she's so high above you (and everyone else)

[Georges Couthon]

Multitasking was something that Lynn O'Brien had gotten good at in law school: attempting to write papers, study for exams, work a paid internship and, of course, keep up with her active "social" life all at the same time had sort of gotten her into the habit, and now she just continued to do it with her job. Balancing court, appointments, clients, dealing with evidence (and, unfortunately, the detectives that went with them), and her own personal things that needed to get done.

Which was why she was currently on a cell phone while bustling into city hall, not bothering to say excuse me to the few suited men she bumped into- most of them were other lawyers. They knew who she was, and they knew not to get in her way or she'd, most likely, castrate them in their next court case (figuratively, of course- she wasn't into all that blood and gore in real life).

"Ben, I don't care if they don't want to speak with me, darling." She purred into the phone- at least, it sounded like a purr. It was what Lynn's voice sounded like normally- like a seductive, throaty, husky bedroom voice that seemed more appropriate for a sex hotline than a courtroom- not that many people minded. It was something that went along with the whole 'being able to influence people with your voice' thing. "Just put the man on the phone, Benny. I'll take care of it."

A moment later, she was met with another voice: one that sounded rather staunch and stubborn.

"Miss O'Brien, I'm afraid I can't authorize-"

"Listen, Mr. Maverti, I'm sure you doing a fantastic job at keeping the evidence logs. I just need a little favor, okay? I know you're not supposed to give out evidence in others' names, but..." Giving the man an exaggerated sigh, she turned on her rather pouty, distressed voice. "If I don't get this evidence today, I don't know what I'll do! I'll lose my case, and we wouldn't want that, now would we, baby?"

"Er, no..." The man on the other line stammered. "But-"

"So could you please check out the evidence to my assistant? I'd really, really owe you, you know... So could you do it? For me?"

There was a long pause on the man's end, and then:

"Of course. Right away, Ms. O'Brien."

Clicking her phone shut, she grinned to herself. Things were just so easy for her sometimes- it was a great feeling. Hell, she deserved it. She represented the underdogs and won. And everyone loved an underdog story, she'd heard. After all, who wouldn't be touched by the story of an accused bank robber who killed two people going free?

All right, maybe not. Still, she was important to this city, to both sides. She made sure the prisons didn't overflow, and made sure the detectives and the police force had enough work. As she listened to her three inch black pumps clicking down the marble hallway towards the courtroom, Lynn pondered what she was going to do to celebrate the victory she would inevitably have today.

Yes, she was that important in her own mind.

Just before reaching her designated courtroom, she hooked a quick right into the restroom to check the mirror. Not that it mattered much, but she hated looking unprofessional- needless to say she looked just as professional as always today. Her hair was tugged back into a french twist, with a few tendrils escaping around her face. Making sure that the top few buttons of her black satin blouse were unbuttoned and straightening her black jacket, she appraised her appearance. Everything seemed in place, except- ah, lipstick. That's what she'd forgotten. Smoothing on a shade of light pink (lipstick, for her, was as much of a fashion accessory as shoes), she slipped the ornate tube back into her purse and headed towards the courtroom.

"You're late," the judge observed when she walked in, striding with a confidence that didn't seem to match her tiny frame.

"I know," she responded genially. "You'll forgive me, right?"

"Of course," the judge replied automatically. She was usually late- he'd been manipulated enough times to immediately give in to her demands. Too bad, she lamented, he was an ugly old guy. After a moment of shuffling with her briefcase, she sat down next to her client (a sadist charged with raping and killing three women), crossing her satin-clad legs rather chastely as her wide eyes scanned the room.

What idiots was she going to have to cross examine as "witnesses for the prosecution" today? Another imbecile detective or cop? Or maybe some "great expert" scientist of evidence, or an eyewitness. All of them, she was sure, would succumb to her little bit of charm- and so would the jury.

Her reasoning behind defending such a horrid criminal was this- she got extra money for her amazing underdog wins, first of all, which meant she could buy more things she needed, like lipstick or perhaps a new car. Secondly, it usually happened that the criminals were exceedingly grateful to her help- which lowered her risk of getting raped or murdered. As long as it wasn't her under the knife (so to speak), it wasn't her problem.

The only problems she had were her own and, rarely, her clients' (what problems they had that couldn't be fixed with a word or two). In other words:

Sun, center of the universe, thy name is Lynn O'Brien.

[Philippe Le Bas]

The multi-colored hair and glimpses of tattooed flesh were not a common sight in the stuffy courtroom, but that did not mean respect was withheld from the nineteen-year-old art student and gopher of Dr. Bates.

