~o~O~o~

CHAPTER FIVE
“Addio, del passato bei sogni ridenti”
– Verdi, La Traviata, Addio, del passato (Aria)

Baltimore, Maryland, February 21

It had been a long week, but Nicole and I had settled into a routine. I had to be out before she was awake, so I did my voice warm-up exercises alone after I did my (slightly shorter) physical exercises and stretches. It took me longer to get into work, too, but I was usually there by 8:00 thanks to the MARC train.

I worked until around 9:00 pm and did my articulation exercises when I got home. Dottoressa Trelli was certainly correct about Maggie’s very clear and crisp consonants, regardless of how fast she spoke. I was making slow progress in my efforts to emulate her.

Nicole was a night-owl by nature, so I did see her in the evening and she popped down a couple of times to hear my exercises and give me some tips. Her explanations were very clear and precise – she knew a tremendous amount about the production of sound, and it showed.

I was sleeping in Maggie’s room as she had suggested – and as Nicole insisted. “No sense sleeping on a couch when there’s a perfectly good bed that’s not being used!”

So I was sitting at Maggie’s vanity, just checking a few last emails, when my cell phone began to buzz.

It was Iain.

I hadn’t spoken to my brother since I dropped him off at the drug rehabilitation center at the beginning of the year. We hadn’t parted on the best of terms, which wasn’t all that unusual. So I was pretty apprehensive when I saw his name on my caller ID at 10:30 on a Friday night.

“Iain?” I said, perhaps more warily than I intended.

“Hey, Cam,” responded the familiar gruff voice. “Still makin’ the world safe for plutocracy?”

I sighed internally. “You bet. What’s up?”

The line was silent for long enough that I thought the call might have been dropped. Then he said, “I’m sorry, Cam. I called to apologize for being a prick all the time, and I start out by being a prick. It’s like I can’t help myself.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of that, so I probed carefully. “Well . . . umm. Apology accepted, I guess. But what brought this on? Are you feeling your mortality or something?”

“No. Just clear-headed. It’s been a while. I’ve been in some dark places, kid. Messed me up. I’ve just been angry so long . . . nothing went right and I guess I wanted to blame someone else. Everyone else. You. Fi. Everyone who got a break when I didn’t, or got ahead when I didn’t. Anyone I could think of. Anyone but me.”

He stopped talking, and I really didn’t know what to say. This didn’t sound like my brother. More accurately, I thought, it didn’t sound like the person I always thought my brother was.

“Iain,” I said, “I’ve known you all my life, but I realize listening to you right now that I don’t really know you at all. What were you looking for, all those years ago, when you left? What was your dream? And why do you think you failed?”

“It’s not that hard to understand, is it? Dad and I . . . we were always butting heads. He wanted me to be like him. Wanted it bad. Wanted me to be into sports, wanted me to be smart, to go to college. Come back, go into insurance. Take over his business someday, I guess.”

I could almost hear his shrug over the phone. “I don’t like being pushed, so I pushed back. I did sports, but my sports. I did drama. That pissed him off. Otherwise I blew off school. Blew off church. Left home as soon as I could. I thought I’d come to New York, and I’d wow everyone with my acting, and show everyone – show Dad – that I didn’t need his bougie respectability.

“I’m okay. I got bit parts. Was part of the scene, you know? But nothing more. Not enough to survive. I got restaurant jobs to pay the bills, like everyone else, waiting for the ‘big break.’ I told myself I’d get out if I hadn’t gotten a big part by the time I was twenty-eight, when I’d been hustling for ten years. But I didn’t. I love this place, you know? And, I didn’t have any better ideas. So I just stayed, and kept at it, and started using to take the edge off, instead just to have a good time. Until I started losing it – first with Dad, then with my roommates.”

He seemed to have finished, so I said, “Iain . . . you’re only thirty-two. It’s not too late to start over. Maybe find a new dream?”

“I’m done with dreaming, Cam. Gammy was right about that. ‘You can spend your life dreamin’, or you can spend your life workin’. Only one of them will keep a roof over your head.’”

I chuckled. That was Gammy Campbell, sure enough. “Okay, but if you don’t need a dream, you do need a plan. What are you thinking?”

“I’ve got a job lined up when I’m done here – a restaurant I’ve worked at before, up in New Rochelle. That’ll keep me for now. Come spring, construction pays better, and I’ve got some contacts. If I take some classes on the side, I may be able to apprentice to an electrician in a year or so. Pay’s better.”

“Is there anything I can do to help? Anything you need? Do you even have a place to stay?” I said, almost gingerly.

