After the removal of the implants in her hips and legs, Cat was summoned to the courthouse to appear before the judge for her preliminary hearing. She had to be taken there by ambulance and entered the courtroom in a wheelchair.
The prosecutor started to speak and she tuned him out. Under the effects of the medication, she just didn’t care. Her hips hurt enough to distract her from what was happening. Then the prosecutor showed images of the sidewalk and the crushed bodies of William and Catherine. The dream with the grim reaper replayed before her eyes and she started to involuntarily scream in terror.
Dr. Coleman, who had been called as a witness, checked on her and ordered the nurse to give her some medication to calm her down. She became unable to follow the proceedings after that, barely holding to consciousness.
Oliver stood up and started to speak, showing something about the building and talking about Catherine’s mental state. She noticed that Dr. Coleman testified as a witness and three other people went up to give some statement.
Finally, she was taken back to the ambulance and eventually the hospital. She noticed Oliver was in good spirits but didn’t even react to that.
She would later learn that the charges were dismissed without the need for a trial. Oliver proved one could not see the sidewalk from the rooftop deck of Dr. Hill’s building, the flimsy chicken-coop fence, and Catherine’s mental state regarding her status as a sexual assault victim. He also proved that recklessness couldn’t be used to explain what was basically an accident.
The judge dismissed the case because there wasn’t enough support to go on trial. Considering all the support for Catherine, it would be almost impossible to get a jury to convict her. Furthermore, the time she spent in custody already covered most of the time she would be sentenced to. It was a waste of everyone’s time to push the case further.
Cat returned to the hospital a free, albeit wounded woman. Dr. Coleman put her to sleep shortly after returning to her new room, now that she didn’t need to stay under custody.
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Another month passed before she had recovered enough to remove the implants from the right arm. Without the criminal charges, Oliver visited her only once every other week. However, the PR and social media assistant they hired now could visit her and Cat had finally access to the internet.
“Hey, Agatha. Nice to finally meet you in person,” Cat greeted.
“Miss Wallenstein, it is an honor to finally meet you. Congratulations on being finally free. How are you feeling today?” Agatha greeted back. “I must thank you for the opportunity to work with Sullivan & Rothman. To be able to get into such a respectable firm right out of college is a dream come true.”
Cat smiled. “I’m sure you’ll grow into the position. The folks at Sullivan & Rothman are hard-working but they know how to recognize talent.”
“Great, now you got me blushing,” she giggled. “Shall we get to work?”
The first thing they did, despite the complaints of an insistent spirit, was to get up-to-date with whatever happened during the time they remained in custody. A few people had trolled Catherine on social media and some even rose to defend her assailant online but these were drowned by an angry mob that rose to defend her. She became an icon in the fight against sexual assault and suicide attempts. The NGO Dr. Hill’s crowdfunding supported also jumped on the bandwagon and crushed the dissent. Despite her reserves against “Cancel Culture” and extreme leftist activism, it was exactly these people the most vocal on her defense.
“You need to tread carefully and think twice about what you’re going to post,” Agatha, the social-media lawyer Oliver hired for her, advised. “I’ve been posting on your behalf using your phone but I marked clearly I was your PR assistant as you were in custody. Now that you are free once again, you should say something.”
“What should I say?”
“Something brief and inspiring that leaves no margin for misrepresentation,” she grinned.
Cat nodded and tapped the left molars. They agreed on a rudimentary code of communication using movements only they could sense. Kegels were to get the ghost’s attention. Tapping the left molars meant, “go ahead and say it.”
“That’s perfect. It captures your situation and feelings, shows that you’ve grown, as well as sending a message to everyone that supported you. It’s on the long side, but I think that for a comeback tweet it is fine. The best length for engagement is between sixty and a hundred characters.”
“What if we change the last sentence to ‘My deepest thanks to those who stood up to me.’?” Cat asked.
“Perfect!” Now, take your cellphone and get ready to type. I’m going to shoot a GIF and post it to my own account. That way, if someone tells it wasn’t you posting it, we can debunk them easily.”
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Catherine protested. She was overexcited, like a kid on too much sugar. After some non-verbal coaxing and a lot of tongue poking everywhere inside Cat’s mouth, she explained.
[Fine!] Cat hissed between her teeth. “Agatha, I need earrings and makeup. I feel naked without them.”
The other woman smiled. “I understand you perfectly. However, it’s better if we can shoot you as naturally as possible.
“I believe that’s non-negotiable. A girl has to uphold her standards,” Cat beamed a business smile.
“Yes, that’s the Catherine I wanted to see,” Agatha agreed and did a hundred-eighty.
Cat was unsure what she was really doing if it was to provoke a reaction in her or just to mess up with her head. But she put on her earrings and some basic makeup.
