After the Golden Age

FIFTEEN

THE prosecution’s case dragged on for two weeks. For all his fire and brimstone behind the scenes, Bronson was solid and methodical in the courtroom, not taking any chances with speculation or questionable evidence. The financial evidence was plain, the witnesses primed and well spoken. Every objection Sito’s lawyers made was overruled.

Warren and Suzanne West testified, along with Robbie Denton and Arthur Mentis. The first three wore street clothes—respectable trousers and jackets for the men, Suzanne in a conservative tweed dress suit. For that day, they were their alter egos, citizens of Commerce City who’d seen the extraordinary and come to tell about it. Arthur wore what he always wore, his suit and coat, looking studious and watchful, his thin smile hinting that he knew the dirt on everyone in the room. Even the judge looked at him askance.

The four members of the Olympiad were the last witnesses Bronson called. With them, he finished presenting his case, as if the presence of those who had fought the Destructor for so long were all the argument he needed.

Sito’s lawyers surprised them all by refusing to cross-examine any of them.

It would have been an easy enough thing to raise questions about the Olympiad’s motives, to suggest that the rivalry between the two sides had degenerated into a personal feud and had nothing to do with justice or the law. That their persecution had driven Sito to insanity. But they didn’t.

They were saving their questions for Celia.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

She had to repeat her “I swear” because she’d spoken too softly the first time. Her hand was shaking on the Bible. She settled into the witness stand and when she finally looked up, she spotted Arthur Mentis sitting in the row directly behind DA Bronson. He nodded, smiled, and she felt better. He’d never let her get hurt. If things got really bad, he’d get her out of this somehow.

Defense Attorney Ronald Malone was slick and unyielding, like a steel wall. He wasn’t that big, probably not much taller than Celia, but he had a way of trapping her gaze, and shifting to hold it again when she tried to look away, even standing at his table a half-dozen paces away.

His first questions were mundane, or seemed mundane, public knowledge that anyone in the courtroom could have learned. She still felt like she was giving away secrets. He was only warming her up for the hard questions.

Then came an odd one that made her think.

“Ms. West, when did you learn that your parents, Warren and Suzanne West, are the superhuman crime fighters Captain Olympus and Spark?”

“I don’t know. I think I always knew. They never tried to hide it from me.”

How could they? From the time she was born, they studied her for signs that she had inherited some kind of superhuman legacy. To think, most parents were happy with ten fingers and ten toes.

“Then their skills, their reputation, were a part of your life from a very early age?”

Bronson stood. “Objection! Supposition.”

“Sustained,” the judge said.

Celia blinked, relieved. She didn’t want to answer any questions that resembled, What was it like having Captain Olympus as a father?

It didn’t matter. He’d set her up nicely already.

“One might argue that like your parents, you’re in a particularly unique position to judge the defendant’s mental state at the time of his crimes.”

“I’m not a psychologist—”

Malone raised his hand in a placating gesture. “I’ll only ask you to make observations about Mr. Sito’s behavior. You were the subject of one his more spectacular adventures, yes?”

That was an interesting way of putting it. “He kidnapped me when I was sixteen.”

“And the purpose of this kidnapping?”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Did he hold you for ransom? Use you to get something?”

She shook her head. “No. He just wanted to … inflict damage.”

“So there was no rational reason for him to kidnap you. His motivations could be said to reflect a disturbed mental state.”

They weren’t here to prove Sito guilty. No one was denying his crimes. Malone only had to prove that Sito had been out of his mind.

“He seemed calculating enough at the time,” she said.

“Then let’s turn to another event.” He dropped the bomb, and knowing it was coming didn’t make it easier. “Isn’t it true that you were employed by Mr. Sito’s organization eight years ago?” A polite way of saying, Weren’t you his criminal henchman?

Muffled gasps filtered through the courtroom. People whispered to one another, reporters scribbled on notepads, and the courtroom artist worked frantically. She was vaguely aware of members of the jury leaning forward to better hear her answer.

“Yes,” she said, meeting his gaze.

“You joined voluntarily?”

“Yes, at the time. I was—”

He cut her off before she could elaborate. “And you belonged to it for how long?”

“About two months.”

“Once again, do you think it made any rational sense for Sito to take you into his organization, knowing the trouble it would likely cause him?”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I can’t speak to that, sir. I wasn’t exactly in my right mind myself.”

“I’d like to submit that Mr. Sito’s actions in regards to Ms. West speak toward an unstable state of mind, a personality more interested in chaos than in reason. His insanity compelled him to make unwise choices. If I may ask just a couple more questions.”

Please, Celia thought. It couldn’t get much worse.

“Do you regret that time you spent in Mr. Sito’s employ?”

He would undermine her involvement in the case. Every piece of evidence she’d touched would be tainted now. It didn’t matter what she said, how she answered. She could only be honest, because she had nothing to hide, right?