His response was gruff. “I won’t bite your head off. I know I did before. I didn’t want to admit I needed help . . . or that my kid brother was doing better than me. And I know what you and Fi did for me . . . it wasn’t hard to find out that you lied about state money for rehab, and who was really paying.”

“I’m sorry for lying. I didn’t see any other way.”

“There wasn’t one,” he agreed. “I wouldn’t have come here if I’d known. And you were right; I needed to come.”

He was quiet a minute. “I really hate to ask, but I do need some more help. I’ve got a friend – another artist who didn’t make it – who’s also looking for a place. He found something that’ll work for both of us, and we can manage the rent between us. But we need a security deposit and first and last, and we don’t have it. Swear to God – or I would, if I believed in one – I will pay you back. But I could really use some cash for that.”

Iain had never, ever, asked me for anything; I agreed immediately and we worked out the details. We talked some more – it was the first time in forever that we had a real conversation.

But I didn’t raise the issue of being trans again, and he didn’t mention it. He hadn’t believed me when I told him in January, and I wasn’t going to risk that kind of reaction again. He would get the picture next time I saw him. Literally.

Speaking of which . . . “Do I need to be there when you get discharged?”

“No,” he answered. “I just walk out. Your lawyer friend at the PD’s office says they don’t need me back in court. The DA will drop the charges on March 3, and you can get the bail money back.”

“That’s good. I’d come up if you needed me, but I’m slammed at work for the next month or so. I’m working on a case that goes to trial next month up your way, in Connecticut. Hopefully I’ll be able to see you once it’s over. You’re on the way, by train. But, busy or not, I’m always here for you.”

We talked a bit more; it was nearly midnight when we ended the call. I sat at Maggie’s vanity for a few more minutes, bemused. I don’t think I’d ever talked to Iain for so long, one-on-one. It was positively disorienting.

After a minute, I started brushing out my hair, using the soothing feel of the repetitive exercise to quiet my thoughts so I could get some sleep. As I sat at a woman’s vanity, wearing a sheer nylon nightie and my dark-green dressing gown, brushing long dark hair that now reached to the lace of my décolletage, I wondered impishly how Iain would take to having a little sister.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER SIX
“Stridea l'uscio dell'orto, e un passo sfiorava la rena”
– Puccini, Tosca, E lucevan le stelle (Aria)

Baltimore, Maryland, February 22

I got up at my normal time and did a full hour of physical exercise, adding a fifth seven-minute routine into my workout. I shaved, showered, did my nails, hair and makeup, put on my jeans, my calf-length leather boots and a fun, frilly top, made some coffee and started right in on work. At this point, I was adept at making sure I had everything with me that I would need when I left the office on Friday night.

When I heard Nicole begin to stir, I made up some omelets – they were beginning to look a bit better, though nothing like Henry’s – as well as some green tea.

She came downstairs in her robe and slippers, her hair in its nighttime plait, and gave me a sleepy grin. “I love weekends.”

When we were done with breakfast, Nicole went upstairs to get washed and dressed. I did the dishes, dried them and put them away – there was no mess at Opera House! – then went back to the basement and got back to work. Nicole joined me around 9:30 and we were able to do voice exercises together.

She gently chided me for “scooping” – beginning to sing before I had the right note, then lifting up to reach the actual note that Nicole was singing. She played the tape and I caught it right away. We worked on that as we went through the exercises, and it definitely helped. She was an excellent instructor.

When we were done, Nicole spent some time working on her parts – I assume for Götterdämmerung, but I knew she was also working on other parts she would be singing later in the season.

I went back to work. We had a light lunch at noon, then Nicole got ready for an afternoon of teaching voice to college students. I gratefully accepted her offer to let me borrow her car and got out of her butt-length hair.

First, I went off and saw the Dottoressa and had a good second lesson. We spent forty-five minutes on exercises to expand the high end of my effective range and fifteen minutes on articulation exercises.

She thought I had made better progress on the former than the latter. “More time with Dottoressa McGregor’s tapes!” she demanded.

One does not argue with The Dottoressa.

After my lesson I went off to Target to pick up a few more casual things to wear around the house. My purchases to date had focused on dresses, skirts and – honestly – sexy-feeling lingerie. I knew that I was overcompensating and that cisgendered women more often wore practical clothing – pants, shorts, T-shirts; sweatshirts. It didn’t matter when I was living by myself, but I felt overdressed wandering around Opera House in dresses when Maggie and Nicole were less formal.