No, if anything there was a higher level of respect for the woman that had to deal with the emotional, fact-driven pathologist – who was currently NOT present for this hearing.

She should be, but another body had called and since Nadya was the voice of Hecate [and the forensic artist assigned to the case] she would present both the findings of the pathologist and her own testimony.

And her word was not one to be taken lightly.
Nadya Frue had her fair share of doubters.
And who wouldn’t. The Russian Albino had ties to the mob; in fact, much of her money went to supporting her father’s men [hoping to keep them out of trouble.]

Nevertheless, today she was here to speak for an eyewitness, to show a life-like sketch of the accused man.
To show the hand-sculpted busts of the three victims.

As the one known as Lynn O’Brien entered the courtroom she became aware that they were going to begin shortly. Slender fingers moved to the sunglasses at her side, carefully placing them over the black eyes of the Nix.

It may be the only non-albino feature of her…but that did not mean her eyes were safe –let alone her skin—from the harmful rays she had learned to avoid as a child.

Fingers pulled the arms of her long black dress, moving to the silver circular pendant that hung from a black piece of rope.
As the pale fingers brushed passed the image of the brook horse she felt the water lapping at her feet, much like it had done this morning.

Granted, it could also be the fact that she had ran here from her swim [well, more like hobbled after a mile, her knees were horrible] and the bottom of her dress was still damp, as well as the black and blue hair that was starting to frizz slightly

Compared to those in the audience – and those actually speaking—she was the most unprofessional one there [dress wise].
Did that matter to her?

No.
Nadya was working for Hecate as a Forensic Artist; this meant she had to testify in court.
If the jury could not feel like she was just a regular person [and she was, she just listened to people who suffered traumatic experience] then she would lose them the moment she spoke.

No, she would let her art do the talking for her.
Yes, that is right.
All the sketches of the crime scene, all the maps of where evidence had been found and documented, everything had been done by her; every little detail had been stressed, every little bump in the paper had been meticulously shaded or colored.

Her art was truly something close to a prodigy.

Eyes lifted as the Bailiff begin to speak to her. ‘Miss Frue, we are going to be opening the blinds now. Are you okay?’ Yes, they had rules to abide by.
One was: ‘DON’T piss of the daughter of a Mob Boss.’
The other was: ‘Treat the ‘disabled’ with respect.’

That meant telling the artist when the blinds would have to be opened for the trial, as if sunshine would make everything more pleasant, everything less ‘real’.

‘Yes, you may proceed.’
Granted, she was not completely ready, she did not have her hands in gloves but at this point she was not concerned. She had been offered a chair in the shadows where she would wait before she was called to the stand.

Sit, Wait, and Listen.
Then speak.

That order, everyday.

[Georges Couthon]

Lynn paid no mind to the art student, though she heard what the bailiff said. Oh, goodie. It gave her just a little more of a challenge- her voice, obviously, didn't work on the deaf. It was one of those things- a siren's voice had to be actually heard to have any effectiveness. To Lynn, working with Nadya was a test of her own abilities to manipulate and twist words without the added aid- something she didn't get to do that often.

Still. There was the waiting game while the prosecution gave their little opening speech, which Lynn listened to and had to fight scoffing at. The poor little lawyer from the DA's office actually thought he was going to win this one- how cute. She had to admit, her "client" had impressed her with the amount of meticulous cleaning he'd done.

"Ladies and gentleman of the jury," the other lawyer began, causing Lynn to roll her eyes discreetly. Really, why bother with such formalities? It took up so much time. She listened as the man droned on and on about how they'd present evidence and such- basically saying everything obvious that didn't need to be said. It was a terribly dull way to play the game, Lynn thought. She liked her way better.

When it was her turn to speak, she got out of her chair quietly, stepping over her briefcase with a high step and perhaps showing just a little bit of leg to the jury- it was amazing how shallow humans could be: sometimes she didn't even need to use her voice. "Well then. I congratulate Mr. Rourke on a thrilling opening statement, and I assure you mine will be much shorter." She addressed the jury conversationally, as if they were her old friends- friendliness, even if it was forced, was key to winning over the more strong-willed women in the jury that didn't easily succumb to her little charms. "I assure you, since I value both a fair trial /and/ your time, mine will be much shorter."