“We’re ready to go now,” the girl declared. The ghost, however, had other ideas.
“Hashtags!” Cat asked Agatha. “What should I use?”
“You should come up with them yourself,” Agatha said. “This message needs to be as authentic as possible.”
#thanks, #survivor, #freecatherine, the three of them decided after a brief brainstorm session. The third hashtag was what people were using to refer to her case and pressure the DA to drop the prosecution.
Cat took the phone and launched the blue bird app while Agatha recorded her. Her finger went toward the compose button when the ghost went batshit crazy.
She was sure that if Catherine were in control of the body she would have spasms now. Cat did as she asked and pressed the button to bring up the sidebar with the profile information.
“What’s wrong, dear?” Agatha asked.
“Holy shit! Eight hundred thousand followers?” Cat relayed Catherine’s enthusiasm. While her reaction was muted compared to the specter screeching inside her head, she still had a warm grin plastered on her face. “Wow, guys. That’s so awesome,” she said looking into Agatha’s phone. “Guess I’ll post my first post-accident tweet.”
She typed the message and sent it.
Her feed started to flood with replies, retweets, likes, and all sorts of interactions, including the lurking trolls and naysayers. The numbers started to skyrocket. Agatha's own reply with the video of Cat posting the tweet vanished in the massive social media spike.
Cat closed the app and put the phone down. “Not now.”
Cat groaned. “I’m getting a headache.”
“Dr. Coleman told me to call the nurse if you have an anxiety spike.”
Cat hurriedly recomposed herself, “No. I’m fine. Please keep me off the alprazolam! Anything but that. I hate to spend the day feeling like a zombie!”
Agatha smiled sympathetically, “I understand you. I know some people in college that took Xanax recreationally. They just wanted to get stoned.”
“I like to think and feel, thank you,” Cat rebutted. “It is marvelous in curbing the anxiety but did it need to flatline every other emotion? I’d rather try to calm myself down on my own and silence my inner ghosts through meditation.”
“That’s awesome, Catherine.”
“How’s the tweet doing?”
“It’s doing great. You’re getting an awesome response all over the world.”
“Did it make the trending list?”
“The tags you used did. Congratulations, Catherine. You’re a NY trending topic.”
At Catherine’s request, they finally accessed Facebook and peeked at detective Martinez’s profile.
Cat tuned the ghost out. Her own anxiety was feeding on the ghost and creating a feedback loop that was driving her crazy. “I think that’s enough social media for a day,” she declared as she put the phone down.
“Wait. We need to do a short testimonial video for your Facebook timeline.”
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Some Long Island mansion where a lot of sinners gathered to indulge in sex, drugs, and techno music. No rock n’ roll, unfortunately.
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Someone entered a room where a lot of naked people squirmed on the gigantic bed. It was literally impossible to tell whose hand was where, even for the owner of the hand. People came and went from the orgy freely.
“Hey, your murderer-bitch Catherine is on Facebook,” a guy said to his friend. Former friend, as he totally killed the good mood going on.
“Fuck it!” A certain sex offender on bail cursed and punched another guy away. The women scampered away, picking up their clothes as they fled the irate lineman.
One girl picked her phone halfway to pulling her dress on and said, “She’s trending on Twitter! Worldwide!” A pillow flew her way, knocking her down.
Everyone else decided they could very well leave the room with the raging bull first and get dressed later, to hell with who would see them naked. The last guy on the bed, the son of the mansion’s owner stood up and walked toward the interloper. He got too close for comfort.
“Dude, not cool,” the friend said, averting his eyes.
“Fuck you too,” the lineman said and snatched the phone from the other guy. “What is that whore saying now?”
He watched the video. Some crap about supporting each other and preventing sexual abuse. Damned wench. She was so dumb she couldn’t even die properly. And now she accused him of sexual abuse. The stupid whore couldn’t even handle a true man. He almost tossed the phone on the floor but the other guy snatched it.
Someone else came running into the room. “Dude, there’s some weird guy in a tux that wants to talk to you.
He put on some shorts and went to see who was it now. Maybe even punch the weird tux guy.
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“Greetings. I’m Roger Marthan,” the imbecile clad in outdated clothes said. The guy had the blackest irises he had ever seen and a weird smell that resembled farts. Maybe it was the smell of elderberries.
“You have one minute to tell me what you want before I kick you out of my house,” the brutish lineman said.
“Whoa there, friend. I’m here to help you. I heard you have a bone to pick with a certain Catherine Wallenstein. What if I told you I can help you even the score with that waif?”
“You have my attention. What can you do to help me and how much is this going to cost me?”
“No, no, my dear muscle-bound friend. I don’t need your money. Now, let me first show you what I can do to you, then you can tell me all the ways you are going to get back at that conniving girl. I am sure we can make some sort of Deal...”