I was fond of my stretchy jeans, so I got two more pairs (one black; one olive), a couple pairs of heavy tights, a few women’s T-shirts with v- and scoop necks, with either capped sleeves or sleeveless, and a couple of tailored fleece tops.

On my way to the register, I saw a scrumptious surplice-neck black camisole that I had to have, and two more pairs of nylons. And a royal blue sports bra with intricately patterned back straps. I decided that my inner girl had done enough damage for one day – thank God for Target prices! – and I made it out the door without any more impulse buys.

After that I went grocery shopping and picked up some staples for the week – a few things that would be quick and easy since we would both be pretty busy. It was after 4:00 when I got home, and Nicole was just finishing with her last student in the front room. I went around and came through the back door to the kitchen.

As I was making my third trip with grocery bags, a young Black girl, maybe twenty, came out the front door, smiling and chatting with Nicole, who waved me over. “Cami, this is Shana, Shana, this is my roommate, Cami.”

Shana flashed a thousand-watt smile. “Hey!”

I returned the smile. “She working you hard?”

She shook her head. “Singing for Miss Nicole? Nah! She slays!” She waved good-bye with a cheery, “See ya!” and was off down the road.

I looked at my roommate. “Miss Nicole, I think I old.”

She grinned. “Start teaching kids. They’ll keep you young!”

I took the grocery bag in through the front door and brought it back to the kitchen, then went back out to get my other purchases. But Nicole had already purloined the bags and was bringing them upstairs.

“Ooooh!,” she teased, “somebody’s been shoppppping!”

I pretended to grab for the bags, she pretended to pull them away, and we giggled.

“C’mon,” she said. “Show me!”

So I showed her the pants, tights, t-shirts, and fleeces. She gave me half a smile. “Your friend Sarah again, right? Fitting in?”

I nodded, a bit sheepish. “Yeah, I thought I was kinda overdressed.”

Nicole put her hands on my shoulders. “In this house, you wear what makes you feel good, okay? Not what you think will make us feel good. You don’t have to blend in here. You. Are. Safe. Got it?”

To keep from tearing up, I leaned in, gave her a peck on the very tip of her nose. “Yes, Mom!”

Then I pulled back and said, more seriously, “I love dressing like a woman – I love the look and feel of different fabrics, the way they feel in different combinations. But liking women’s clothes is like a bonus; it’s not what makes me trans. When I’m able to be full-time as a woman, I expect I won’t feel as much need for my clothing to give me comfort and reassurance. Then I’ll probably lounge around in more practical clothes.”

“Should I get you some sweatpants then?,” Nicole asked (knowing that I loathed them).

I shivered in mock horror. “No! Not that!”

“Well, okay then,” she said. “But I think you’re holding out on me, girlfriend. That last bag doesn’t look empty to me!”

That led to a chase around the room, until, cornered, I showed her the pretty sports bra, the nylons, and the silky black camisole.

She held that last garment up against my torso. “Oh, yes, very practical, Cami!” She laughed and returned my peck on the nose. We went into the kitchen and put away the groceries.

I had picked up a rotisserie chicken and some salad for dinner, so we ate that and a bit of sauvignon blanc. We cleaned up, I put away my new purchases, and we each got a bit more work done. About 7:30 we had arranged to Facetime with Maggie, so we went upstairs for better WiFi.

Maggie looked great. “Hey!” she said, excited. She filled us in on how rehearsals were going and how she was settling in. She was sharing what sounded a lot like a dorm room with another singer. “It’s tight quarters, but we’re really only there to sleep,” she said. It was apparent that the rehearsing was intense and went on all day.

We didn’t have much exciting news for her, though I did mention that I had a really good call with Iain.

“Really?” she said. “That’s fantastic!”

I gave her – really, gave them both, since I hadn’t said much about it to Nicole – all the details.

At the end of the call Maggie yawned like a panther. “Early bed for me tonight. Listen, I miss you guys!”

“Miss you, too!” I said.

Nicole smiled and blew her a kiss, and we signed off.

After 8:00 I excused myself to watch some results from the Iowa caucuses. The TV was still in my room, which had been kind of their TV lounge before I showed up. None of us watched TV much, so it hadn’t been a problem.

After half an hour or so Nicole knocked, came in, and sat down on the couch with me. “Okay, Cami. I want you to tell me what I’m watching. And why I care.”

So I did.

We sat for a while, watching the talking heads describe what was happening. It became increasingly apparent that Senator Sanders was going to win handily. He had already won the New Hampshire primary and had the most votes in the Iowa caucuses. He was starting to look unstoppable.

