Denver City Jail was about twenty-one minutes away from headquarters by car. The sun had risen during the interrogation. Clouds blocked most of its morning rays and the light blue morning sky, casting a dreary disposition over the city.
Once we arrived at the facility, I was escorted to the receiving area, where everything became a blur of procedure and policy. A team of officers was waiting for me; they worked together to get me processed through as quickly as possible. The other inmates had been locked up behind doors, as if I was a notorious and dangerous criminal that they had to keep separate. Magnet covers had been placed over the cell windows. As a female officer patted me down before removing the handcuffs, a nurse asked me a series of medical questions. Did I have a recent history of fever or excessive coughing? Did I have any contagious diseases such as tuberculous, HIV, or hepatitis? What about diabetes or high blood pressure? Was I suicidal, or did I have a mental health diagnosis? After the nurse had completed the series of medical questions, one of the officers fired his own questions at me. What was my religion? Did I have any tattoos? Where was I born? Was I employed? Did I have an emergency contact?
After the questions, two female officers took me back to a secluded room to change into a red uniform. Unwillingly, I removed my shirt and leggings in exchange for the brown underwear, white sports bra, white undershirt, and red shirt and pants set. I stared up at the ceiling and had to blink several times to avoid having an emotional breakdown in front of the officers.
The nurses got involved when the officers informed them about the wound on my back shoulder, something that they had discovered when I underwent the strip search. The nurses did the best they could to stitch the skin back together. I was in such a mental state that I was numbed to the pain.
From there came the photographs. I managed to remain calm as an officer took my mugshot and side profile. Another officer collected my fingerprints and salvia. I was successful in compartmentalizing my emotion. My movements were robotic. I was millimeters away from collapsing on the floor and never getting up again.
Briara Andralyn Disraeli might have not existed in a government database before today, but she would tonight. I would no longer be some anonymous ghost of society.
A female officer with tortoiseshell glasses handed me an ID card with my mugshot on it. The bright lights at the photographing station had made my pale skin more severe. Dark bags had already started to appear underneath my haunted eyes. My strawberry-brown hair was in tangles, even shoved behind my ears and shoulders. I gripped the card as if it was my security blanket and blankly accepted the two wool blankets, white sheets, rubber cup and spoon, and toilet paper roll they gave me. The book-in process completed, I was escorted through the jail with shackles severely limiting my movement. I looked for Jay, even though I knew it was hopeless. They wouldn’t allow us to see one another since he was being considered my accomplice.
I was led to a cell that was in a room with fifteen other cells. Every cell had a nosy inmate pressed against its window; the inmates had been secured in their cells before I entered the dayroom for my own safety. I would not be well-liked in the jail population, I learned, due to my crimes. The tortoiseshell glasses officer directed me to my cell, which was the last cell on the upper tier. Through electronic prompting, the cell’s door slid open. The moment I entered the cell, the same electronic prompting had the cell door closing, locking me in a twelve feet by six space.
Feeling absolutely lost, I sat the white bucket with all my facility-issued supplies in it on the metal desk. A bunk and accompanying mattress were installed against the left wall. It was smaller than a twin-sized bed. Immediately to my right was a toilet and sink combination. A foot from that was the desk and its stool, both nailed to the concrete wall. The only access to the outside world was a window, about a foot tall, installed in the back wall, right underneath the ceiling. A section of the wall was painted blue behind the desk, perhaps to mimic a bulletin board and to imply that it was the only area where I was allowed to hang pictures and papers. Pencil drawings marked the cell walls. Toothpaste dollops caused the cell to smell. Everything was hard, barren, and impersonal. The only comfort items in it were the thin mattress and my linens. The only blessing was that there wasn't a camera monitoring my every move.
Unable to compartmentalize my emotions and since it was no longer necessary to display a brave pretense now that I was alone, I collapsed to the floor in between the bunk and desk. Much like a dog protecting his internal organs, I curled up into a ball and tried to bring my head into my upper chest as much as I could. The despair was too much to combat. It exploded into body-vibrating and echoing sobs. Darkness entered my thoughts. I had not been raised to be evil, but in a matter of moments, I had become it. I had been preparing to take the Hippocratic Oath in a couple of years. Yet... I had needlessly killed. I had killed innocents. I had killed the only parental figure I had left in my life. The intention to massacre might have not been there, but there was no denying what I had seen on the camera footage and its truth. I did not deserve to live anymore. My life was forfeit. I would die in this very cell, and it would not matter when. There was not any meaning to living anymore. This was a nightmare I would never escape from.
