I was highly aware of the fact that it would be my last time walking the same path I had been walking for four years when the court services officers had arrived at my cell on August Fifteenth. The day had dawned with sweltering temperatures. I had spent the morning against the cool cement floor to fend against the heat that had overwhelmed the building.

Despite having been convicted of one hundred four counts of first degree murder the previous month, all I felt was relief when my cell door opened. Since I had already been convicted, and was no longer fighting for my freedom, the sophisticated suits were unnecessary at this point. I was restrained in my uniform and the restraints were fully visible to the public; I was back in the more restrictive shackles and body belt. Gone was the smoke and mirrors from my trial.

Not having to change into the courtroom clothes saved us time, and we arrived in the courtroom five minutes before the sentencing was scheduled to start. Compared to how it had been when the jury had given their verdict, the courtroom was more subdued. A minimal amount of the victims and their families sat in the pews. One set wore shirts with one of the victim's faces plastered across it. The media officials lined the back of the courtroom. My attorneys were settled around the defendant's table. They glanced at me with pity in their eyes as I hobbled over to sit with them. They looked defeated.

Judge McKenna entered the courtroom with her black robes swishing around her legs. No one had much of a chance to stand up in her honor before she quickly told the assembly to remain seated. In the weeks since we had all been assembled in the courtroom, she had added blonde highlights to her hair. She sat down in her chair and swiveled it around to face the rest of the room. "We are here today, August Fifteenth, Two Thousand Nineteen, for the sentencing of the defendant, Briara Andralyn Disraeli, case number 15CR6737," the judge announced with no grand displays for the record’s benefit. Her straight-forward response and management of the courtroom was one characteristic I had admired about her. "The defendant has been convicted of one hundred four counts of first-degree murder, three hundred counts of assault, and first-degree arson by a jury of her peers."

Judge McKenna paused. "Before we proceed with the sentencing, I have one question for the defendant." Judge McKenna turned her gaze towards the table where my attorneys and I were seated at. I knew what was coming. "Will the defendant like to inform the court what type of drug she consumed on the day of this ghastly massacre, and what type of weapon she used in order to dispel some of the mystery around the massacre?"

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Ava was sitting next to me and stood up to answer for me. I locked my jaw and stared at the table, wishing I could give a different answer. Yet, when we had met several days ago, Ava had cautioned me against lying. "Your honor, my client still maintains that she lacks any memory of the massacre, including the drug and weapon she allegedly used."

The judge’s lips twitched as her eyes burned with her disappointment. "You should be ashamed of yourself, Ms. Disraeli. You had a chance to help future citizens against being killed in circumstances like yours. You had a chance to show your remorse and assist the common good."

Unwilling to meet her gaze and adverting my gaze, I knew nothing good could come from arguing with the judge in her courtroom. The next time the judge spoke, she addressed the courtroom. "In accordance with the sentencing statutes related to first degree murder, I am sentencing the defendant to life in prison with no possibility of parole."

It was as I had expected.

When I returned to my cell, I started the slow process of cleaning up and packing everything away. I had been diligent about checking to see what property I could bring with me to the Department of Corrections; the jail had the list available on the dayroom kiosk. In my four years occupying the cell, I had accumulated a lot of personal property. There were the letters and pictures Jay and Skye had sent me, hanging on my cell wall. My books and legal materials. The thermal underclothes, snack food, and hygiene products I had eventually purchased with the money deposited in my account. I spent that afternoon sorting through everything and deciding which pieces would go with me to prison, and which I would ultimately have to give to Mousey—if the officers allowed it. I took a shower on my hour out and braided my wet hair.

I thought that the transport would occur that same day, or for security reasons, later in the night. I laid awake through most of the night, anxious for my intercom to buzz and alert me it was time to start this new stage of my life. No such announcement came; I could have just gone to sleep. Nor did it come in the following days. I asked the pod officers about the status of my transport. Their answers were textbook: "It’s classified. Security purposes."

The end of the week arrived, and I was still the occupant of A8.