And I guess I was starting to look worried. “You don’t like Bernie?” Nicole asked, with nothing more than pure curiosity in her tone.

I waved my hand. “I don’t have a problem with him, though he’s not my favorite. But . . . I’m really worried that he can’t win the general election. And that’s the one I care about.”

Nicole was quiet for a bit, then got up and stretched, lacing her fingers together, inverting her hands and reaching for the ceiling. “You’ve convinced me . . . . But it seems like a stupid way to pick a president.”

With that, I couldn’t disagree.

~o~O~o~
Washington, D.C., February 25

We were meeting in the conference room we had set aside for trial prep. Neatly stacked boxes full of neatly labeled binders, containing all of the potential trial exhibits for both sides, lined one wall.

I was the last to arrive; I had been delayed by the news flash that had popped up on my phone. I apologized and said, “Dr. Messonnier from the CDC is warning that we may be facing school closings, workplace shutdowns, cancelling large events. Cases keep popping up on the West Coast, and now Italy is some kind of hot spot.”

Daviana asked the question that was on all of our minds: “Are we going to be able to do this trial?”

But none of us had answers. We called our local counsel in New Haven, but he hadn’t heard anything either.

Finally, Eileen said, “We’ve got no choice. It’s full speed ahead unless the court says otherwise. We need to assume we’ll be picking a jury in three weeks. So let’s stay focused, shall we?”

~o~O~o~
Baltimore, Maryland, February 29

“Biden in a landslide,” I said, as Nicole poked her head into my room and quirked an inquisitive eyebrow at me. I was watching the returns from the South Carolina primary.

She said, “Is that good news, or bad news?”

“Depends on your pony in the race, I guess. But . . . Warren, Buttigieg, Klobuchar and Bloomberg got almost no support from the Black community. If that carries over to Super Tuesday, their campaigns are dead in the water.”

She looked intrigued. “The Black vote is that important?”

“For any national race, it’s critical for Democrats.”

“Huh,” she said. “I wonder what Shana would say to that.”

We watched for a bit longer, but it just devolved into talking heads discussing James Clyburn’s clout. Nonetheless, Biden’s campaign had come roaring back after a near-death experience. Come-back stories are always interesting.

~o~O~o~
Washington, D.C. and Baltimore, Maryland, March 3

For all the work that we had done on the trial, there was still more to do, and we continued to be very busy. I had been working with my witnesses by phone, and I was helping David in his efforts to get our primary liability expert to sound like a real person instead of an overeducated toaster. This was proving to be quite a challenge for both of us. Part of the problem was that David and I were also too educated for our own good.

Eileen said, “Think of someone you know who’s smart, but hasn’t been to college.”

David, bless him, looked blank.

I immediately thought of Gammy.

“Now,” Eileen said, “imagine having Dr. Silverman explain his report to her.”

Eileen had been working on her opening statement for the jury. It followed the outlines she had prepared earlier, but she was working on specific language to figure out what would land well. We had several sessions where she tried new language and all of us provided feedback. And, work with the documents never stopped.

Just as it was getting easier and more natural for me to present as a woman, it was growing increasingly difficult not to. I could still do it, and do it convincingly. But it took concentration, mindful attention, and with all of the work involved in preparing for the trial, the strain of that constant concentration was wearing me down.

I took to wearing the underwear that Sarah had selected, partly as a gag. At least when I wore it at work, I would feel the touch of something feminine against my skin, even though I was presenting a masculine appearance. Anything to stay sane.

But March 3 was a big day for reasons unrelated to work. I made calls to make sure that Iain was all set. The drug rehab facility provided the necessary paperwork and the DA’s office, as promised, dropped the charges against him.

I spoke with Iain briefly. His friend had made their housing arrangements, and Iain was heading up to see the new place. He said he was starting work the next day, and at my request gave me his new address and the name of the restaurant where he would be working.

I had mental images of showing up there in my LBD and stilettos once the trial was done!

Later that night, as I headed back home on the MARC train, I read on my pad that there had been a COVID outbreak in New Rochelle involving a Bat Mitzvah at Temple Young Israel. Local authorities had ordered attendees at the event to self-quarantine. I sent a link to Iain by text and a warning to be careful, and received a thumbs up in response.

I thought about it some more. Was there anything else that Iain could do? Nothing that I could think of. But I sent Fi a text saying, “Iain now out of care and living in an apartment in New Rochelle. I saw there’s an outbreak there. Is there anything he should know? Can you call, or text him?”

