Assuming Names: a con artist's masquerade (Criminal Mischief Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

been modernized, so the threats remained.
    I was put into an adult ward with two dozen other females. Most of them were schizophrenics, a few were manic-depressives, and all of them seemed tipped for violence. But worse, a majority of the women were round-the-clock shrieking maniacs.
    The screaming started on my arrival and never stopped. It was constant and of every variety. Hysterical screaming. Angry screaming. Tear-filled accusations led to monosyllabic screaming. Huge men in white coats would wrestle someone to the floor, and while a nurse injected them with sedatives, other screamers on the sidelines would cheer and curse and throw whatever wasn’t bolted down until someone else got restrained. Then everyone would scream some more.
    I was pressed into a corner thinking this was not nearly as funny as I imagined it would be. Having arrived late on Friday, it was going to be three nights before the doctors I had to convince I was sane came back to work, and by Sunday night, I was pretty certain I had been sent to hell.
    When Monday arrived, I had already woken up to a woman sitting next to me with a pair of scissors saying, “Your hair is real pretty.” So, when I was called before the panel of twelve psychologists and psychiatrists, I was careful not to pitch my voice too high or out of control like everyone else.
    They sat on one side of a long table and I sat alone in the center of the room.
    We went through my whole story as Mike, the FBI, and the DEA had heard it, and at no point did anyone express skepticism.
    At the end they asked, “Do you know why you’re here?”
    I was not about to bring up the nail. I went with, “I’m not entirely certain.”
    “You want to take a guess?”
    “No, not particularly.”
    “You want to tell us why not?”
    It was the only earnest sentiment I would willingly share with them, “A person who goes wildly stabbing in the dark might stab herself, and I have never been inclined to cripple myself.”
    They said, “Very well then, you can leave.”
    Oh thank god . I was smiling relief and said sincerely, “Thank you.”
    A little too sincerely, so they felt the need to clarify, “You can leave the room.”
     
    ~~~~~~
     
    Legally they were only allowed to hold me for two weeks before the court required a formal diagnosis of insanity to continue detaining me. I had already spent three days at the first hospital and another three at the Falls, which left the psychiatric panel eight days to determine if I was sane.
    Just minutes free of the initial interview, I fell into conflict with one of the psychologists.
    I had refused the physical exam required upon admittance, and I continued to reject the psychologist’s demands that I submit. She called the men in white coats, and while they stood outside her office door, she informed me, “You have a choice: you can either walk to the clinic or be carried.”
    “That is not a choice.”
    “Of course it is. Now which will it be?”
    I chose to walk. My wrist was again the focus of interest. The doctor clucked over it, “You poor thing. This is a terrible place for someone as young as you to be.” He looked at my other wrist and said, “I’m glad there is only one.”
    I laughed, “I can’t imagine what events would lead to this happening twice.”
    And he sighed, “We never can and I hope you never do.”
    Goodness, it seemed everyone in Texas was intensely melodramatic.
    The psychologist was in an angry drama that saw her slamming her hands down on the desk. She’d lost all patience with me, commanding on my return, “For the last time, the truth!”
    “It was a nail.”
    “I’m not going to listen to your lies. Get out of my office!”
    The next morning, I was woken with a rough shake and opened my eyes to someone’s face just an inch from mine, shouting like a Marine drill sergeant, “What is your name? What is your name? Full name now!”
    He had me by the arms and I gave him what he wanted in a rush, “Tanya