The Resolution

By Lachlan Pirie

Jonathan Little, an ex-criminal lawyer, suggests to his cellmate, Daniel Rodriguez, that they should hatch a plan to "get rid" of their wives – who they hate more than anything – for good.

Their plan is fool-proof and would be perfect if not for the tenacity of Daniel's wife – the beautiful, courageous, life-embracing Janet Rodriguez.

What starts out as a vengeful plot turns into a story of misplaced love and recompense as both men face the women who absorbed most of their lives.

Uniquely Australian, this satire of love gone wrong is an elaborate thriller that begs the question: at what point is there no turning back?
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"I felt I was in the hands of a storyteller who knew what he was doing and wasn't going to waste my time. I was hooked by Lachlan's characters, story, and way with words." Mark Lamprell – Screenwriter of Babe: Pig in the City

 

"Pirie channels Quentin Tarantino with a decidedly Australian dialect and cheeky humor…"The Resolution" is a wild romp through the land down." Seth Sjostrom – Author of Blood in the Snow

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lachlan Pirie
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781922461339

Book preview

Prologue

Statement by Probation Officer Fran Kelly

4 February 2020

The following material is a collection of excerpts taken from the journal of the perpetrator, Daniel Rodriguez. This document was found in a stolen car on the Gregory Development Road, some kilometres north of the town of Clermont, Queensland, on the thirtieth of January 2020.

It was fortunate that it was discovered while it was still in readable condition, as it was the perpetrator’s intention to burn it along with the other items in the car. As many of the entries in this journal are rambling and unnecessary, only a handful have been selected. These entries, while distasteful, provide particular insight into the perpetrator’s thoughts and movements over a four-year period.

It is recommended that the psychologist’s report be read before consulting this material, as the nature of the perpetrator’s mental condition will affect the soundness of this evidence. For example, the report indicates that the perpetrator suffers from dissociative identity disorder and possible borderline personality disorder, which makes the context of this material difficult to understand. It should also be noted that the perpetrator is an Indigenous Australian with a significant mental illness history.

It appears that the excerpts are written from the point of view of the perpetrator’s alternate personality, which he has named Tinkler Rodriguez. However, this should not detract from the fact that this document contains many serious offences the perpetrator recounts, which would result in a substantial sentence if proven true.

Before being released from the Wolston Correctional Centre in Wacol, the perpetrator tells of a plan he concocted with another prisoner named Jonathan Little to kill their ex-wives on release. Following the perpetrator’s release, a week-long narrative gives insight into his intentions to fulfil this pact. It suggests, among other things, that he was involved in the premeditated murder of Jonathan Little’s ex-wife.

I

1

Police Exhibit A: Excerpt from perpetrator’s journal titled The World According to Tinkler Rodriguez during his incarceration at Wolston Correctional Centre, Wacol, Queensland, Australia, 18 August 2016.

Let me be clear: something is happening to Daniel Rodriguez.

I wish the Almighty could reveal what’s going on with him. Something must have happened—some road-to-rebirth experience. Men used to be jealous of his talents. He was a hardworking man with a positive attitude. Without complaint, he kept up the willingness to learn. In a team-oriented environment, he retained a team mentality, risk-taking, ‘no I in team’.

Whatever career he was in, he’d rocket right along. And there were never any complaints from the broads he was picking up. He’d buy them flowers on their first date and wouldn’t allow them to get too drunk at the pub. However, I’ll never find out why he saw them only once. It’s like they dropped off the face of the planet or something. But not only was he doing well and screwing good, but to top it off, he was also a fair and thoughtful man. Now, with that in mind, imagine a guy with unlimited potential—then compare him to the frightening figure you see today.

I find this hard to explain.

Nowadays, he will lapse into silence. His attention will become distant, hazy, and contemplative—like a silent light is growing warm in his head. And this isn’t on the odd occasion—it’s in the middle of a conversation. Is this proof that he’s going batshit crazy? No, maybe not, but the reality is these phases have become ingrained in his personality. But it’s not as if this behaviour is unfathomable. I’ve always been aware of the underlying cause. It’s Janet Rodriguez—it’s always been about her.

Janet has always been the source of his misery. No matter which girl he slept with—or how many—at some point, that deceitful witch would come back into play.

I understand why he took to the booze, and not just the cheap type; I’m talking about the top-shelf stuff. The problem is, people don’t understand the kind of woman he’s had to put up with his whole life. Seven times out of ten, you can find someone relatable. Not this woman. She’s someone you won’t see coming. Someone you won’t understand.