I got back, “Will.”

Nicole was asleep when I got in. I found some cold chicken in the fridge and had a bite while I checked on the results pouring in from the Super Tuesday primaries.

Senator Klobuchar and Mayor Buttigieg had already dropped out and endorsed Vice President Biden, and it was clear he would be the presumptive nominee by the time the night was over. Quite the comeback! I just hoped that Eileen was right in her conviction that Biden could win in November.

A whole lot was riding on it.

I got myself ready for bed, snuggling into my charmeuse nightie – no sense being modest if my housemate is asleep when I go to bed and when I get up! – brushed out my hair, then buried myself under Maggie’s covers.

I woke up in the middle of the night to find Nicole standing by my bed, looking like a guardian angel. When my eyes opened, she half sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand to my cheek. “You were crying out again, Cami. Are you okay?”

“I’m so sorry. I wish I didn’t wake you up with these things. Just . . . just bad dreams.”

“Do you want to talk about them?”

“There isn’t much to talk about,” I said, frustrated. “If the dreams contain images, I can’t remember them. All I remember is the fear . . . the terror.”

Her face filled with compassion, she bent down and kissed my forehead gently. “Scoot over.”

I did as she requested, and she took off her robe and slipped into bed beside me, wearing a long, cream-colored négligée. She turned me gently away from her and spooned into my back, sliding one arm under my neck and gracefully draping the other over my chest.

“Sleep,” she commanded. “No more dreaming.” She kissed the crown of my head.

I did as I was told.

~o~O~o~
Baltimore, Maryland, March 4

I woke up again, my body clock telling me it was close to time for me to get up. Nicole was a warm, soft presence at my back; I could feel the slow, deep rhythm of her breathing. I was acutely aware of every line of her perfect body next to mine, separated only by two layers of the sheerest fabric.

I thought, Careful, Cami!

I didn’t want my alarm to wake her, so I slowly slid from under her draped arm and slipped from the bed. She murmured something and slid her now-free hand under her cheek. She was so very beautiful. So perfect.

I reached over and gently tucked the comforter under her chin.

She smiled in her sleep and snuggled in more deeply.

I picked up my phone and tiptoed out the door and popped into the bathroom. It was time for my morning exercises, both physical and vocal. But I had the strong urge to go straight to the shower, to feel the hot water pound on my skin. To move soapy hands all over my body . . . .

I stopped, breathing hard. I hadn’t had any sexual activity, of any sort, for months. I was hot, bothered . . . horny as hell. My male member, currently not confined in a gaff, was making its unimpressive presence felt against the nylon of my panties. Nicole’s physical intimacy, wonderful and well-intentioned, had left my body aching.

I slipped out of my nightie and pulled down my panties. Forced myself to look in the mirror. I was not yet a woman, no longer a man. Caught in between, for a while longer. I closed my eyes and stood upright, as if I were going to practice for Dottoressa Trelli, then worked to slow my breathing, willed my blood to flow easily, dispelling the hot flush on my cheeks and throat. Finally I opened my eyes, in command of myself again.

I nodded at the ambiguous figure in the mirror, then got dressed for exercises.

An hour and a half later, having exercised voice and body, I showered – without incident – put on my Cam-o-flage, and quietly went out into the still air of the early morning.

Nicole slept, to all appearance, dreamless.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Fatale vision, mi lascia!”
– Cilèa, L'Arlesiana, E la solita storia (Aria)

Baltimore, Maryland, March 6

Another Friday night. I was home early – 7:00 – so I was able to get out of my male clothes, shower, and then get dressed properly. Nicole had marinated some kabobs at lunch time and cooked them while I was changing over. We had a quiet dinner and talked about the latest disquieting news on the COVID front.

Another cruise ship was having problems, this time off the California coast. After the death of a passenger from COVID, the California Air National Guard dropped some test kits on the ship at sea, and 21 of the 46 people tested had tested positive. There were 3,500 people aboard, and the ship wasn’t being allowed to dock, so that the positive cases wouldn’t be “counted” in our national total. It was scary, and crazy.

And again . . . . we were helpless. All we could do was wait and watch.

Nicole said, “It’s like one of those bad dreams, where you can see a train go off the rails, or a car careening into a group of people, and you try to cry out, or move, but you can’t.”

“I know,” I said. “And it's bizarre, just going forward, getting up in the morning, getting ready for the day, like none of this is happening.”

But in the end, neither of us could think of any better way to deal with it.

We put aside our existential worries and FaceTimed Maggie to wish her luck. “All ready to go?” I asked.