"Look at the man you have put on the chopping block, my friends," she began. "He is quiet, unassuming, a good neighbor." This was true- her client was a man in his late forties with thinning brown hair, a bit of a pot belly, and who insisted on wearing hideous argyle sweatervests (Lynn had half a mind to give up the case just so she wouldn't have to look at his heinous attire). "His friends say he is a kind man, a gentleman- one who holds doors for women at the supermarket. I think you will find that any evidence put on the stand today is circumstantial and not enough to convict a polite, kind and loving-" more like cold and calculating, she added silently- "man like this to a lifetime of prison, where he very apparently won't survive-"

"Miss O'Brien, stick to the topic, please." The judge intervened.

"Pardon me," She shot back with mock-contrition, much like when she had entered the courtroom. "I don't mean to be too personable. Anyway, as I was saying- do you really want to convict this guy- a good person who helps his fellow man- to be beaten and tortured by other inmates that really deserve to be there, all on circumstantial evidence?"

Good. She was already getting some head-shakes from the male part of the jury. This one was in the bag.

[Louis de Saint-Just]

There was more than one Russian in the courtroom that day. Alexei Rashev was his name, and so far this day, getting a headache was his game.

He had woken up, done the usual morning things (like climbing out from under his bed, petting his raccoon, and brushing his teeth), and had then dressed in the horribly boring and smothering suit.

It fit him well, as was certainly his right, since he only had two.
This was his black one that he was wearing: it matched the black sound-cancelling headphones, which he was trying desperately not to press farther onto his head.

He had in earplugs, and he had coverings over his ears, and he was wearing his headphones. But everytime the woman opened her mouth to speak, Alexei flinched. Her voice bored into his brain, making his eyes squint up, and his hands twitch on his lap, where they were holding one another. The officer next to him, Officer Ross, had warned him about the woman's voice.

And yet all of the protection he was using was just not enough. Her voice released inhibitions, and that in turn made him lose his grasp on keeping his hearing at an acceptable level, which therefore made him hear everything despite his headphones. He itched to leave, but the Chief had told him that he had to attend at least one hearing, even if it was the scary lady of inner-ear bleeding.

Alexei was supposed to go up to testify, or something of the sort, but he wasn't quite sure he could take the noise any longer.

As the woman turned around, spraying her voice waves all about the room, Alexei took in a deep breath, and closed his eyes. If he wasn't looking at her, maybe he would be able to calm down enough to secure his ear control once more. There were so many people so close to him, all breathing, and hearts beating, and feet shuffling, there was a cough, and he was nearly blown forward before the lady decided to speak again, asking pardon from the judges, and Alexei clapped his hands over his headphones.

Luckily, by that time, he had doubled over in pain, and Ross was looking nervous, and almost sweaty.

Of course, he didn't know what to do with a person whom he couldn't touch.
He didn't want to make a scene, but he didn't want to leave his comerade in pain.
And besides. The laywer was speaking again.
He wanted to listen to her.
And also he wanted to touch her hair.

[Philippe Le Bas]

Nadya was happy in her bubble. The female lawyer spoke clearly and moved her lips gently.
It was easy for her to read the silent lips and she was not forced to endure the ‘power’ that she would soon weave over those that were not blessed with deafness.

Not that Nadya was unimpressed.
Oh, she was far from that.
She was enchanted by the way the words fell off her lips –the few that she could hear, at least.

If speech was human, Miss O’Brien was the embodiment of it.
At least in her eyes.

Fingers fell onto her knee as her foot silently tapped out the vowels that she no longer heard these days.
Even if she couldn’t hear it felt as if she was once again a child who would play in the safety of the home and listen to her mother read her fairytales.

But, the watching was short lived when sharp eyes caught the movement that signified that a person was in pain.
Universal.
ASL and English.
It all meant the same.

Eyes lifted to the judge and she scooted the two seats over that brought her almost directly next to the pained man.
Sadly, it did put her in direct sunlight, already she could feel her non-pigmented skin begin to burn…but that did not matter.

Fingers lifted to her forehead as she began her signed sentence.
‘Sir, Sir, are you okay?’

She got some looks from the people who didn’t understand what she was saying and so gently she rested her hand on the Russian’s shoulder.

It was innocent, it was a way to get his attention without making noise.
She knew about this man, the moment he had stepped in the courtroom with his multitude of ear protection.

Alexei Rashev.

‘Sir.’
Nadya spoke.
One thing people should know about Nadya and speaking, it is very easy to understand her. She was lucky enough to be able to keep voice control with her.
Perhaps it was the fact that she had been born hearing, went deaf.

