Judge Barbour’s gavel descended with a level bang that left no echo and the atmosphere in the courtroom instantly shifted. It grew slack and disordered, unraveling into separate enclaves of coat-gathering and scarf-knotting and glove-tugging and murmured conversations. Bell rose and reached for the legal pads strewn across the tabletop, but Rhonda, still seated, put a hand on top of her hand and looked up at her, mouthing a single word: Go. She would have no memory of the trip to the hospital. Later, it would occur to her that perhaps she should not have been driving in that state of mind; violently preoccupied, she was probably a danger to herself and others. She did not remember turning into the parking lot or running inside or pushing the elevator button with the heel of her hand, punching at it repeatedly and with such force that she would find a bruise there several hours later, and she would stare at the purplish yellow mark on her skin and wonder where the hell it had come from.