“Yes,” she said. “I do.”

“And how would you describe your feelings for Mr. Sito now?”

Burning, mind-numbing rage? “Dislike.”

Smiling, Sito watched her, his cuffed hands clasped before him, fingers tapping together. Don’t look at him, look at Arthur.

Arthur Mentis’s expression was neutral. Nonjudgmental. She just had to hang in there.

“Not resentment? Or even outright hatred?”

“Objection! Leading the witness.” Bronson, saving her again.

“Sustained.”

“Ms. West, wouldn’t you say your involvement with the prosecution’s case is a clear conflict of interest? That your attitude toward Mr. Sito is personal, not professional?”

“Objection!”

“Sustained.”

“Why are you assisting with this case?”

“It’s part of my job. I’m a forensic accountant with the firm of Smith and Kurchanski, which has a history of working with the DA’s office.”

“Did it ever occur to you to have yourself removed from the case because of a possible conflict of interest?”

“Yes. DA Bronson believed the conflict of interest didn’t exist.”

“Did he know about your prior involvement with Sito when he brought you in to work on this case?”

Her voice fell again. “Yes.”

“No further questions, your honor.”

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?”

“Everyone is so amazed by them, so awestruck. To be able to move so fast you can fly, to create fire from your bare hands, to knock down walls, to have the power of gods … but I grew up with it. It wasn’t special to me, it was just normal. It was Mom and Dad. I don’t see what everyone else sees. I wish I could, sometimes.” She looked at the ceiling, then scrubbed at her eyes to keep tears from starting. Stress. It was just stress.

“I’ll tell you something,” Arthur said. “Until a certain age, everyone thinks their parents are heroes. Then they grow up a little, start to understand a little more of the world, and they realize their parents are just people. It destroys them, just a little bit. But it’s part of becoming an adult. Everyone goes through it. You, on the other hand—your parents really are heroes, at least to everyone else. It’s a bit remarkable, really. You never went through that disappointment of finding out your parents are just people.”

Except they were just people—she saw the side of them that no one else did, the bickering over supper and cooking pasta at the stove. She was the only one who understood that they were just people—that was where her frustration lay.

Arthur smiled his impenetrable smile.

Celia answered it with a wry grin of her own. “Are you psychoanalyzing me again?”

“Would I do such a thing?” He turned on his heel and left the room.

Mom arrived to check on her. Dad wasn’t there. He’d already left. Celia didn’t ask why. Mom would say “work,” and then Celia would have to ask what kind of work—West Corp work or the other work—and she didn’t really want to know. Suzanne offered her a ride home and Celia accepted because her mother had driven herself—her own car, not the limo, which was awfully conspicuous. She didn’t want anyone noticing her right now.

Mark was waiting in the corridor that led to the courthouse’s back door. He was leaning on the wall, arms crossed, shoulders hunched sullenly.

Something’s happened, Celia thought.

Straightening, he moved to the middle of the corridor, blocking their path, and stared at her.

“Hi, Mark.”

He didn’t say anything. Just glared hard at her, like he could peel back skin and see what was underneath, or become a telepath through sheer willpower. Yeah, something had happened, all right. And it was all centered on her.

“What’s wrong?” she said, unable to keep a neutral tone. Her muscles had clenched defensively.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was tight, like he was holding back anger, keeping his temper in check. Like she was.

Suzanne remained a step behind Celia, watching.

“Tell you what?” she said, with willful ignorance.

“What you said in there. About you and the Destructor.” Like he could barely say the words.

She stared at him. “What exactly was I supposed to say?”

“You should have told me.”

“Why? I don’t tell anyone. Before now I could count on my hands the number of people who knew about it. It was a long time ago.” Mark was just standing there, seething. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “You’re angry,” Celia said, trying to prompt a response.

“Of course I am! This is like finding out you’re … you’re—” Evidently, he couldn’t think what it was like. “I mean, you’re with the Destructor—”

“Was,” Celia pointed out. “Was with him. Briefly.”

“That isn’t some petty shoplifting rap on a juvenile record. I—” He glanced at Suzanne and closed his mouth. “I’ll call you later.”

He shouldered past them, keeping space between himself and Celia as he did.

“Mark!” She called after him, mostly as a matter of form, even though she knew he wasn’t going to turn around. He had principles and he liked to stand by them.

She sighed tiredly.

Her mother put a hand on her shoulder. “He’ll come around,” she said. “He’s had a shock, that’s all. He’ll understand after he’s cooled off.”

“Are you sure you want him to come to dinner?”

Smiling wryly, Suzanne hooked her arm around Celia’s and guided her out to the car.

