The echo of the door handle caught his attention as the door creaked open again.
His lawyer strode in, looking slightly winded, a file tucked beneath his arm.
"Sorry," he said, offering a harried smile. "I know you said you needed a minute, but we really don't have the time. They're bringing in the next group of jurors soon, and I need you sharp. We've got maybe five minutes, tops."
He rounded the table and went to sit—
But before he could, Kieran elegantly slid out of the chair, stepping aside just in time to avoid a collision.
He Still found it so odd, yes he has seen mirages before even seen Quentin lounging on his couch but they didn't seem real then.
The lawyer didn't notice anything amiss. He sat down, opened the folder, and began thumbing through the pages quickly. "So we're aiming to strike anyone with a strong position of authority cops, military, correctional officers, government workers, even senior managers. We don't want people used to being obeyed. They tend to view defiance as guilt."
Nolan nodded faintly, trying to focus. But the chair across from him it flickered. The lawyer shifted. Kieran remained. Then Quentin arms folded stood near the door. Vey loomed in the corner, face unreadable.
And then just as suddenly they were gone.
Like a trick of light, erased in an eye-blink.
"…you with me?" the lawyer asked, voice slightly raised.
Nolan looked back. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm here. Sorry."
The lawyer gave him a sharp glance but nodded and continued, tapping a few names on a printed juror profile sheet. "We're looking for people who hesitate. People who defer. Meek folks. Folks who look to others to decide. Teachers' aides, waitstaff, junior assistants, people who feel a bit powerless in their daily lives. They're the ones who question authority. They're the ones who'll entertain doubt. That's our in."
Easily blackmailed too, but that part was left unsaid.
Nolan shifted in his seat, his mind slowly regaining rhythm. The presence in the room had passed, for now. But his nerves felt frayed at the edges.
"You got all that?" the lawyer asked, sliding the sheet across.
Nolan glanced at the information his lawyer gathered potential occupations, psychological notes and nodded.
"Good," the lawyer said, straightening. "Because once this next panel starts, it's our last chance to shape this jury. After that, we're locked in."
A knock rapped on the holding room door.
The lawyer and Nolan looked up as a young court officer stepped inside, clipboard tucked under his arm. "Break's over. Time to head back in."
Nolan's lawyer snapped the folder shut. "Let's go win a jury," he muttered with a flicker of a grin.
Nolan stood slowly. The moment he rose, he swore he felt Vey watching from the shadows again, but when he glanced back nothing. Just walls and light and tension.
They exited into the brighter corridor and re-entered the courtroom from a side door. The room had shifted slightly since the morning session prospective jurors were filing into the gallery, some glancing toward Nolan, others keeping their eyes down.
The judge sat at the bench, murmuring to the clerk. Nolan's gaze swept the space. On the other side of the room, the prosecution—three of them sat with their files and folders, eyes already narrowing in their direction.
The bailiff nodded to the judge, who leaned into the mic. "We'll resume now with voir dire."
The judge turned to address the panel. "Ladies and gentlemen, in this round of questioning, both defense and prosecution will be allowed to request strikes—both for cause and preemptory. Remember, this process is about impartiality. We thank you for your honesty."
One by one, the potential jurors were called.
Nolan's lawyer stood, smoothing his jacket, and began with warm charm. "Let's talk about fairness."
He questioned a well-dressed woman Juror 18 who worked in corporate HR.
"You mentioned earlier you manage a team of thirty people, is that right?"
"And you conduct annual performance reviews, write policies, make hiring and firing decisions?"
"And how would you describe your leadership style?"
"Decisive," she said, with a tight smile.
The lawyer smiled back, then turned to Nolan and whispered under his breath, Authority complex. Prosecution dream juror. He stood again. "No further questions."
Later, she was struck quietly, and cleanly.
Juror 22 came next. A balding, nervous man who ran an independent comic book store and lived alone. His voice trembled slightly when he answered.
When asked if he believed people could change, he said, "Yeah. I mean… I think most people are trying their best."
Nolan's lawyer didn't even need to look at his client before writing KEEP on his sheet and underlining it twice.
Then there was Juror 27—a retired military colonel with a jaw like a cinderblock and a row of medals on his lapel.
"I believe in order," the man said. "Discipline and structure are the foundation of society."
The prosecution smiled. Nolan didn't.
His lawyer stood slowly. "Colonel, do you believe that people who break laws any laws deserve to be punished to the full extent of the law, regardless of their reasoning?"
"And if someone claimed mental illness, or childhood trauma, would that change your stance?"
That was enough. A challenge for cause was filed.
So his lawyer burned a preemptory strike.
They kept going Juror 35, a nurse who'd grown up in The Narrows and spoke softly when she said she had mixed feelings about the police. Nolan's lawyer flagged her immediately as a wildcard but a favorable one. The prosecution didn't seem to notice.
Then Juror 40. An assistant district attorney in another county, on vacation.
The pattern continued. Each person evaluated, measured, catalogued.
Nolan sat still the entire time, eyes occasionally darting toward Kieran's ghost leaning against the wall like a proud parent. At one point, Quentin appeared near the jury box, mouthing 'That one's too smart. Get rid of her.' Nolan blinked hard, forcing his gaze away.
Vey didn't appear at all.
By the end of the day, ten jurors had been accepted. Two more rounds would follow in the days ahead.
The judge tapped his gavel. "We'll adjourn for today. Return at 9 a.m. tomorrow."
Court officers began to shuffle around. Nolan was ushered back to the holding area.
His lawyer leaned in one last time before he was taken away. "We're shaping something here. Slow and steady. We're not going to get a perfect jury, but we're going to get one that's bendable. That's all we need."
Back at Arkham, Nolan lay on the cot in his dimly lit cell, one arm draped over his eyes as he tried begged, really for sleep.
The cell was cold. The cot thin. The fluorescent light in the hallway flickered like a dying insect. But those weren't the problems.
No, the problem started as soon as he shut his eyes.
"FLLYYY MEEE TOOOO THEE MOOOOON—!"
Nolan's eye twitched violently. He pulled his arm down and stared at the ceiling in raw disbelief, someone new joined their block apparently.
And he was a singer oh the joy.
"LET ME—uhhh—PLAAAYYY AMONG THE STAAARS!"
The voice came from the cell just diagonal from his, one over from Harvey's. The man didn't whisper. He bellowed.
Loud. Off-key. Every single syllable like it was being strangled mid-birth.
"LET ME SEEEE WHAAAAT SPRIIING IS LIIIIIIKE…"
"Jesus Christ," Nolan muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. His jaw clenched. He turned over. Then turned back. There was no escape.
"ON JOOOOPITERRR… AND MAAARRSSS—"
Nolan sat up suddenly, raking both hands through his hair like he might rip it out. Across from him, Harvey didn't move. Either the man was dead asleep or had long since learned how to dissociate into the void.
"INNNN OTHERRRR WOOOOORDS—"
"Oh my God," Nolan hissed. He stood, paced the three steps his cell allowed, then sat back down. "Shut up… shut up…" Thᴇ link to the origɪn of this information rᴇsts ɪn Novᴇ(l)Fɪre .ɴᴇt
"—BAYBEEE… KIIIIISS MEEEEEEEEE—"
He slammed his head back against the wall and exhaled, defeated.
He prayed this wasn't going to be a nightly routine.
For this was truly a lullaby designed in Hell.
Sleep would come eventually. But it wouldn't be peace. It would be surrender.