Epilogue – Jean

“Order!” The gavel banged once and the murmuring of the spectators and gathered reporters slowly diminished to disorganized silence. The jury filed in silently, taking their usual seats.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?”

A heavyset brunette woman rose from the front left seat in the box. She grasped a crumpled slip of paper in her fingers.

“We have, your Honour.”

The bailiff moved forward, accepted the paper, and delivered it smartly to the judge. She read it, nodded once, her expression betraying nothing, then returned the paper to the bailiff, who walked it back to the foreperson.

Sarah sat at the wide defendant’s table, her hands trembling. She hoped she wasn’t ruining the borrowed blue pantsuit with perspiration. Sarah knew she looked stressed and gaunt, unsurprising after weeks of trial arguments involving her freedom and sanity. Erin reached across and held Sarah’s hand, calming the insistent tremors. Erin’s fingers lightly squeezed Sarah’s reassuringly. Weakly, Sarah smiled at her lawyer, but the butterflies chasing around in her stomach refused to depart. Spectators rustled in ghoulish anticipation behind Sarah and the lawyer.

“In the matters of the Crown versus Jean O’Mallory, what say you?”

The heavyset woman remained standing. She drew in a long deep breath and let it out slowly.

“On the charge of conspiracy to commit terrorism, we find the defendant, Jean O’Mallory, not guilty.”

A murmur rippled through the courtroom.

“Order!” The gavel banged again. The murmuring diminished and halted.

The foreperson hesitated before continuing, purposefully not engaging Sarah’s eyes.

“On the charge of accessory to the murder of Patrick Templeton, we find the defendant, Jean O’Mallory, not guilty.”

Louder murmurs.

“Order! I will clear this courtroom!” The murmuring silenced again.

The foreperson cleared her throat and looked around nervously. Sarah forced herself to remain upright in her chair, but she really wanted to lower her head to the table. Her thigh vibrated uncontrollably under the desk, her toes curling in her flats.

“On the charge of first degree murder of Brady Sheffield...” the foreperson intoned. She visibly swallowed. “We find the defendant, Jean O’Mallory ... not guilty.”

The judge let the gallery react for a minute, then slammed the gavel down again. The gallery quieted slowly.

“Get up,” Erin whispered.

Sarah wasn’t sure her legs would hold her, but she forced herself to her feet. Tears welled and spilled in her eyes, rolling across her cheeks.

“The court thanks the jury for their service. This court finds Jean O’Mallory innocent of all charges,” the judge said solemnly. She turned to look directly at Sarah. “You are free to go, my dear.”

For a moment, complete silence filled the court.

It never occurred outside of exuberant movie sets, but it happened in the courtroom that day.

At first, only one person from the gallery stood: Rebecca. She began to clap, the sound of her hands echoing through the silence. Then Janet. Then Uma. Then Hua. Then the rest of the gallery was on their feet, the applause thundering through the air. Erin looked startled, then began to clap herself.

Tears poured down Sarah’s cheeks, falling unheeded onto her borrowed blouse. She slowly turned, all the spectators, even the reporters, all clapping, a blur through the river of moisture leaking from her eyes. The judge made no further attempt to maintain order. A faint smile graced her lips.

Suddenly Rebecca was embracing Sarah, separated by the courtroom barriers, but crushing her so she could barely breathe. Beside Rebecca, Janet smiled and clapped. Behind them Uma waved and banged her hands together. Hua, Susan, Patricia, Leslie, Stephanie, Chloe, and others from the compound all smiled with the same relief infusing Sarah. Behind the Blessed Shelter women, Geeky Phil stood clapping and waving, joy and relief flooding his features. Beside Geeky Phil, Claire, Kara and Keith stood. Behind Geeky Phil, two paramedics in uniform stood, a brunette sporting a loose ponytail, her name tag read Beth, and a solidly built male, Oswald, who might have been an ambulance driver. Behind the paramedics, two blondes stood clapping fiercely, one in police uniform, her uniform tag read Eddie, the other unnamed blonde a little older, stress marks wrinkling the corners of her eyes. Various other spectators, some familiar, some in uniform, some neither, filled in the gallery. At the back of the courtroom, Sarah thought she even saw a brown fedora.

The applause had not faded when Erin gently touched Sarah’s shoulder. Sarah reluctantly disengaged from Rebecca.

“We better get you out of here,” Erin whispered into her ear. “The reporters will eat you alive. We can leave by the back.” She picked up her cellphone and began speaking rapidly into it while guiding Sarah from the courtroom via the side exit.

It was a long time before Sarah’s tears began to ebb.

On Erin’s advice, Sarah wore a Blue Jays baseball cap pulled down low over her eyes, a loose ponytail through the strap, an old April Wine concert T, ripped, distressed denim jeans, and All Stars on her feet. Her nerves played havoc with her body as she sat crosslegged on the floor, a new Tim Horton’s cup sitting by her left knee. Commuters flowed past largely ignoring her. This seemed like home to Sarah, familiar and comforting. She hadn’t seen Louis, wasn’t even sure that the man still worked in the station.