“I can’t wait,” she replied. “Maestro DeRenzi is fantastic – just fantastic! And I really like Stephanie Sundine’s direction. It is going to be so good!”

Nicole had lots of technical questions, so I let the experts go at it. It was fun – how I imagined an outsider might view a conversation between Eileen and David about trial strategy for our case. Or, how an opera singer might hear a conversation between professional shortstops. The details are different, but the passion, the appreciation for those details – that was what would always come through.

At one point Nicole gave me a sideways look and flicked one of my drop earrings with a lacquered fingernail. “What are you grinning at, goof?”

I laughed. “You two, silly. I always like watching people geek out. The subject doesn’t matter.”

She growled in mock annoyance at being called a geek.

But I added, with complete sincerity, “There’s nothing more beautiful than people talking about the thing they love most. Nothing. So don’t let me slow you two down!”

That got a fond smile from both of them, and soon they were at it again.

~o~O~o~
Washington, D.C. March 10

The remainder of the weekend had been busy. I had had appointments with Dottoressa Trelli and with Dr. Chun, each of whom was reasonably pleased with my continued progress. I let them know that I would be out for the rest of the month; we were scheduled to go up to New Haven on Saturday the fourteenth.

Nicole and I were both buried in the labors of our very different lives. Every so often I had looked up from my computer to see her in the sound room, posture perfect, features radiating concentration, singing at full power. But not a peep came through the soundproofed enclosure. We had been in completely separate bubbles, mere feet, but worlds, apart.

But the regular workweek rolled around and the tempo picked up. Back in male garb, I was supervising the shipment of all of the materials in the war room to local counsel’s offices in New Haven, assisted by Greg Gilles, our paralegal, and Carrie Fox, Eileen’s secretary.

Five paper copies of every exhibit (one for the court record, one for the judge, one for opposing counsel, two for us), plus hard-drives with electronic copies of everything we might need. Manuals. Brief books. Supplies . . . .

My phone buzzed an electronic warning; I looked at it and felt my blood run cold. New York Governor Andrew Cuomo had just announced that he was deploying the National Guard to create a containment area in New Rochelle. Apparently the local self-quarantine order had failed to stop the spread of the virus; New Rochelle suddenly had over a hundred COVID cases – more than half of New York state’s total.

“I’m sorry,” I said absently. “Greg, Carrie . . . can you give me a couple minutes? There’s something I need to deal with.”

I heard them say something affirmative, then I heard the door close behind them. I called Iain and got him in one.

“Hey Cam. I kind of thought I might be hearing from you.”

“I just heard the news about the containment area.”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” he assured me. “We got the low-down. They’re shutting schools and churches and synagogues for a couple weeks, setting up a testing center, disinfecting public spaces. That sort of thing. But it’s not like we can’t come and go. The restaurant’s still open.”

“Iain, I am worried. I haven’t talked to Fi in a while, but everything she told me . . . this thing’s bad. And we’ve seen what’s happening. In China. In Italy. You’re in the middle of the biggest hotspot in America. Can you . . . can you just get out? Not just out of New Rochelle. Out of New York? I’ll put you up. Anywhere. I’ll find a place.”

Iain stopped me. “Cam. Stop. Maybe it’s worse here right now. But that won’t last. There’s no place you could put me up that'll be ‘safe.’ You know that. Even Fi admitted that when she called me. Here, I’ve got a place to stay. Work. Friends.”

“But . . . .” I began, sounding irrational even to myself.

He stopped me again, his voice more gentle than I had ever heard it. “Thank you. Really. But I’m just barely starting to get my feet back under me. People went out on a limb for me. My roommate. My boss. I can’t just walk away. Any more than you would leave your job and your home just because of a virus.”

I was silent for a moment. The conference room seemed to darken, or else my vision was clouding. “Iain,” I said, “I’m frightened for you. Scared.” My voice was almost gone.

“Me too, kid,” he said. “But Fi will get us all through it. See if she doesn’t.”

“Okay,” I said. “Be safe, will you?”

“Always am,” he responded.

We ended the call.

The room faded to black. My vision was gone completely and I was blind. Caught in a waking nightmare of darkness, of crying and screaming. The smell of fear, the heat of fever, the sound of labored breathing, of hearts straining. Terror in the streets of Bergamo, of Padua . . . all of Lombardi. Beautiful Italy, I thought irrelevantly, the land of Dottoressa Trelli. Of Puccini. Opera.