Anyone with a passing understanding of psychiatry could tell you that she’s misplaced her marbles—has loosened her screws. Daniel was a major-league numbskull for making a sweeping pass at her. But then again, he was eighteen years old, and she was seventeen. All he could think about was getting her clothes off, and he did it because he could. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. They were in it together from the get-go. And I can’t argue; in her prime, she was far beyond his level. Ordinary girls couldn’t compete with her on a physical level.

If you could imagine a crossover between Meg Ryan and Sharon Stone, you might be imagining her, but even then, you’d struggle to complete the picture. She was born flawlessly blonde and wasn’t naturally stupid. Apart from the scrawniness and the emaciation, nothing was letting her down. She stood over five-five and had bulging obsidian eyes that were haunting enough to be fascinating. And Daniel Rodriguez could have it all—or close to it. Now, God help him, he’s become committed to celibacy and is obsessed with her demise.

I believe in God, and if you believe in him, then you’re bound to believe in the devil, and I believe both entities are operating in her. Her whole life, she’s been desperate for his attention. Then once his commitment was obvious, she’d slander him. The worst part is that no-one can believe Daniel isn’t in control. The truth is, he can’t help being a victim of his own stupidity. He’ll go back to being a sucker for Janet and, of course, she’ll want to carry out some form of abuse. Then, Daniel will want to reciprocate with his own, and we’ll end up in prison again with added time. That’s how this saga has unravelled. Our efforts have never yielded a solution, no matter how long we spent in the can. Admittingly, since I orchestrated a lot of his thinking, I deserve to be here as well, and we’d be arguing in our minds yet again. Daniel and Tinkler, alone and miserable in a cell, arguing with each other in the same skull.

Daniel’s desire to kill her has morphed into such a chronic, cyclic thing that he doesn’t even believe he can go another day without knowing for certain that she’s met an untimely demise. I can see the doubt in his eyes whenever there’s a meeting about his parole. I can sense the line of his posture stooping whenever he tries to explain what we’re doing next. He has devoted his entire life to her. The hopelessness; the damned failed nobility. That’s what happens when the sum of your achievements is invested in a single relationship. It’s liable to lead to chaos, at any rate.

My deepest fear? I think Daniel is going to crack.

Women, in my opinion, will never be the key to happiness that men hope they will be. That might be an inflammatory statement, but I cannot sit here and ignore the fact that this very morning, in front of God and everybody, Daniel had a nervous breakdown. Can you believe that? He just lay immobile for hours, refusing to function normally. In the old days, I would be able to snap him to, and by Christ, we would see the truth and admit what was wrong. But in this case, he shut off from me and became so open I felt like advising him to lie and stop being so embarrassing in public. I hit the honesty with everything I had, but he chewed it up and spat it out. Well, it’s all out now.

And not just a little bit either.

I’ve been in the same prisons as this schmuck. We’ve had to share the same brainpan, same legs, same arms, same life. Our connection is more than just superficial. It’s going to last until either one of us is dead. In saying that, this is my journal, and I can put in what I want to put in and leave out what I want to leave out without undue influence. Therefore, I choose to leave out the details of the conversation. So, even though I can’t control my own hands, I don’t worry much.

Hold on.

Let me rephrase myself: I didn’t worry much.

I’m beginning to fear we’ll never be able to get ourselves back on the straight and narrow. I don’t think Daniel understands what he’s doing anymore. I don’t think he can deal with the consequences of his actions. He doesn’t even think about things. Then again, what if his drama is a farce? Maybe that’s it. He’s just playing Hamlet to entertain the crowd. Or worse, what if his craziness really is true, and he’s losing control?

I’ll shed teardrops on these pages.

The reason why I have chosen to start this journal on this note is that Janet is coming to see him today. Daniel couldn’t sleep till after midnight. He just lay there thinking about what he was going to do. Well, he doesn’t have to wait any longer. Do I have to tell you what his intentions are?

I don’t mean to brag, but right from the start, as soon as I saw this relationship develop, I knew it wasn’t going to end in kisses and choruses. Sometimes, you just wish that people were never destined for each other to prevent this whole rigmarole of pain from developing. You can always wish for these things to settle down and go away, but who can prevent these consequences from developing? Not me. And I doubt whether a therapist can. A futile relationship has always been the hardest thing to solve. And that may be my biggest regret—not being able to stop the old boy from doing what he thinks is necessary to stop the pain.

