The Practitioner
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 19: What Do We Do?
The drive felt heavier than usual, the air thick with unspoken words and thoughts, neither of us seemed ready to voice. I glanced over at Isla, her eyes staring out the window.
“We’ll be there soon,” I told her, my voice a little too bright, like I could somehow mask the tension that had settled between us.
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she shifted in her seat, the hem of the borrowed maxi dress, the one Becca had lent her just yesterday, slightly swaying above her ankles. The soft fabric snugly draped over her figure in a way that seemed almost innocent—until you noticed the restraints. The cuffs, close-fitting and cold against her skin, were a stark contrast to the dress’s delicate flow. And yet, somehow, it all worked. The Sheer Energy hose and the four-inch nude heels—again, Becca’s—felt like an odd but perfect pairing. The heels elevated her, both literally and figuratively, adding a layer of confidence she wasn’t ready to admit. And the jean jacket Isla had thrown on over the dress? It tied everything together.
She looked beautiful, almost ethereal, caught between innocence and something deeper. Something more complex.
It was as though Becca had known exactly what would look right with restraints.
Isla’s hands moved restlessly in her lap, her fingers playing with the connecting chain. She was trying to hide it, trying to make it look like it didn’t bother her. But I knew better.
I wasn’t happy about the meeting either. But there was one thing I was hoping for. That she’d be free of the restraints—or at least no longer required to wear them in public, when we’re around others.
But then, like a weight crashing into the moment, she asked, “You think they’ll take these?”
I looked over at her. Her voice had softened, almost tentative, like she wasn’t sure if she should ask the question at all. I could hear the hesitation in her tone, like she was already bracing for the answer she didn’t want to hear.
“If they tell me I don’t have to wear these anymore...” she said, then paused, her voice trailing off as if she wasn’t quite sure what she was hoping for. “Do you think they’ll want them back? And the bag ... with all the other restraints?”
I paused, my eyes back on the road. It was a simple question, but I knew it was much more complicated.
“I don’t know,” I replied at last, the words landing heavier than I intended. And the truth was—I didn’t.
Would they want it all back? Just the cuffs she was wearing? Or the whole bag? Did they even know it existed? I mean, did they know one of Sheriff Collins’ deputies came to pick it up later that day? And had pulled together extra items? Was there a record of it?
I really didn’t know.
Officer Clair had made it sound like the prison system probably didn’t even realize those old restraints were still around.
Isla didn’t say anything for a while, but I could feel the question hanging in the air, pressing down on us.
“Isn’t that why you brought the bag, with all the restraints?” she asked after a moment, her voice quiet.
I glanced at her again, catching the look in her eyes.
“Yeah,” I said, finally admitting the truth. “If they tell us you don’t have to wear them anymore, and they want everything back, I didn’t want to have to come back with the restraints ... or have those investigators showing up at our new place.”
She nodded slowly, like she understood what I was getting at, but there was sadness in her eyes that made my heart twist.
“Yeah,” she replied softly. “I guess you’re right.”
I swallowed hard, watching her closely. She was quieter than usual, her lips pressed together, like she was turning something over in her mind. But it was all there on her face—unspoken, yet unmistakable. The truth she wasn’t ready to admit.
I pulled into a parking spot and looked over at her. “We’ll keep the bag in the trunk. And we’ll see if they ask for them. Okay?”
She nodded quietly.
“We’d still have a duplicate set,” I said, my voice low—more an observation than a question. “And I don’t think you’d really notice the chain handcuffs with the lockbox. I mean, once it’s on and resting against your waist ... it’d just be the leg cuffs.”
I glanced down at her ankles. “We’d lose those. But you said the shorter ones felt less awkward, at least in heels.”
Isla’s eyes snapped to mine, wide and startled, as though I had caught her in the act of something she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. Her lips parted, and for a second, she looked like she might say something—anything—to deny it. But nothing came. Instead, she pressed her lips together and looked away again, her fingers curling tighter around the connecting chain.
I reached over and kissed her on the cheek before getting out, stopping by the trunk as I walked around to the passenger side.
I helped her out, then bent down to remove the leg cuffs, replacing them with the shorter, larger-sized ones I pulled from the bag. I then placed the ones she’d been wearing back into the bag.
“There,” I said. “You’ll have to hobble, but if they take them, they’ll take the larger short-chained ones. You seemed to do better in the longer ones when you’re in boots.”
She smiled but didn’t say anything—just nodded.
We walked into the visitor center, just like we’d been told to. The sterile, florescent-lit space seemed louder today, more crowded than usual. A few eyes glanced up as we entered, and I could feel the weight of their stares on Isla—those cold metal cuffs were hard to ignore.