I would have spent the rest of my days rotting on the ground if I had been allowed. Everything remained hazy. Officers came by at least three times to offer me meals. They pestered me about going to court. At least twice, they had the nurse evaluate me. My vitals were collected from machines placed on my limp limbs. Every time, they questioned, "Are you suicidal?" Their question was met with silence, until one too many times, it was too much. The sergeant supervising from the cell’s threshold aired her decision. "Put her on suicide watch."
I was heaved from the ground and onto my feet. My weakness had amplified since I had been placed into the cell, and the two male officers who controlled my arms had to support most of my weight as I shuffled forward. As we walked out of the dayroom, I heard other inmates yelling and banging against their cell doors. They had realized who I was; they wanted immediate justice. Their words were unable to penetrate the fog surrounding my mind.
My new cell was completely different than my old one. All four walls, the floor, and the high ceiling were made of rubber. There wasn't a bunk, desk, or toilet. A blue nylon blanket had been dropped in the corner with a gown made from the same material. The male officers left me in the cell with four female officers, who ordered me to remove all my clothing. With ice cold fingers, I removed my uniform. They were satisfied once I had removed every single article and left me in the cell to dress myself in the gown. I did not care to do so. This was simply a new place for me to collapse on the ground and wait for death to take me, a willing soul.
I was not sure how long I laid on the ground in the rubber cell. The darkness in my soul deprived me of everything until the only thing I could sense was the chill surrounding my fingers and toes. My stomach weakly protested its hunger, and my throat became parched from thirst. The same images ran through my mind in constant repetition: becoming conscious in a war zone, where blood painted the walls and floors, where corpses were sprawled out. Watching Jay be tossed backwards like he weighed absolutely nothing. Seeing that the death blows came from my own hands. Remembering how many people had fled Union Station and hovered across the street, sobbing, terrified. Galileo laying on the ground, his lifeless gaze staring upwards. My hands scrambling over his body as if there was a button that would revive him. I had caused his death.
Sometime later, new officers interrupted the nightmarish chaos of my thoughts. Apparently, the judge was impatient with my continued absence and ordered the officers to bring me by force. There was no need. I went willingly. The female ones waited inside of the cell and averted their gazes as I dressed myself. Once again, they handcuffed and shackled me. They escorted me to the courthouse. I was vaguely aware of the news media standing outside of the secure area, and the flashes of cameras out of the corner of my eyes as I was shuffled into a room adjacent to the courtroom.
A skinny younger looking man with exhaustion around his haggard eyes and stingy, oily hair met me there. Only some of his words penetrated the fog: he was a public defender assigned to help me through the advisement hearing; there was some rights and a protection order I had to acknowledge. He did not think I would be granted a bond in the case. He asked me questions, to which I robotically answered around my arid mouth. Until the very end, when I asked him, "Can we just bypass all the trial stuff and go to the chair? I'm guilty. I don't want to do any of this circus stuff. Just bring me to the chair. I'll waive all my rights."
The attorney stared at me. I peered at him through my fingers as my forehead leaned against the palm of my hand. I was slouched in the chair with my elbow planted on the table between us. After a couple of moments, he said, "No, we have to do this circus stuff. I'll be asking for a competency evaluation for you, and you're going to get some mental health help. After that, we'll discuss your options." The attorney snapped his laptop shut and hurried out of the conference room. Sighing, I got up for my officer escort to bring me into the courtroom.
A female judge already waited at the esteemed bench in the front of the courtroom. Just by the state of her dark-colored bob cropped around her angular face, I already knew she was anal-retentive and obsessive with order. Even as her dark-colored eyes judged me, there was curiosity in her eyes. The wrinkles forming on her forehead and around her lips informed me she was older, while the confidence she carried herself with revealed she had experience. Although she tried to mute the excitement and duty in her eyes, I realized that this would be the first high-profile case she would preside over.
The officers guided me to one of the middle seats in the jury box. They left me sitting alone to face my reality, though I knew they would instantaneously be there to control me if I misbehaved. To my left, there were several rows of pews. Every single one of them was filled until there was only standing room in the back. I felt the heat of many stares against my profile. The law enforcement presence in the room was enough to deter anyone from causing a disturbance. In all, I counted eight officers scattered throughout the courtroom. More lurked in both the public and staff hallways.
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"I am Judge McKenna, and I will be presiding over this matter, docket number 15CR6737, for its duration. Today will be simple, and it will not involve any glitz and glamour. I have been entrusted to make sure the truth is represented in my courtroom, and I will not allow even the glimmer of a lie or an interruption of the truth. I have also been entrusted to ensure that the rights of the victims and defendants are recognized and followed. This is a matter of ensuring order and safety in my courtroom. This is a matter of ensuring that the victims of this crime are served by justice. This is not entertainment, and anyone who chooses to not respect this can excuse themselves from my courtroom." The courtroom was silent. No one dared to protest the rules Judge McKenna had set forth. My hands squeezed one another on my lap.