I heard . . . a voice? Yes . . . a voice in the dark. Nicole. “Like one of those bad dreams,” her voice was saying, through the weeping, the cries, “where you can see a train go off the rails, or a car careening into a group of people, and you try to cry out, or move, but you can’t.”

I shuddered, opened my mouth to scream a warning. To Iain. To Fi. To anyone. Everyone. But I detected no motion, no sound. Nothing but a deep, rhythmic pulsing, like the thrumbing of a massive heart. Or a planet-sized ventilator. Or the slow, powerful beating of dark wings . . . .

The wings of the Angel of Death.

I felt a hard grip on my arm. Another voice. Please God! A real voice! “Cam!! Cam!! What’s happened? Cam!”

I tried to move again. Tried. And finally felt my muscles obey. My left hand reached up, blindly, clutching at the hand on my arm. I could feel my own breathing, ragged. But I could feel it, and I worked to bring it back under control. Vision was starting to return. I was kneeling, I could sense. My head was bowed. My right hand was clenched.

I heard the voice again. “Cam? Can you hear me?”

It was Daviana.

I nodded jerkily and took a deep breath. “I’m okay now.” My voice was barely a whisper.

“Like hell!”

I didn’t try to speak again. Instead I focused on simple motions. Release her hand. Give it a pat. Move it to the chair, that was . . . right there. In front of me. Grip the chair. Get my left foot under me. Push up, slowly. Use my left hand for balance. Right foot forward. Turn. Get into the chair. Okay. Raise my head, find Daviana.

She was standing. Looking worried — seriously worried.

I took a couple more deep breaths and tried my voice again. Stronger. The nightmare was receding, quickly now. I felt suddenly exhausted, but I was otherwise entirely in the present.

“Thanks, Daviana. I’m sorry I gave you a scare. But I’m okay. Really.”

She sank down into the chair next to mine. “What the hell happened?”

I thought of the terror, pushed it back. I forced my voice into Cam Savin’s cool analytical pattern. Calm. “I have PTSD. From . . . from an incident. I’m seeing someone about it. It’s never hit me when I was awake; I just think of it as night terrors. But I just got some very bad news, and I guess it got triggered.”

Still looking worried, Daviana asked, “What was the news?”

“My brother is living in New Rochelle. They’ve just imposed a COVID containment area there. He won’t get out. And, just like that, my PTSD hit. It’s not rational, I know. He’s fine.”

She looked at me intently for a minute and evidently didn't care for what she saw. “Look, I’ll spell you here for a bit. Give yourself a few minutes. Go home if you need to. I’ve got this.”

I shook my head. “No, I’m fine. Really.”

“Cam, you scared the crap out of me,” she said. “You couldn’t see me, or hear me, your face was covered in tears and you looked like you were talking to ghosts. That’s not ‘fine.’ Take a half hour – at least. Or, do I need to get Eileen involved?”

That, I absolutely did not want. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll be good. I’m sorry for giving you a fright.” I got up and headed for the door. When I reached it, I turned. “Thanks, Daviana.” Then I walked out.

I found the restroom – in this case, the men’s room of course – and went in. Daviana hadn’t been kidding; my eyes were red and my cheeks were soaked. I filled my hands with cold water; held them to my face, to my burning eyes.

After a few minutes I dried them off, then went back to my office. I closed the door, sat at my desk, and closed my eyes, allowing them to cool. There were some Advil in my drawer; I pounded two dry.

I spent the next twenty minutes focused exclusively on controlling my breathing, concentrating on each inhalation, each exhalation . . . driving all other thoughts from my mind.

Breathe in life, breathe out fear.

Breathe in life. Breathe out death.

Breathe.

After exactly half an hour, I re-entered the war room, gave Daviana, Carrie, and Greg a nod of thanks, then went back to work. After a few minutes, apparently convinced that I truly was okay, Daviana went back to her office.

On my way home later in the day, I sent Fiona a text. “I tried to get Iain to leave New Rochelle. Failed.”

I was almost home when I got her reply. “Me too. Keep those prayers coming.”

I replied, “Roger that. For Iain and for you. Be safe.”

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER EIGHT
“gelido, mortal, v'è un silenzio, un freddo che m'agghiaccia!"
– Puccini, Manon Lescaut, In quelle trine morbide (Aria)

Washington. D.C., March 12

I was at my desk going through my emails. Normally something I do on the train on the way into work, but I had instead been reading about the WHO’s decision the previous day to declare that the coronavirus constituted a pandemic. Fiona had called it early, but after over 100,000 cases in more than 100 countries and over 4000 deaths, there was no longer any doubt.

