Domain by Steve Alten

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    “He staggered backstage and fell into my arms, clutching his chest. Julius had a bad heart. With his last ounce of strength, he whispered some instructions to me, then died in my arms.”
    “And that’s when you went after Borgia?”
    “The bastard was still onstage, spewing hatred. Despite what I’m sure you’ve been told, I’m not a violent man”—the dark eyes widen—“but at that moment, I wanted to shove that microphone down his throat. I remember stalking the podium, the world around me moving in slow motion. All I could hear was my own breathing, all I could see was Borgia, but it seemed like I was looking at him through a tunnel. The next thing I know, he’s lying on the floor, and I’m bashing his skull in with the mike.”
    Dominique crosses her legs, disguising the shudder.
    “My father’s body ended up in the county morgue, cremated without a ceremony. Borgia spent the next three weeks in a private hospital room where his family ran his senatorial campaign, engineering what the press referred to as ‘an unprecedented come-from-behind victory.’ I sat rotting in a jail cell, no friends or family to bail me out, waiting to face what I assumed were assault charges. Borgia had other ideas. Using his family’s political influence, he manipulated the system, striking a deal with the DA and my state-appointed attorney. The next thing I know, I’m being proclaimed a nutcase, the judge shipping me off to some run-down asylum in Massachusetts, a place where Borgia could keep an eye on me, no pun intended.”
    “You say Borgia manipulated the legal system. How?”
    “The same way he manipulates Foletta, my state-appointed keeper. Pierre Borgia rewards loyalty, but God help you if you make his shit list. The judge who sentenced me was promoted to the state supreme court within three months of finding me criminally insane. A short time later our good doctor was made facility director, somehow managing to hopscotch over a dozen more qualified applicants.”
    The black eyes read her thoughts. “Say what you’re really dunking, Dominique. You think I’m a delusional, paranoid schizophrenic.”
    “I didn’t say that. What about the other incident? Are you denying that you brutally attacked a guard?”
    Mick stares up at her, the look in his eyes unnerving. “Robert Griggs was more sadist than homosexual, a guard whose acts you’d probably diagnose as being anger-excitation rape. Foletta purposely assigned him to the night shift in my ward a month before my first evaluation was scheduled. Ol’ Griggsy used to make his rounds about two in the morning.” Dominique feels her heart pounding.
    “Thirty residents per ward, all of us sleeping with one wrist and one ankle shackled to the center posts of our beds. One night Griggs came in drunk, looking for me. I guess he decided I’d make a nice addition to his harem. First thing he did was lubricate me up a bit by shoving a broomstick—”
    “Stop! Where were the other guards?”
    “Griggs was it. Since there was nothing I could do to stop him, I sweet-talked him, trying to convince him that he’d enjoy things a bit more if both my legs were free. Dumb son of a bitch unlocked my leg shackle. I won’t bore you with the details about what happened next—”
    “I heard. You scrambled his eggs, so to speak.”
    “I could have killed him, but I didn’t. I’m not a murderer.”
    “And for that you spent the rest of your days in solitary?” Mick nods. “Eleven years in the concrete mother. Cold and hard, but she’s always there. Now you tell. How old were you when your cousin sodomized you?”
    “You’ll excuse me, I don’t feel comfortable discussing it with you.”
    “Because you’re the psychotherapist and I’m the psycho?”
    “No, I mean yes—because I’m the doctor and you’re my patient.”
    “Are we really so different, you and I? Do you think Rosenhan’s staff could determine which one of us belongs in this cell?” He