‘Sir’
She spoke again, a whisper to the others and soft fingers went up to his ears, hoping to help block some of the noise.

She knew the problem.
The woman’s voice; the one she thought spoke like an angel was causing this man horrible pain.

That was a twist.

[Georges Couthon]

If there was one thing Lynn didn't like, it was being interrupted. And since the jury was currently looking at the man who had doubled over, she immediately stopped whatever she'd been saying. She wasn't completely heartless- it'd look bad on her. And Rourke seemed to be conveniently ignoring it, so any chance to make her opponent look bad...

"Could you hold on a moment, your honor?" She asked, not putting much implication behind it. "It seems one of the witnesses for the prosecution is ill." However, she didn't know who he was (or that he was sensitive of hearing) and she immediately took up the "caring, motherly" act she'd perfected over the years as a way to manipulate people. It was a lot easier to get things, to paraphrase some American mobster, with a kind word and a gun than just a gun alone. Or something like that.

"Are you all right, sir?" She asked quietly, glancing over at the woman who had first drawn her attention to the problem- Nadya. Lynn had seen her before, at previous trials. It was almost a pity, really, all the work she put into that art- something she appreciated. Lynn was always one for the finer things. Plus- as she'd mentioned before, Nadya was a challenge. The lawyer couldn't use her power of implication on her.

With a quick glance to the judge, she stated, almost offhandedly: "Movement to adjourn until the next possible court date, your honor."

"Objection!" Rourke boomed in a voice that even made Lynn wince at the volume, and immediately the judge banged on his gavel.

"You will control your voice, Mr. Rourke, or I will hold you in contempt of court. This court is adjourned until the next possible date," the judge responded.

[Louis Capet]

There simply had to be an inspector in the courtroom at any given trial in order to top off the typical, clichéd layout of the trial. It normally helped if the detective had a gravelly voice with a New York accent, smoked a cigarette and wore a long coat and a hat, but the detective today spoke with a clear voice and an impeccably British accent, wore a crisp, pinstriped grey suit and had signed several petitions to ban smoking altogether. Yes, Jason Meade sat there in the courtroom, watching the female lawyer with an unfalteringly deadpan gaze and waiting for something vaguely interesting to happen.

Then he tasted it. Someone was experiencing pain, and he could faintly taste it in the air-sort of a mix between wet nappies and metallic objects with a hint of lemon. He grimaced and reached for his pocket to pull out a mint imperial, which he promptly placed in his mouth in an attempt to cancel out the emotion that was quietly attacking his taste buds. He turned his head to his left, wondering who it was who was feeling such pain and what was causing them to hurt so.

Upon seeing the officer bent double over his knees, he used his amazing powers of deduction that had landed him his job and came to the conclusion that it was him whose feelings tasted of diapers and knives. Had he been stabbed, or shot, or was he experiencing a migraine? Was there some unknown assassin with a sniper rifle who had fired a bullet into his chest? No, as far as Jason could see there was no blood or gore, meaning it couldn’t have possibly been a wound. Perhaps he had a hernia. That was a lovely thought.

Hearing the lawyer request for the courtroom to be adjourned, he rolled his eyes and sighed quietly. That had been a waste of a car journey, then. And what’s more, it would mean he’d have to free up another date to attend the trial.

Brilliant, he thought dryly, Simply brilliant.

Although Jason’s main concerns over this little happening were to do with the inconvenience it caused him, he was not totally heartless, and so had no intention of just leaving the poor man keeled over like this. He leaned over to where the lawyer, the officer and another woman stood and reached into his ever-ready pocket in order to find something that might help the situation.

Seeing as the man seemed in no fit state to communicate, he leaned over to the woman who was accompanying him who seemed to have her fingers pressed over his ears and tapped her gently on the shoulder.

“Would you like me to call an ambulance?” he said softly with a nod towards the officer, holding his phone up and raising his eyebrows. He was here, after all, and he had a phone, so there was no reason why he couldn’t make himself useful. Besides, the sooner the fiasco was sorted, the sooner he could move on to whatever he had planned next. Which was, in actual fact, bugger all.

Although, the more he thought about, the less understandable his complaining became. He had, after all, wished for something interesting to happen in the courtroom, and this was certainly interesting.

[Louis de Saint-Just]

Alexei felt almost as if he were floating above himself on this terribly dreadful day. He could feel the voices drilling into his ear, and as he attempted to control them, he decided to see if he could take a float around the room. He had no such luck, however, as someone decided to touch him, thereby increasing the noises of their own god-damned heartbeats. And worse yet, they were touching his ears. Not directly, of course, but the headphones didn't seem to be doing much, really.

