She writes my pain down on a piece of paper. The sum of my misery scribbled across the stark back of a grocery list. There is no hesitation or thought as she writes. With a swift flourish of thoughtlessness she is finished. She folds her note and slides it toward me, the used car salesman of psychics. My hand reaches across the table, hesitant and then ravenous. I rip the note open, my fingers two ravenous monsters lustful for their query. She gazes at my greed and I notice a question flicker...

“You won’t get away with this,” she spat. Her chest constricting her lungs to the point of breathlessness, a corset constructed from her own flesh. Judge Maddox’s eyes, two tiny black beads, flickered but gave away nothing. His face was smooth and stoic as it always was. His years on the bench had helped him perfect a stare of blank bemusement. He gave nothing away. No turn of the chin. No crease in his brow. His lips never moved. His eyes rarely darted. Joy, nor anguish, nor furry could move...