He was dressed in a white wife-beater, that night, and it was probably a size too small for him. It was easy to see the stubble on his chest and belly and...” 

He cut me off with, “That doesn’t mean anything.” 

“His beard does. It was beyond being a five o’clock shadow but not quite scruff. And what hair was on his head was thick, except for that little tuft he has in the center. He also has some on his shoulders...the trapezius, I think it’s called...and at the nape of his neck, where he can’t reach with a razor. There was more stubble on his forearms, but none in his pits. Which he did exhibit. I despise that. It’s as if he wants to come across as a little boy instead of an adult.” 

He shook his head. “You also called him a juice junky, which he does not look like. And besides, steroids are illegal, for muscle enhancement...” 

“Oh, that’ll stop it.” 

Manville circled around in front of me and... 

And suddenly Alain was double-teaming me. With two friends of his and...

I jolted, shaken. I hadn’t thought about that time in years and...

“What makes you think he uses them?” she asked, her voice far too deliberately casual. 

It still came out of nowhere. And she was still moving in that way so I had to close my eyes so I couldn’t see. Mentally, I knew it was not deliberate on her part, but inside was a growing sense of panic remembering... 

Arriving home... 

Not knowing Alain knew my extra key was taped on top of the door frame... 

And he...he and them said they were playing a game but...but...

No. 

Fucking no. 

I fought to back away from those memories. I did not want that shit to rock me, not at that point in time! No. No fucking way.

No!

I forced my eyes open and pulled a pen from my backpack and dug it into the palm of my left hand. It hurt like hell, and it was still a fight to kick away that chaos, but it jolted me enough to where I could make myself start to breathe normally, again.

I looked straight at Manville, and I would almost swear she was studying me. Like I was a insect. I glanced at Walstead and his expression was one of wariness. They’d both noticed my actions, of course, and both had wary expressions. Suddenly I got the idea they didn’t see me as human but just some beast they were having to deal with. As if I was rabid.

At that moment, I couldn't swear that I wasn't.

Before Simon's trial...

Did another 2000+ words, including reworking this part. Now have a total of more than 25,000 words. That's at least 1/3 of the way done. Damn...

I'm having anything Simon is part of told in first person. When dealing with anyone else, it'll be in third person.

--------

I was about to cross to the courthouse when I noticed a small bank branch on the corner, to my left, with an open ATM. I went to it, accepted the ridiculous service charge, and withdrew three-hundred dollars. I wanted cash in case the clerk refused to let me use my Visa or debit card to pay the fine. I slipped it in my wallet then crossed with the signal. 

Security was fairly straightforward. An x-ray scanner next to a table where I had to push my backpack through to be inspected by a guard as another waved me in. I’d put my wallet, keys, glasses and everything else that might set off the scanner into the outside pockets of my backpack, so no problem arose with me. And nothing was found in my backpack that might be dangerous. My name was on a list of people attending court proceedings. So in I went. 

Dillon Walstead and Elissa Manville were already in the corridor outside the courtroom, both looking crisp and fresh in appropriately tailored suits, with Dillon’s much better fitted than hers. Perfectly fitted, in fact, as if bespoke. They were talking to that son-of-a-bitch, Paley, who was wearing the sharpest cop’s uniform I’d ever seen. It practically emphasized how well-built he was. He had also shaved and his hair had been recently cut into what I referred to as whitewalls, meaning next to nothing visible above his ears or on the nape of his neck. 

What had my father once called that? Marine cut? Military? Jarhead? Something along those lines, and he’d been quite disdainful of anyone who wore it without also having the stick-up-your-ass gait of a true Marine. 

“Buncha pussies actin’ like they’re real men,” he’d snarl under his breath. Before he died, he’d almost seemed to prefer men have the long hair he’d so disparaged during Vietnam. The style seemed to be making yet another resurgence in fashion, now that the police had become part of America’s gestapo. 

Of course, he’d stopped talking to me after he learned I was queer. Stopped even acknowledging me. No surprise. No loss, really. We’d never been close enough for that to matter. 

I walked past them without even a nod and sat on a bench across from Courtroom Three, waiting for the double-doors to open. It was a nice-looking corridor of polished wood, probably oak stained to look like mahogany. If that were possible. Still, it was intricately carved and gleaming. Glazed slate floors. Church-like arches of carved wood above, with plain white plaster or sheetrock between them; I never can tell which is what. 

An older, once-attractive guard in a green and tan uniform stood before the doors, at parade rest, eyeing everyone with full suspicion. That same Marine cut, but from his stance I suspected he actually had been one. 

The bench I was seated on was also polished and a bit slippery from being waxed, but it was close enough to the wall that I could lean back. So I pulled out my laptop and used my phone’s hotspot to fire up some WiFi. The building may have its own internet service, but it wasn’t at all secure. My phone was. 

I had an old leather file portfolio holding my documents and details. It also served well as a little tray to rest my laptop on. The Word file of the vicious little story I’d written about Paley, Walstead and the Judge was positioned near the top of the screen, making me smile. That had let off a lot of steam so maybe I could make it through this fiasco without... 

“Good morning, Simon.” 

I jolted, slightly, then looked up to see Walstead standing next to me, Elissa one step behind him. They must have snuck over, and now were standing nearly at attention.“We need to speak to you before the trial.” 

That suit was even better-looking, up close. He’d spent some money getting it tailored, and it was begging for a compliment. But all I said was, “It’s Mr. Harper. We’ve been over this.” 

Walstead hesitated then forced himself to smile. “Very well, Mr. Harper. Now, I think you should know...” 

I cut him off, deeply irritated. “You have nothing to say to me.” 

He sat beside me, all but forcing himself to take a weary, sympathetic tone. “I don’t know about that. We’ve been doing some research. I didn’t realize you were a poet as well as an artist.” 

Oh, for God’s sake, I almost groaned. “If you Google my name, my work comes up, rather quickly. It’s no surprise.” 

Manville seemed taken aback. “You Googled yourself?” 

I just looked at her. 

Walstead cleared his throat. “You’re not exactly correct about that. What we found was some rather...intense work. At first I thought it was a mistake, you’re such a laid-back kind of guy, and your names are not exactly unusual, so...well...it was surprising.” 

“Is there a point to this conversation?” 

Walstead shifted back to stiff and cold. “You have a coloring book with some poems. Illustrations. They tell us very interesting things about you. Gangs of men kidnapping straight men. Tying them up. Raping them. The suggestion is, some of them are even killed.” 

“You ordered one?” 

“No, there were some pages from it posted online.” 

“That sounds like you’ve been perusing Gay Portal. You have to be a member, for access. Was it smart of you, to sign up?”

He stiffened even more. “I didn't. I have a friend who's gay and he recognized your name...”

“Recognized it?”

“Yes. He's an attorney and I was sounding him out about your case and he realized he knew of you. And...and he showed me some of your work.”

“A fellow gay man helped you gather information on me. How nice of him.”