The party was getting lovelier still, and he decided to make his body give a nice little whimper, to see if that would make the humans flinch away in terror. Of course, whimpering was hardly something that would cause fear in these callous beings. There was something causing more fear in him, however, and that was the ferocious warrior layer approaching him, still wielding her voice.

The disturbance of the whole event must have caused Officer Ross to snap to his senses, and the man stood up, instinctively placing one hand over where his gun would be sitting. They were already touching him, and the siren woman seemed to be somewhat quiet, so he decided to put Alexei out of his misery.

For an occasion such as this, he cleared his throat, and pointed to the detective. It was Jackal Maude, or Johnson Meat or something of the sort, so he decided not to use a name. "No ambulance. Too loud. Give him space."

Talking in front of people was not one of Ross's strong points, but he managed to look fierce and commanding while he disjointedly put together some sort of sentence structure. He failed miserably at that, of course, and switched his expression to one of seriousness. Yes, yes, that would show them.

[Philippe Le Bas]

The artist had pulled her hands as sensitive fingers felt a pained noise move through the huddled body.
But instead of leaving him alone she tapped him on the shoulder and attempted to catch his gaze with her eyes.

Granted, it was easier said then done when dealing with a man who has super-sensitive hearing; and you are deaf.
And she had a strong feeling no one ever taught him sign language, making the job ten times more difficult.

When she managed to catch his eyes for a split second, she began to sign quickly and silently.

‘Ears hurt, Yes?’

The simple sentence structure appeared on her lips as they moved in the normal patterns to produce the above sentence, but nothing more than a breath escaped.
She was praying he could understand lip-reading.

Hey, the man lived in a bubble of noise; even with a massive amount of ear protection, he must have evolved some ways of compensating.
Granted, she was talking about a man who was in the fetal position and was whimpering because everyone was talking.

Oh, how she envied him in a way.

Eyes lifted to the others and she caught the last part of the word ‘ambulance.’
Oh, just what they need.
Flashing lights and sirens.

But, before her voice could be used to utter a simple ‘no’, the man who seemed to be in charge of the police officer spoke up.

Oh dear, she was getting whiplash.
Half the words she was missing due to having to turn her head to fast, and the odd angles that everyone was standing at made it difficult to see them all in one line –thus decreasing the correctness of her guesses.

Yes, Nadya guessed much of the time when it came to lip-reading.

‘Everyone needs to move away.’ Even she began to move backwards, hoping that her shoes –which were notorious for squeaking without her knowledge—would stay silent and give a man a break from the noise.

Finally, when she was two arms length away she turned to the three hearing people and began to speak in the clear tones.

‘If we could clear the room and get the noise level down it would help. We shouldn’t have to postpone the trial.’
No, that was unnecessary thing to do at this time.

Pain would go away when the noise levels settled.

‘Either, clear the room or move him away from other people.’ Darkening eyes moved to the judge and she silently rose from the crouched position she had placed herself in.

One of the benefits of swimming and riding horses [also, walking along the bottom of the river from time to time] was that she could move almost silently from an area close to the floor to a full standing position.

‘Sir, if it would be possible…could we place him in your chambers until Miss O’Brien is finished with her speech?’

[Georges Couthon]

Lynn guessed that moving backwards was the best idea- the poor boy looked like he was going to vomit or something, and the last thing she wanted was to get some sort of ungodly spew on her perfectly pressed suit. Raising an eyebrow at the cop that had barked out the command, it quickly clicked in her brain what was wrong. The poor boy had super-sensitive hearing.

How fun for her.

She couldn't even imagine how her voice would affect him, let alone the gamut of noise in the courtroom. (Rourke's yelling obviously didn't help.) Still, now that court had been adjourned, some people were slowly clearing out; which mean, more chatter. Yes, getting the boy to someplace quiet seemed to be the best course of action.

"He can use my chambers until he's well enough to leave, but the trial has already been adjourned," the judge replied, looking rather concerned. "Are you sure we shouldn't call an ambulance?"

"Rourke, take care of your witness, will you?" She commanded breezily, all interest in the situation now lost as she went to pack up her briefcase. Besides, she doubted her talking to him was going to do any good- it'd probably just be more painful. So, against her better judgement (and her instincts), she shut up. She didn't want any more chaos than there already was. It was so taxing and she was sure that the stress of it cause premature wrinkles.