End of Police Exhibit A

2

Janet Rodriguez sat silently in the visitor’s section of the Wolston Correctional Centre. Like her, the other women struggled to remain seated under the gaze of the guards. Occasionally, the muteness was broken by the hard, metallic grind of a chair leg being pushed back across the porcelain floor.

Janet couldn’t stand the place, especially the way it smelt. The faint but discernible smell of alcohol cleanser was layered on any surface that a person would care to touch. The smell irritated her nose with the scent of its own purity. The room couldn’t be any larger than a laundromat, and that made the aroma even more stifling. It was as though the place was designed to give maximum exposure to the couples inside. Leave privacy out the door and come in to feel as though you’re on display as a fool falling victim to your own stupidity. Well, she could imagine being in other places like this. The sensation it gave should come as no surprise, especially at her age.

After a momentary survey of the facility’s guests, Janet rubbed her hands down her pants before searching through her handbag’s contents. There was no point in trying to start a conversation with the other girls. None of them wanted to talk with each other. This room was only catered to what was entirely personal.

Among the quicksand of female gadgets, she dug out a polaroid that was worn around the edges. The shot was of her on a wide berth beach, standing next to a clumsy but handsome Aboriginal man. They were both in their thirties. She had a ropy golden braid that fell over her halter top and was leaning against the man as though he were a doorway, hands in the pockets of her jeans, gleaming with lazy confidence. He looked just as careless and was forming a wicked smile when the shot was taken. They were a suitable enough pair for an overseas travel advertisement: her with the glossy complexion and him with the big, square face and smile hinting at interesting times ahead.

She chided herself for doing so but nonetheless felt self-conscious enough to then dig out a hand mirror. It was depressing to compare herself to the effortless, arrogant beauty in the image. She was in her late forties now, above the average height for a woman, slim, attractive despite her middle age, and had magnificent dark eyes. Someone once described her eyes as having the sort of natural colour that you wouldn’t forget. Of course, in the intervening years, the waist that the man’s arm was slung around was a tad wider. Despite this, she could pass for being late thirties with her high cheekbones, suntanned skin, and narrow face. Her nose was so straight and sharp that it could be a model by itself. Thankfully, there was no real reason to get so depressed—well, at least not in terms of appearance.

She tended to be more reserved nowadays rather than bizarrely outgoing. Apart from obvious experiences, perhaps a major reason for this was the scar (that is, the most noticeable one). The only unsightly part of her face was a lingering, sinister-looking scar running across the upper portion of her throat. It was about five inches long, starting at the bottom right side of her jaw and ending just below the tip of her chin. Most people guessed that it was because she faced off with a madman, or madwoman, who tried taking her head off at some point in the not-toodistant past.

Her main priority nowadays was to remain reserved and not let anyone in on anything. When some people caught a sideways look at this scar, they didn’t believe it was real—it looked so severe. Only today—of all days—she’d forgotten to touch it up enough to avoid those strange, scrutinising stares. A wound of such significance was never a jolly sign.

She shoved the photo and the piece of glass back into the tangled mess of her handbag and looked up to see a burly guard eyeballing her. He was standing on the other side of the room and had big brown eyes that were bulging, showing the whole pupil like a monkey’s. They were just glaring without thinking about her discomfort. The guard stood before a hulking steel door directly in her line of sight and had his back leaning against it with his arms folded in front of himself. He looked like a hangman on the big day, eager to see whether this triumph of middle-aged womanhood would become a frightened and star-struck sheep. For goodness’ sake, any ordinary woman would fret under the duress of being confined in a men’s penitentiary.

Despite expectations, they weren’t going to see a hint of fear this time. She wasn’t going to be sent out the door looking like a frightened, scatty thing, no matter how much they’d like to see that. She was going to come to terms with her man this time.

With his eyes still trained on her, the guard made a strange, hooked smile. Janet averted her attention to an old bird sitting at the closest table. The grey-haired girl appeared to be the calmest of the lot. She was wearing a watermelon-coloured, off-the-shoulder blouse and was staring at a tote bag crumpled in her lap. She seemed indifferent to the jittery visitors and the ogling peckerwood guarding the medieval door like some idiot troll. This was the best response to men with baseless feelings: indifference and self-respect.