Judge McKenna continued. "We are here today for a formal advisement of the charges being set forth against Briara Andralyn Disraeli. As it stands right now—and this number may change—Ms. Disraeli, you are being charged with one hundred four counts of murder in the first degree; three hundred counts of first-degree assault; and felony criminal mischief. You will be provided all the rights the United States Constitution allows, including the right to a speedy trial and to defend yourself. If you choose to forgo finding your own defense council, a public defender will be provided for you as long as you are in custody."
I swayed in the chair. This was all too formal, too real. My life was unraveling.
"Moving on, the People have petitioned to collect a blood sample from you. There is some reasonable belief that you may have been under the influence of some drug when the events occurred. I have granted their request to further the investigation and have signed a warrant for this to happen. A blood-draw nurse will be waiting in the secure area beyond the courtroom to collect this sample. Officers, if you could allow this to happen before Ms. Disraeli is returned to the facility, I would appreciate it. Let's now address the mandatory protection order." I blinked, wondering where the prosecution would have gotten the idea I had been under the influence at the time of the massacre. Were they blaming my memory-lapse on drugs?
The judge got input from both the district attorney and public defender about the mandatory protection order. I barely paid any attention to the restrictions placed on me with the protection order. None of it mattered anyway; I wasn't about to get alcohol or drugs inside of the facility, nor did I know of any of the victims, so I couldn't really harass them. Still, I signed the document. From there, the parties discussed my bond. Again, I felt that I could have remained in the rubber cell for this discussion. I was a community safety risk. They had me locked up. There was no way a judge would sign off on my release, GPS monitoring or no.
Yet, the judge had to make the formal record. "Furthermore, Ms. Disraeli does not seem to have any family in the area or a permanent home. She has shown she poses a high threat to the public at this time. I am ordering that the defendant continue to be held on a no bond. We will meet back here on June Seventh at nine in the morning for a formal filing of charges."
Amid the flashes of cameras, the officers escorted me to that secure room off the courtroom. They stood by, watchful, as a nurse collected several vials of my blood before wiping my elbow clean and bandaging the area. The officers and nurse were on edge, though they didn't have anything to fear. I was too numb from self-loathing and humiliation to do anything to any of them. From there, I was returned to the suicide watch in the rubber cell. I forfeited all my clothing, and I was left alone with the demons in my mind. I returned to my fetal position, wishing for death's escort.
The rubber cell was in an area of the jail where inmates with behavioral and mental health concerns were being held, I soon realized. From what I had seen entering and leaving the area, there were twenty cells in this specialized unit. Each cell had only one occupant. Two of them took to screaming throughout the night—one of them seemed to have only profanity in his vocabulary. Another inmate specialized in kicking his cell door for hours on end when his demands were not satisfied. Yet another stood at his cell door’s window for long periods of time, creepily staring at the cell across the hall. When the stench of feces met my nose, I learned of yet another inmate: the one who painted with his own waste. I was in the housing block for the deranged, where each of us had our own demons to play with.
My emotional strength waned, and after several days, something broke in me. I was exhausted of waiting for death to steal me away. I could no longer handle the deep, lingering depression and guilt, which were amplified by the incessant screaming and banging coming from the unit’s other occupants. Even sleep—the one way I could escape from this hell I had put myself in—eluded me. I cracked, exploded.
Using whatever strength I had left after starving myself for days, I stood up and faced the glass window. Without restraint, I started to slam my head against the glass. At least two minutes passed before a swarm of officers flew into the cell and restrained me, yanking me away from the window. I was past being cooperative and passive. I was wild, and a couple of times, I was able to pull my limbs away from their control. Initially, they didn't control my head, and I was able to get enough space to slam it against the ground multiple times before one of them grabbed the back of my head and pressed it down. Even though they had me flattened down against the ground, I squirmed, trying to get away from them. A part of me hoped that they would just kill me themselves. However, instead, they strapped me into the restraint chair, with my arms, legs, and hips secured to it, for hours until exhaustion convinced me to become cooperative again.
The chair forced me to be still and aware. There was no other outlet for my mind, and it was there where I became conniving. It would be impossible for me to tear apart the blanket and gown to create a noose. The pitiful sack lunches they gave me lacked anything I could use to suffocate myself. However, the inmates who were not on suicide watches got various supplies, supplies that could be useful to accomplish my goal. The first step to accomplishing it became getting out of this chair and off watch.
Having this new goal motivated me, gave me a new purpose. I put on a mask of innocence when the sergeant came to the rubber cell and asked if I would attempt to harm myself. I looked him straight in the eye and softly informed him that I just wanted to sleep. As easy as that, I was removed from the chair, and it was wheeled out of my cell. It was more difficult to get off suicide watch. That took a couple more days of patience. I forced myself to eat the items the jail classified as food and sleep underneath the blanket, aware that the staff was watching me and recording my every move. My performance must have been convincing, because after at least a week in the rubber cell, a psychologist met with me. The questions were standard, what I had expected and planned for. Did I have anything to live for? Did I have any past suicide attempts? Would I tell a staff member if I was suicidal?