Rourke stood up almost on command, looking rather annoyed at this turn of events, before he headed over to his seemingly sick witness, crouching down in front of him. "Come on," he commanded gruffly, holding out a hand. "Let's go."

[Louis Capet]

So the noises were causing him pain? Jason had absolutely no idea how that made any sense whatsoever, but he was also aware that Shawl was home to some of the most peculiar people on earth. So he decided not to ask any questions. After all, the more questions he asked, the more pain he caused the man. And Jason only found sadism appealing when it was directed towards those he didn’t particularly like. Then again, this man had slowed down the trial, so perhaps...

No, thought Jason, giving himself a mental slap. That’s a terrible thought. Thoughts like that make you less humane than you already are. Try to do something helpful.

“Perhaps,” said Jason, trying to speak little above a whisper yet still cutting across the male attorney with the gruff voice, “Perhaps I should take him to wherever he needs to be, the judge’s chambers, wasn’t it?” He opened his mouth to explain why he felt he was a better choice for such a job than the irritable lawyer, but closed it soon after, deciding that it was probably best if he didn’t share too many secrets with the man. Instead, he leaned over to the other officer, totally ignoring the fact that he had been told to move away mere moments ago, and touched his shoulder lightly to get his attention.

“Excuse me, officer, if you want someone to assist this man to another, quieter room, then may I suggest that I take him? I can, er...I can move from one point to another very quickly. I know it may sound daft and unbelievable, but I could take him there so quickly he wouldn’t even hear my footsteps, or anyone else’s for that matter.”

He knew he probably sounded barking mad (although he wouldn’t have used that phrase, lest he be reminded of dogs) but continued to stare at the officer with a hard, questioning gaze. A strange determination to not make this whole court affair a waste of time was attacking the back of his mind, and he had to satiate it. Odd, that.

[Louis de Saint-Just]

Officer Ross wrung his hands in front of him, becoming increasingly agitated as the people continued to talk. He realized that Alexei was most likely going to be alright now, now that everyone had backed away. Still, the intensity of the situation (usually, something like this didn't happen: things were normally kept at a relatively low level in the headquarters, where Alexei worked at least) was causing small beads of sweat to break out on his forehead.

"I think...he'll be okay..." he said, his voice shaking with the stress of speaking in front of people. "Just need...quiet. Don't see blood, should be fine."

Alexei, on the bench, removed his hands from his ears, finally, and gingerly removed his headphones too, after a moment of making sure that his mind blocks were up. There was no blood on the inside of the headphones, so he allowed himself to sigh in relief as he replaced them, and he decided that at this point, he was ready to stand up, or at least sit.

He did, and was somewhat surprised to see the courtroom practically empty, save for the few people grouped a few feet away. "Where to..." he started, confusion blooming upon his face. "It is done already?"

Ross jumped up, at least half of a foot into the air, the shock of hearing Alexei's voice almost as great as the relief. His hand-wringing increased, and he turned around, eyes nearly as wide as Alexei's. "You...it...I mean...when..."

Alexei nodded, and held up a hand. "If I can please, trouble for some water? Would be greatly appreciated." His Russian accent, normally somewhat integrated in with an American accent, was stronger than normal, and the stress of the moment made his sentence mirror Ross's, at least in disjointedness.

[/center]

[Philippe Le Bas]

Nadya had watched as the other Russian’s fingers moved to the insulating earmuffs and when silence penetrated the courtroom her gaze followed as his slender fingers checked for blood.

It was a blessing that no one was hurt in all the commotion, but that did not mean Nadya was pleased with the police officer.
As he proceeded to ask for some water she began the complex –signed- sentence, eyebrows knit together and face twisted with anger.

“You got the trial postponed for another day. Do you know how difficult it is for me to get a day off to come here, let alone pack all this stuff up.’
Choose your words carefully Nadya, lest you insult the parents and family members of the deceased.

Her voice was hardly raised, a mere ant among the sea, but it spoke volumes when coupled with angry signs and facial expressions.
Yes, Nadya was so angry she was speaking and signing to a man who only understood English.
And Russian.

In fact, she had nearly slipped into the language due to the anger of having to be called back again for a trial that should have been finished today.
This was her personal time they were wasting.

After securing a bottle of water into the hand of the audio-sensitive man she went to sulk, pulling sketches into a portfolio as quietly as she could.
Though, she did have a mean streak and occasionally a paper would crinkle loudly, or her shoe would squeak as she rocked from heels to her toes.

Yes, she wasn’t kidding about the squeaky shoes.