However, on closer examination, Janet saw behind that wrinkled face so composed was the same dull, dreadful certainty that was filling up her own eyes. There were two diamond rings on the woman’s shrivelled fingers and a wedding band, which she was fiddling with. It seemed like she was thinking about hiding it in her purse—keeping it away for good measure, just in case an unwanted comment arose from it. Janet recognised her from the last visit. In fact, she recognised every woman, even after their brief acquaintance—like the girl with the ash-blonde hair and the small but determined chin and that showy nose piercing. It was the kind of nose ring you would see on a bull. She remembered feeling unreasonably jealous at the sight of her doing so fabulously well at coaxing her man into professing his love. They’d been like a couple of high school lovers showing off their delirium. It was enough to make Janet wonder what kind of woman she was to her fiancé. How long ago was that? A year? Two years? Every woman was still as apprehensive and as unprepared as they were last time.

To be honest, Janet was no less stiff. She’d been preparing for this moment as far back as she cared to remember. Every situation that could happen over the next hour within the realm of possibility she had thought over tirelessly—and perhaps foolishly. Her decision to return here had no real justification. Maybe the television-spawned love stories had influenced this fantastical line of thought.

Despite everything that had gone wrong, she still had a longing for some basic love. Then, like always, there remained that ominous dread of becoming a victim of her own fantasies. It was like an old evil bird coming back to roost in its place in her heart. At this age, the likelihood of successfully restoring a relationship had dwindled to the most meagre possibility. Like the ash-blonde filly with the nose ring, she could have cashed in on a vulnerable bloke back in her heyday. But now, there was no chance she could pull off such affections. She’d been unquestionably retired from the game for at least a decade. It felt longer than a lifetime.

She’d become an old woman who knew exactly who she was and what age she had reached. In no way had the wisdom of age magnified her self-assurance. Knowledge and intelligence hadn’t prevented her from thinking foolishly about Daniel Rodriguez. Yes, Daniel Rodriguez was still the cornerstone of it all. He was someone altogether different. Sometimes the memories of him were like a dreamy high school graduation yearbook: sneaking a cigarette in her mother’s stolen car, closing in on sixteen years of age, womanly body already formed. Others were just full of spite and fantastic conflict. Jesus, sometimes she could feel him in her like poison.

This pathetic macho bullshit concerning the guard with the slow, icy grin shouldn’t be having any effect on her. This was child’s play in comparison to what she’d been through. Being in a long-term relationship with a man like Daniel Rodriguez meant you had a strange, almost unnatural resilience. It meant you paid scant thought to your husband entertaining the town’s harlots or holding a druggie’s eight-year-old daughter ransom in order to get back a tray of cannabis seedlings. Janet could scrap over so many scenes that were positively tame compared to this scenario.

Of course, those onerous events from the past belonged to a different life. There was nothing in her existence today that brought her fear of retribution. She had become more impassive and indifferent to the general values of the world as the years went on. And besides, she’d seen and been involved with enough lunacy to warrant peace in old age. This last meeting with Daniel Rodriguez was going to be the finale to the record of unrest. It would resolve the disturbance that came from not having a lifetime of affairs settled.

The most obvious solution was to forgive the man she had been trying to for going on fifteen goddamn years now. She had been cold and contemptuous for too long. Only God knew how debilitating her unforgiveness had been. She knew there would be no space for flat and traditional talk this time. That type of conversation offered no consolation to feelings that had been building up to a single moment for decades. She couldn’t allow any nervous reactions either. This moment would determine the future of everything. They would have to put all their cards forward and risk losing everything. And if it came to it—and she sure hoped it wouldn’t—then she would pledge that this would be the end. For both of them. Indefinitely.

Janet screwed up the handbag in her lap and opened her tired eyes to see the old lady staring at her in an intense, haggard way that was vaguely frightening. She looked like the other woman now. Janet saw it clearly—it was as obvious as daylight. Those feelings: disappointment, embarrassment, hurt.

On the other side of the dark-ages door, a guard barked out an order. Janet straightened and turned her attention to the burly turnkey. He was flexing his neck and puffing his chest like a cop. His right hand had fallen to a baton behind his waistband and was resting on it. Someone had stopped on the other side of the door and sounded as though he or she was choosing between keys. Suddenly, as if to wake the women from their semi-daze, a key was rammed into the slot and run over the tumblers like a mole-rat gnawing through soft dirt. It turned swiftly in the lock plate, then there was a clank, and the door swung open.

