Eighteen dead. Three critically wounded. Five treated and released.
That's too bad.
I wanted to kill every fucking last one of them.
Your life is over.
I never had a life, so fuck it.
What did they ever do to you?
Nope. The question should be what didn't they do? You have no fuckin' idea.
I want the names of the dead.
I can't do that.
Fine. I'll find out anyway.
I'm supposed to determine if you're competent to be held for trial.
I'll be the judge of that.
Fine. Judge away. I don't care if you want to waste your time.
I have nothing better to do.
You don't believe you're mentally ill?
Nope. I'm sane.
Should I be afraid of you?
What? No. You never did anything to me.
Oddly enough, I believe you.
We'll meet in my office next time, no guards or cameras. But we still have time today. What should we talk about?
How about them Dodgers?
He smiled and the smile seemed to come easily, friendly and open, spreading slowly right up into his light hazel eyes. Right then I totally believed I had nothing to fear from him.
I wondered if his ridiculous question was an attempt to take the focus away from what he had done. Or if it was a plea for me to get to know him better. His eyes when he smiled made me want to know him better. There was warmth in them, intelligence, good humor.
I said: I don't know anything about the Dodgers.
Okay. What do you know?