The Commerce Eye came out with a special evening edition: “Daughter of the Olympiad Turned Against Her Family!” it read in huge, decadent lettering. In a flash, in a sentence, the last eight years disappeared. Nothing good she’d done in her adult life mattered. How depressing.

After her mother dropped her off at her apartment, it started raining. Sheets of rain beat against the kitchen window. Across the street, the sky was throwing a lovely pink and orange sunset against the windows. But outside her windows, and only her windows, rain.

She opened the window in the living room, popped the screen out of the frame, and leaned out.

“Do you want to come in and talk, or are you just going to keep flinging water at me?” she shouted at the roof.

A moment later, a figure rappelled down the wall. In seconds, Typhoon reached the window and slipped inside. Celia closed the window behind her.

She was in costume, dripping water on the carpet. The rain kept on outside, an echo of the dour mood Typhoon projected with her frown. She pulled off the mask, and it was Analise, glaring at her as if Celia had just kicked her dog.

“Is it true?”

Celia rolled her eyes. “If I were going to lie under oath, do you think it would be about that? Yes, it’s true.”

Analise’s face puckered, and the bottom dropped from Celia’s stomach. My God—she’s going to cry.

Sure enough, her voice cracked. “How—how could you?”

Why could no one understand this? Couldn’t anyone see the despair she’d felt at the time? The utter hopelessness, the utter failure she’d been at making anything of herself. That was it exactly, in a way Celia had never looked at before—she’d been trying to see just how bad it could really get, when she joined the Destructor.

When she didn’t say anything, Analise continued. “How could you do it? Look at who your parents are: Captain Olympus and Spark! You had that legacy, a birthright that some of us would kill for, and you spat on it!”

“I didn’t have a legacy,” Celia said quietly. “Put yourself in my shoes, Analise. Your parents are the greatest superhumans Commerce City has ever known, but you … you can’t even ride a bicycle straight. You can’t win a swim meet. You can’t fly, or read minds, or tell the future, or pyrokinetically manipulate pasta sauce. And your parents can’t hide their disappointment. Tell me: What do you do then?”

Analise stared back at her, and Celia could tell she didn’t understand, because her expression didn’t change. Didn’t soften. She didn’t look away, or let the tears fall. Instead, her mouth hardened. She’d looked at the poolside kidnappers that way.

“That’s no excuse. Not for siding with the Destructor.”

“Maybe if I’d been able to create tidal waves and make rain fall, it would have been different. I don’t know why I didn’t inherit any of my parents’ powers. I don’t know why I turned out so … so—” Dull. Boring. Badly. “I was a stupid teenager. Please tell me you’re not going to judge me based on that.”

Crossing her arms, a wound-up bundle of nerves, Analise started pacing. Celia wondered if she should get her a towel, so she’d stop soaking the carpet.

Analise said, “What else can I do? I’m seeing you in a whole new light. You have that, that evil in you—”

“Oh please—”

“And you threw it in your parents’ faces!”

“Can we leave them out of it?”

“You don’t understand what they mean to the rest of us. Look, I’m sorry you don’t have any powers. I can’t explain it. Hell, I don’t know why I can do what I can do. I have normal parents, and when I discovered my … my talent, I thought it was the end of the world. I thought I’d get locked away like some lunatic, or turn into a psycho vigilante like Barry Quinn. But there was something else—I wanted to make it something good. Your parents showed me how to do that. They let me think of this, not as something that happened to me, but as something I could use. As a gift. Without them, I don’t know where I’d be.”

“Well, you see where I am with them.”

“You can’t blame your past on them, Celia.”

“Aren’t I the one who said to leave them out of it? How many times do I have to say it: I’ve spent the last eight years trying to make up for one mistake, and the only message I’m getting is, that isn’t possible. Yesterday I was a respectable upstanding citizen, and today, suddenly, I’m dirt. Mark won’t talk to me, the papers brand me a criminal—what the hell happened?”

Analise pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. For a moment Celia thought she was getting through to her, that she wouldn’t lose both her and Mark. Then she said, “How do I know you won’t do something like that again? You don’t get along with your parents any better now than you did then … so how do I not you’re not still like that? That you’re not still working with the Destructor? That you didn’t get put on this case on purpose, that—”

“Analise,” Celia said as calmly as she could. “That’s crazy.”

“Is it?”

Celia realized that nothing she said would help, because no one trusted her. Even Analise, her best friend, suddenly assumed that every word was a lie.

“Yes, it is,” Celia said, for as much good as it would do.

At first Analise hesitated, like she was about to decide that she trusted Celia after all. Then she moved back to the window.

“I need to go think. I’m sorry.” She put her mask on and gripped the dangling rope.

“Analise, don’t you dare run away from me!”

But she was already gone, climbing up the rope, her specially designed gloves gripping despite the wet. A few minutes later, the clouds broke, and the last rays of sunset shone in.