Almost in sync, Janet and every other woman in the room stood up. They were like girls called to attention in nunnery school. Not one angst-ridden eye wasn’t fixed on the open doorway. The burly guard stepped to one side, holding onto the door, and tightening his grip on the baton. A female guard on the other side indifferently called out for a single line to be formed. Then, as the room lapsed back into silence, men in orange overalls began to enter the room in single file.

All at once, the women in front of Janet hustled forward, blocking out her view of the shambling men. There were so many converging bodies that the front half of the wedged-shaped room soon became a jubilated mosh pit. Shouts of recognition commenced. Women grappled and sobbed with their dumbfounded long- or short-term partners. Janet couldn’t stand the guffaws and shrieks. She began hopping from foot to foot, straining to catch a familiar feature in the stream of faces.

Then her eyes froze on one prisoner amid the sprawl: a broad-shouldered Indigenous man standing at the back of the crowd. It was undoubtedly Daniel Rodriguez. He was taller than the other men—at least six foot three—with dark skin and a gaunt build. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, but it was hard to tell. His jet-black hair, which nearly reached his shoulders, was loose and parted in the middle.

At first, Janet felt as if something about him seemed too abnormal for comfort, as though there was some frightful craving in him. He seemed more emotionally reserved. His features were starkly impassive, and yet he hadn’t given up his sleepwalker gait and his tendency to slouch.

Even with the Indigenous cast and the weather-beaten face, Janet still couldn’t find anything intimidating about the man. He was handsome and had a cleft, manly chin—an actor’s face. The kind of face women adored. If only his expressions weren’t so insincere, he could have been adorable. But instead, his hectic eyes remained challenging. It was a great, exposed look that still disconcerted Janet.

For about thirty seconds, Daniel Rodriguez remained still, letting the other prisoners pass by. He looked over the room tiredly, as though he were watching an old-time silent movie: the brittle, cosmetic smiles; the many poker faces of the prisoners; a girl in a tight blouse that didn’t do anything to hide the areolae of her nipples; a prisoner wincing at the weight his girlfriend had put on; a girl with a nose ring caressing a tattooed man as bald as a stone. Then, in the backdrop of this confusion of emotions, his eyes froze on one visitor.

Janet was gazing at him intently, her eyes gleaming as she struggled to generate something of a smile. At first, nothing registered on the man’s face. His eyes remained wide for what seemed like a strangely long time. He appeared to be on the verge of turning on his heel, denying approaching her altogether. Then, he capitulated—almost becoming comfortable. He took his eyes off her and made his way through the throng.

Janet followed him with her eyes the whole way. He didn’t raise his head till he had stopped and looked up without saying a word. She held her stiff hands crossed before her at the wrist and spoke gently in a soft but stern tone. She sounded like a schoolteacher dealing with an unruly but nonetheless pitiful child. ‘Hello, Daniel.’

‘Janet,’ he replied in a curt voice that was almost quelled by the cries of reunification. His voice sounded tired and flat, but there was also smouldering anger in his eyes, waiting for the fierce argument. It had been five years since they’d seen each other, but they showed little sign of surprise.

Ending the blank pause, Janet snapped back to the moment, her heartbeat right there in her voice: ‘You look different to last time I saw you.’

‘So do you.’

‘It’s good to see you again.’

Daniel looked at the guards surreptitiously and then back at her. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I thought you might like a visitor.’

‘What do you want?’

She nodded at the unoccupied table next to them. ‘Can we sit down?’

As Janet expected, Daniel stayed where he was, saying nothing.

‘I promise I won’t take longer than five minutes. I have something important that we need to talk about.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If you just listen to me one last time, I promise I won’t come back here again. Alright?’

Like a principal and student preparing to have a serious talk, they silently took their seats and sat without talking. Janet felt strange and frightened to be so near him now, as though a hawk were swooping, dropping down to judge whether she was worth taking a piece out of or not. Then Daniel dropped his eyes to his calloused hands.

Janet didn’t look away from him. The years hadn’t been kind to the man. A certain stiffness—a woodenness—had come into his character. She noticed it from his lagging amble and downcast eyes. His hair was now threaded with grey, his tanned throat much thinner, his face older in form. She knew Daniel was sensitive to the world, brutal, perhaps, but at the same time oh-so delicate.

Nervously, Janet turned and saw they were the only couple not yet talking and promptly put an end to that.

‘Are you being treated alright?’

Daniel nodded, keeping his attention off her. Janet dug into her handbag and took out the worn polaroid.