An hour after that interview, I was off suicide watch and back in a uniform. I was placed in the medical unit with the jail-issued sheets and blankets. This cell, unlike my first cell, had a camera mounted to the ceiling; my freedom was still restricted. I adjusted my plan accordingly and added in a waiting period. There would come a point of time when the staff member assigned to watch me would become complacent and stop paying attention as closely as he should. He would think it would be safe enough for him to look away to rummage in his lunchbox, check his emails, or run to the bathroom. My opportunities would increase during the graveyard hours, especially when staff had to work into the night after spending the afternoon with their children. That would be when I would strike. Until then, I would behave as a model inmate. I would choke down the bland food and occupy my time with a book or pacing my cell.
The other part of my plan fell into place during the first meeting with my new defense council. The Niccoli and Bryson law firm was private and completely separated from the public defender’s office. They had sent me a letter and requested to represent me. On my hour out of my cell the day after I got the letter, I called the firm and accepted their representation. It was clear to me that they did not expect any payment from me; it had already been taken care of. I suspected Skye and her family were behind the benevolence; after all, she was following her family's heritage and going to Vanderbilt for her law degree.
The day after I made the phone call, two attorneys from the firm met with me. One was Ava Bryson, who was the daughter of one of the firm’s lead attorneys, and the other was Lucas Flanagan. After introductions, they proceeded to review my charges with me, the criminal justice process, my rights as a defendant, and what type of defense they were thinking of putting forth. They were compassionate despite my charges. I think they thought they were offering me some hope in a desperate situation by letting me know that I would not be alone to face these massive charges. I put on a façade of compliance, though I was pleased when they produced the homicide victims' names. Most of the names were a blur, and I was searching for one in particular: Olivia's, my aerial dancing coach. It was a godsend when her name was missing from the list.
After the meeting, I snuck a paper clip back into my cell. I was already committed to leaving this life.
I waited until the end of the week to use the paper clip. I chose the middle of the night and hid underneath my blanket as I used the paper clip to puncture the undersides of my wrists and rip the skin there wide open. It took all the strength I had developed as an aerialist. The damage done, I laid on my mattress, waiting for enough blood to depart my body so that my soul would no longer be trapped.
I got close, so close.
By the time one of the officers realized what I had done, I had lost all control of my body. My mind was no longer connected to it. I was only faintly aware of the rush of officers and nurses into my cell, my blankets and sheets being torn off my body, and pressure being applied to both wrists. The cell lights had been flipped on, and whenever a staff member’s head was not over me, the lights blinded my blurry vision. Paramedics arrived in the cell, making it more crowded. I was limp as they lifted me onto a gurney and rushed me to a hospital.
The hospital was able to reverse my self-inflicted damage.
I was livid over my thwarted attempt.
Once I was released from the hospital, I didn't return to the jail. Ava and Lucas were admitted into the hospital room just before I was transferred to another hospital. "Judge McKenna has ordered a competency evaluation," Ava informed me. She was uncomfortable over the sight of me four-point restrained to the bed. It was in the way she shifted on her feet and how her eyes darted around, unable to maintain my gaze for longer than a couple of seconds at a time. "You’ll be going down to the Colorado Mental Health Institute of Pueblo in a couple of minutes. Until you return or are declared incompetent, your case will be on pause." Ava paused before taking a deep breath. "I can’t imagine what kind of headspace you are in right now. If you need any help, don’t hesitate to reach out, okay? Just don’t give up. Don’t let those demons win, okay? We’ve got this. We’ll talk when you get back; there may be a surprise waiting for you if we can get it approved by my father." Inwardly, I snorted over her compassion and her belief that I would be returning to the jail.
However, the Colorado Mental Health Institute of Pueblo was more severe than the jail in that they didn't give me any more opportunities to attempt suicide. As soon as I arrived, I was provided a paper gown. The lead doctor threatened me with four-point restraints if I even tried to unwrap the bandages. Suffice to say, I did not listen to him. I wasn't even there for a full day before I was attempting to undo all the doctors' work. I was ready for the staff response. I fought them every step of the way and struggled with them as they attempted to restrain me. The struggle escalated. The doctor ordered me to be injected with Haldol. More came when it proved ineffective. When that dose was ineffective, the third injection was ketamine.
That was enough to send me into that blissful unconsciousness I had been desiring ever since SWAT broke down the hotel room door and arrested me.
It was enough to quiet the demons.