Every step Isla took in that borrowed maxi dress and heels seemed to draw attention—not the kind any of us wanted. You could see it in the way people glanced away, their curiosity thinly masked by discomfort. There were whispers, hushed voices, the occasional awkward shuffle of feet.
Isla, though, kept her head straight. I knew it bothered her—but at the same time, it somehow didn’t.
Investigator Daniels was already there, waiting for us. His demeanor was sharp, impatient, as though he had somewhere to be, somewhere more private. He nodded curtly at us before leading us to the same door that Officer Claire had ushered us through last week. But once we crossed, he veered off in a different direction, his steps quick, like he couldn’t quite escape the buzz of the visitor center fast enough.
I glanced at Daniels as he slowed, stopping at a small conference room and ushering us inside. He closed the door behind us, then asked if we wanted anything to drink. Investigator Halvorsen was already seated, a folder in front of her. We politely declined and sat across from them. She opened the folder and calmly informed us the discussion would be recorded.
She began asking questions, mostly about what had happened, but there was a clear focus. It was obvious they were interested in the events within the prison. Their questions centered on what we had seen and our interactions with Officer Claire and the other guards.
“How did you first come into contact with the DOCCS and the officers involved?”
“What information was asked of you when you checked into the visitor center?”
“What did...” She looked at her notes, “Officer Claire say to you regarding entering you into the system? What information did she ask from you? How exactly did she enter you into the system?”
“What happened during the tour? Were doors locked behind you?”
“Can you tell us the names, or provide descriptions of the officers/staff you encountered?”
We exchanged a glance before answering. There was no need to get into the details—at least not yet.
“I had been there teaching a CPR class,” I began, my voice steady. “Officer Claire, after finding out Isla was an actor, offered to give us a set of prisoner restraints.”
I paused, and Isla shifted slightly beside me, her hands resting in her lap, the cuffs clicking lightly.
“She showed us a few places in the prison, and yes, the doors were locked behind us.” I glanced at Isla again.
“And Officer Claire was the only one we really interacted with,” I continued. “We met a few other officers, but I couldn’t tell you their names or really describe them.”
The silence stretched for a moment, but neither of us felt compelled to add anything else. There was a knock at the door, and an officer stepped inside and whispered something to Daniels and then left.
He raised his eyebrows, glancing toward the door. “It seems your attorney is here,” he informed us. “You didn’t tell us you’d be bringing an attorney.”
A moment later, the officer returned, escorting an older man—probably in his early sixties. His hair was mostly white, with streaks of grey running through it, and a salt-and-pepper beard framed his weathered face. He wore a dark tan suit, polished but unassuming.
“I’m Jeffrey Sims,” he said, his voice calm and authoritative. “I’m representing Isla Kumar and Noah Westfield.”
Sims carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who’d been through a lot of legal battles. He didn’t explicitly say it, but his presence screamed civil rights lawyer—someone who was used to challenging the system.
He took a seat, his gaze steady and unwavering as he faced the investigators. “I’ve been retained to represent my clients in a potential civil rights violation matter, involving both the New York Department of Corrections and the police department at Blackridge University,” he said, his voice calm but firm.
His tone was even, but there was an unmistakable edge to it, the kind that comes with someone who’s been in the trenches for years. It wasn’t a threat—it didn’t need to be. It was the calm assertion of a lawyer who knew exactly what he was up against.
“Ms. Kumar’s current status in restraints is the result of an administrative error. She was incorrectly entered into the system as an inmate after an officer, without proper authority, processed her as part of an internal tour.” Sims explained. “The records show her as a high-risk prisoner, which is both inaccurate and unjust.”
He looked directly at the investigators. “She has no legal standing as an inmate, and continuing to enforce this status based on a system error constitutes unlawful treatment.”
He paused briefly, making sure his words landed. “What steps are being taken to rectify this error?”
Halvorsen exchanged a glance with her colleague before responding, her tone clinical.
“We’re aware of the administrative matter,” she said, her voice professional but detached. “However, our primary concern right now is the events that took place inside the prison. Ms. Kumar’s legal status is not the focus of our investigation at this time.”
Daniels leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on Isla and Sims.
“That said, we’re still trying to understand what happened during your visit,” he added. “We’re trying to understand exactly how you were entered into the system ... and the information asked of you.”
And there it was. We weren’t here to fix Isla’s record. That was an ‘administrative matter’, not the investigators’ concern. They were focused on gathering any information they could from us to further their investigation.
Sims paused, taking in the room’s mood before responding, his tone calm but unwavering.
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