‘I brought you something you might want.’

He glanced at the photo as she laid it down. He saw himself looking thin and confused and still freckled with acne.

‘Do you remember when that was taken?’

His small eyes gleamed disquietingly as he looked at the photograph. ‘No.’

‘That was taken when we were on the Gold Coast.’

‘Where?’

‘The Gold Coast,’ she repeated in an irritated tone.

‘Why did you bring that?’

‘I thought you’d like something from when you were out of prison.’

She watched Daniel’s face as he picked up the picture. Just as Janet thought he might be interested in it, he put one hand up to his forehead and rubbed the patch of skin over his right eye as if to stop a migraine. This wasn’t going well. Not at all.

‘Have you been having any trouble?’

‘No.’

‘That’s good,’ she replied. ‘I’ve been trying to call you, and I haven’t been getting any response. I thought something might have happened to you.’

Daniel dropped his hand and stuck the photo in his shirt pocket. ‘Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here, Janet?’

‘I wanted to know if you’ve gotten better.’

‘What do you mean, better?’ he questioned sharply.

‘Are you okay?’ Her face was honest and candid, with obvious question marks. But Daniel’s cagey face wouldn’t open up.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Is that the truth?’ she asked, not showing any signs of holding back just yet. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

‘Yes,’ he said with the same blasé tone, as though not wanting to engage with her motherly probing.

Realising this topic was going nowhere, Janet switched to another, her voice still trying to remain mellow. ‘I’m working in Toowoomba now. I still own my own café in Rangeville.’

Daniel bent forward in his seat, supporting more weight on his arms, which were now crossed on the table. Their eyes made contact as though they were entering a competition. She did not draw away from the thrust of his face, which was stone-cold and impassive. It was as though they were playing a staring contest, attempting to maintain eye contact without blinking, looking away, or smiling.

‘What made you decide to see me?’

Janet, predicting this turn in the conversation, answered honestly, hoping the annoyance she felt didn’t show. ‘I came here to apologise.’

Daniel gazed at her for a long time with a dead expression—an expression that Janet had come to term ‘now the questions’. Those eyes were dull and half-questioning and mildly savage. Most women would flee from those eyes. But she was enticed by them. Oh God, so much work was still required—but she was prepared for it. Behind that livid face was someone with long-suffering good humour. If only she could get him to understand the truth of the matter—that there was still a place for him in her heart.

She crossed her hands on the table and spoke to him again in the same caressing tone, ‘I know you don’t understand what I’m saying, but one day you will.’

He frowned spitefully, not quite believing what was coming out of her mouth. ‘What do you mean, I will?’

‘I mean, hopefully, one day you’ll realise you’re wrong.’

‘About what?’

‘Just about everything.’

‘Do you realise that this is the fourth time you’ve visited me?’ he responded sharply, leaning a little more resentfully towards her. ‘Last time you came here, you said exactly the same fucking thing to me.’

‘I’m here because I’m willing to give you an opportunity to forgive yourself,’ she replied with equal sharpness. ‘That’s what I want to do, even if I have to put everything aside to see that you do that. If you don’t understand me, then you don’t realise anything I’m trying to do for you.’

‘Didn’t you realise that the first time?’

There was no sympathy this time. Janet’s face was only blank— momentarily surprised.

‘What the fuck are you still doing here?’ he hissed.

‘Why are you swearing at me?’

*

Of all the goddamn women in the world, Daniel thought. Of all the goddamn women. This is just some psychotic game for her. A good old horselaugh. She’s insane!

He continued searching deep into her. Her face was stern and regretful, but in those deep, black eyes, he thought he could see something akin to a mocking smile. His face grew dull and dark with fury. He felt the sinews locking up in his arms. They were thin but built up with scrawny, tight muscle—ready to react. He kept on waiting to see if her concentration would break. But it wouldn’t. Her intentions were as obvious as daylight. She wanted to dominate him just as he had been dominated by white people all his life. To her, he was a person who was far below her equal, as though he were some young, incapable child. She was savage in her arrogance. About a minute passed. He felt he was losing his head.

‘Do you think you should be seeing someone, Janet? Do you think you should be going to a psychologist?’ he said, raising his voice above most people in the room.

‘The only thing I’m trying to do here is help you get out of jail. But you obviously don’t want that,’ she replied sharply, this time with obvious contempt.

He looked up at the ceiling as if searching for answers there. Please, Lord, Daniel