Other, more pressing matters diverted me when I got to the office, so it was mid-morning before I got to it. As I was finishing up with what had arrived overnight and in the morning, a new email came in, this one from the Connecticut District Court. I opened it and read.

From: CMECF @ ctd.uscourts.gov

Sent: Thursday, March 12, 2020 10:35 AM

Subject: COURT OPERATIONS UNDER THE EXIGENT CIRCUMSTANCES CREATED BY COVID-19

This is an announcement e-mail message generated by Court action through the CM/ECF system. Please DO NOT RESPOND to this e-mail because the mail-box is unattended.

WHEREAS, the Governor of the State of Connecticut has declared a public health emergency throughout the State;

WHEREAS, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has advised people to take precautions in light of the COVID-19 virus (coronavirus) outbreak, and has noted that the best way to prevent illness is to avoid being exposed to the virus;

AND

WHEREAS, trial jurors often have to work in close quarters to hear the evidence and deliberate following presentation of the evidence;

THEREFORE IT IS HEREBY ORDERED, effective immediately, that all civil and criminal (grand and petit) jury selections and jury trials scheduled to commence now through April 10, 2020 before any district or magistrate judge in any courthouse in the District of Connecticut (i.e., Richard C. Lee U.S. Courthouse in New Haven; Abraham Ribicoff Federal Building in Hartford; and Brien McMahon Federal Building in Bridgeport) are CONTINUED pending further Order of the Court.

I just sat there, staring at the screen. Even when we had talked about it, we hadn’t actually thought it would happen. Life would go on. Life always went on. Tomorrow would be like yesterday.

Until, suddenly, it wouldn’t be.

Another message came in, this time from Eileen. “Let’s gather in the war room at 11:00.”

I sent back, “Got it,” and pushed back from my desk. I stood up and for some reason got my jacket from the hanger on my door and slipped it on. I picked up my coffee cup and went out to the common area. Filled up.

“Oh, my God,” Daviana said, coming up behind me. “Can you believe it?”

I tapped my forehead. “Up here, yeah. I get it. But . . . the rest of me may take a while to catch up!”

She nodded, filling up her own cup and taking a sip. “Well, let’s go see what the plan is.” We headed to the now almost empty war room.

David was already there, then Greg came in followed by Carrie.

Coming in last, Carrie said, “Eileen may be a couple minutes late; she’s on the phone.”

We talked quietly for a few minutes, the mood somber and subdued. Eileen came in and, very uncharacteristically, took the seat at the head of the table.

“I’ve just been speaking with local counsel and some of his contacts in the federal bar in Connecticut. We’re looking at a three month delay, minimum. Apparently the Chief Judge is using the April end date as a place-holder; no one thinks it will be over that soon. And even if it does, criminal matters necessarily take priority because of the Sixth Amendment. I’ve already emailed in-house counsel and Theo Jacoby to let them know. They’ll spread the word.”

She looked around the table, seeing a ring of stunned faces. She said, gently, “I know how hard all of you have worked. How hard it was to get to this peak of readiness. And we were ready, no question. But trials get delayed all the time. Not usually for reasons this dramatic, but it happens. We’ll have to roll with it. And we can.”

Her eyes went around the room again, gauging our reactions. “So, here’s the plan. We’ll need to put things in shape so that they will be relatively easy to pick back up whenever we get the green light. We’ll need ramp-up time to get back to where we are now, but we’ll absolutely have it. Like I said, once they open the courts again criminal matters will have priority, so we’ll have lots of notice. Nothing’s going to be sprung on us. Okay? Any questions?”

Naturally, everyone had some. We talked about logistics, and speculated about the schedule, and basically said everything that can be said in a situation where almost nothing is known.

Finally Eileen pulled the discussion to a close. “So we have things we’ll need to do, but there’s nothing that can’t wait a few days – other than canceling our hotel and travel arrangements. Which I’d like you to take care of this afternoon, Carrie, if you would.”

Carrie nodded.

Eileen continued. “Other than that, I’d like you to all go home. Take the rest of the week off. Unplug. We’ve been at this almost non-stop for months. Go see your families. Let’s plan to meet Monday morning.”

People were pulling back their chairs and standing. We had a plan, and that provided some confidence. People no longer looked dazed. Daviana was even regaining her almost perpetually cheerful look.

I didn’t move. I looked down at the table, thinking furiously.

When I looked back up, Eileen was also still seated. Watching me.

I said, “Can you spare a minute?”

To be continued . . . .