She bent her head, concentrating on the sketchbook lying open on her lap. Drops of red, the colour of rust, dotted some of the pages, including the cover. She tried not to think about the source, she didn’t even know whose blood it was, but she couldn’t bring herself to try and erase it from the pages either. This was a part of her, now, as indelible as the brand still adorning her skin below her left breast under her clothing. Her fingers pushed the pencil across the page, an image of a lost girl wearing a baseball cap sitting in the train station beginning to form on the blank page. The girl bore no resemblance to Sarah, but there was no doubt as to the identity of the figure in the drawing.

This is where Brady had found her, his Jesus features radiating peace and love. It was difficult for her to reconcile the image in her memory with the man she had killed. It wasn’t possible for her to separate the two, but she allowed herself a faint smile at the memory of their first meeting, regardless of the horror of their last.

Familiar footsteps approached. Sarah looked up. Fedora stood unsteadily in front of her small patch of floor looking down at her. He seemed unsurprised to see her there, though she had not been present in the station for the better part of two and a half years. He wore the same tie-dyed shirt and carried the same battered briefcase, but his face looked a little more lined. In his other hand, he carried a physical book, Robert A. Heinlein emblazoned on its spine. He crouched slowly and painfully. Sarah watched without offering assistance; he carried too much pride to accept any help. Some things never change.

“It’s been a long time, Jean O’Mallory,” Fedora said, his voice kind and gentle. No recriminations. “Also known as Sarah.”

She still preferred Sarah. Jean died a long time ago.

She considered what to say. Fedora waited patiently.

“I talked to a stranger,” she replied softly. She’d ignored his advice long ago, and dearly paid the price.

“You shouldn’t,” he said solemnly. She was talking now to a stranger, didn’t even know his name, yet he was far from a stranger, she supposed. Fedora was the only reason she was sitting here waiting and drawing.

“I’ve missed you, old man,” she said, setting aside the sketchbook, pushing herself to her feet. She swayed a little. Recovery was a long process.

She watched as Fedora struggled upwards, his knees creaking. He smiled kindly at her.

“I guess I won’t be seeing much of you, kid,” he said. There was genuine sadness in his eyes.

She shook her head. “Maybe I’ll come back and visit sometime.”

“I’d like that,” Fedora said with a nod. “I’m happy for you.”

“I have a long way to go,” she murmured.

Fedora nodded. “We all do. One step at a time. You’ve taken your fair share of steps, I think.”

She nodded, fighting tears. She’d cried enough, she thought.

She was not a hugger. Regardless, Sarah embraced Fedora, crushing his ribs. It was a moment before his arms encircled her, but they did. They stood like that a long time, a river of humanity passing around them.

“Is it Jean, or Sarah?” he asked in her ear.

“Sarah,” she whispered back. “Jean left a long time ago.”

She felt him nod. They separated.

He bent and dropped a loonie in her cup. It lay there lonely, shining like a beacon.

“I don’t...” need loonies anymore.

“Shhh. You keep it,” Fedora said. “Come back again and visit, Sarah, I’ll be watching for you.”

With that, the old man turned slowly and faded into the river of humanity of the station, his briefcase swinging merrily in his left hand.

One tear tracked down Sarah’s cheek. “I will, Fedora. I will,” she whispered. But he was gone, faded away like a ghost of her past.

She bent, picked up the cup and shook the dollar coin into her palm. It carried an unexpected warmth. Purposefully, she pushed the coin into the pocket of her jeans. Comfortingly, it lay next to her thigh. She imagined the warmth seeping into her skin through the fabric of the pocket.

Slowly, she settled back to the floor, crossing her legs. She wiped the tear from her cheek and closed her eyes, breathing in deeply. She picked up the sketchbook and pencil, opening the book to the partial drawing of the girl sitting in the station with a sketchbook. She could finish the drawing from memory.

Flipping the page to a blank canvas, she brushed the paper with the side of her hand and began to draw.

Sarah sat crosslegged in the grass. Errant sunbeams peeked through high clouds, warming her skin and casting short shadows around her. The dark marble marker lay embedded amongst tall grass and wispy dandelions. She pushed the grass and seeding dandelions aside, allowing her fingers to trace the engraved grooves upon its weathered surface. Both of the markers to the left and right had recent flowers placed there, but the marker ahead of her seemed lonely, unkempt and abandoned. She’d never visited here, and she suspected nobody had been here since it was placed long ago.

David O’MalloryHusband. Father.

And two dates. Far too young.

“It’s Jean. I’m here, Dad,” she whispered. She had no functional memory of the man: she’d been only four years old when he’d passed. She didn’t quite know what else to say, or even why she’d risked coming here. The baseball cap and rough clothing would only keep her anonymity for so long, and she was surprised that any grave with the O’Mallory name wasn’t under constant surveillance from the press. It seemed that the sharks had missed this connection, perhaps due to her age when David had passed, and for that she was grateful.

It had only been a week since the verdict, and apparently it was a slow news week. Of course, sex and drugs sells, and the lurid details of the sex cult hidden in the woods had been splashed across the tabloids for much longer than that, along with her picture and name in big bold letters. However, headlines featuring the slim blonde street girl who had survived the drugs and literally gotten away with murdering the cult leader had dominated the headlines all week. They hadn’t stumbled onto the initiation practices yet, but it was only a matter of time. Her brand tingled under her shirt.