Her Peeping Accusation, My Prosthetic Eye

I had just moved in when the college student across the hall called the police, accusing me of stalking her in the shower out of jealous rage.

When the police arrived, she cried, tears streaming down her face, and pointed a finger at me, yelling:

Pervert! Every night you spy on me with binoculars and post my photos online!

I saw it all! Your eyes are so lecherous, its disgusting!

The neighbors around us pointed fingers at me, some even shoved me, calling me the scum of society.

This kind of creep should be chemically castrated!

He looks so decent, who knew he was a peeping tom!

Facing a barrage of accusations, I took off my sunglasses, revealing two deep, hollow eye sockets.

Officer, how can a blind man, with no sight, spy on anyone?

My voice was soft, but it pierced the noisy air in the room like an ice pick.

The neighbors who had just been pushing and shouting at me froze.

The middle-aged woman leading the charge held her hand mid-air, forgetting to lower it.

Everyones gaze focused on my face.

Or rather, on the two empty, hollow sockets where my eyes used to be.

They were an indelible mark left by a fire three years ago.

The lead police officer, a seasoned veteran named Detective Miller, paused, then frowned, his tone full of impatience.

Dont pull that act with me!

Well know if youre truly blind after a hospital examination!

Amy Lestat, the girl across the hall, stopped crying for a moment, then burst into even sharper wails.

Hes lying! Hes just trying to get away with it!

How can he not see! He stands by the window every night watching me! Those eyes those eyes

She seemed to want to describe my eyes but was too terrified by my empty sockets to speak, merely pointing at me, trembling all over.

Disgusting! So disgusting!

Her shouts stirred the neighbors into a fresh commotion.

Right! He must be faking it!

What wont criminals do these days? To escape punishment, hed even claim to be blind!

A young man, filled with righteous indignation, even rushed forward, trying to grab my collar.

You scum, Ill deliver justice today!

Detective Miller held him back.

What do you think youre doing! Everyone calm down! Well handle this!

He turned to me, his suspicion and disgust undiminished.

Come with us.

I didnt resist, calmly extending my hands.

A cold touch embraced my wrists.

I was flanked by two young officers, led towards the elevator.

Behind me, Amys cries and the neighbors curses blended into a cacophony.

Scum of society!

Get out of our neighborhood!

Hope you rot in jail!

I could see the self-righteous expressions on their faces.

And hear the pleasure in their words as they trampled someone into the mud.

As we entered the elevator, the metal doors slowly closed, cutting off the outside clamor.

One young officer, probably new to the force, couldnt help but whisper to me.

Are you are you really blind?

I twitched the corner of my mouth, not answering.

The other officer patted his shoulder, signaling him to keep quiet.

But I knew their scales of judgment had already tipped entirely towards the tearful girl.

After all, a young, pretty, pitiful college student.

A sunglasses-wearing, suspicious man living alone.

To them, it was clear who was the victim and who was the aggressor.

Only they didnt know.

Sometimes, what the eyes see is the biggest lie.

And I, a blind man, saw what none of them did.

For instance, Amys steady, unruffled heartbeat when she accused me.

The interrogation room at the police station. The fluorescent lights shone brightly, and the air smelled musty.

I sat on a cold metal chair, facing Detective Miller and a female officer taking notes.

Name.

Lucas Rochester.

Age.

Twenty-eight.

Occupation.

Unemployed.

Detective Miller slammed his pen on the table, creating a jarring sound.

Lucas Rochester, I advise you to confess honestly!

With witness and material evidence present, how much longer do you intend to argue?

I faced his direction and calmly asked.

Excuse me, who is the witness? What is the material evidence?

The witness is the victim, Amy Lestat! The material evidence

Detective Miller paused, apparently finding it somewhat tricky.

We are currently searching for the material evidence! Dont think youre off the hook just because you dont admit it!

He intensified his tone, trying to overwhelm me with his presence.

Amy Lestat has told us everything! You only moved in a week ago, and you already harbored ill intentions towards her. Every night at eight, when she showers, you use binoculars to peek at her from across the way!

You even secretly photographed her and posted her pictures on foreign websites for profit!

This behavior constitutes a serious crime! Confess now, and you might receive leniency!

I almost burst out laughing.

Well-crafted.

Time, place, tool, motiveall perfectly laid out.

If I werent the person involved, I almost would have believed it.

Detective Miller.

I spoke, interrupting his lengthy monologue.

First, I dont own binoculars.

Second, I dont have a tool for the crime. My computer and phone were replaced with blind-accessible versions three years ago and have no camera function.

Third, and most importantly.

I said, enunciating each word.

I am blind.

Detective Millers breathing noticeably grew heavier.

I told you, dont use that as an excuse! We will take you for an examination to confirm if youre truly blind!

Until the results are in, you are the primary suspect!

Just then, the interrogation room door was pushed open, and a young officer peeked his head in.

Captain Miller, the victim is very agitated, keeps crying, and says shell report us to your superiors, claiming were shielding a criminal.

Detective Millers face darkened.

Understood.

He waved the young officer away, then glared fiercely at me.

Of course, I couldnt see his glare, but I could hear the grinding of his teeth.

Lucas Rochester, do you know that because of you, were under a lot of pressure right now?

Shes a university student from a prestigious school, with high public attention. If this isnt handled well, our entire precinct will face criticism!

I understood.

More than the truth, he cared about defusing the situation.

And the easiest way to defuse the situation was for me to plead guilty.

So, to prevent you from being criticized, I should confess to something I didnt do?

My tone grew cold.

Detective Miller seemed provoked by my attitude.

What kind of attitude is that! Who do you think you are?

Let me tell you, once youre in here, if youre a dragon, you coil; if youre a tiger, you crouch!

You refuse to confess, do you? Fine! We have plenty of ways to make you talk!

He stood up, looking down at me.

Lock him up first! Once the search warrant comes, go search his place thoroughly!

I dont believe we wont find any evidence!

The door opened, and two officers entered, once again grabbing my arms.

I didnt struggle.

I knew that from the moment Amy called the police, I had fallen into a carefully crafted trap.

Since they dared to do this, they must have been fully prepared.

Next, they would find the so-called evidence in my home.

And I would be thoroughly nailed to the pillar of shame.

The cold iron door clanged shut behind me, echoing heavily.

I was locked in a temporary holding cell.

The room was small, with only a hard cot and a toilet.

The air was thick with the scent of disinfectant mixed with despair.

I fumbled my way to the bed and sat down, quietly listening to the sounds outside.

Footsteps of officers pacing back and forth echoed in the corridor, interspersed with hushed conversations.

Is that the peeping pervert?

Looks decent enough, but hes utterly disgusting.

Hes supposedly blind, but I bet hes faking it.

Who knows? Anyway, hes finished now. Of all people to cross, he had to cross a college student.

These voices, like countless tiny needles, pricked my ears.

I had long been accustomed to darkness, but for the first time, it felt so chillingly cold.

After about two hours, the iron door opened again.

It was Detective Miller.

He held a transparent evidence bag in his hand, a triumphant smile on his face.

He dangled the evidence bag in front of me.

Lucas Rochester, look what this is?

He seemed to forget I couldnt see.

He revealed the answer himself, his voice full of satisfaction.

Under your windowsill, we found this!

A pair of military-grade binoculars!

And this!

He took out another evidence bag, containing a digital camera.

Inside the camera, we found a large number of candid photos of Amy Lestat! Various angles! Indecent!

Now, what do you have to say?

I remained silent.

Inside, however, a storm raged.

They were fast.

So quickly, they had prepared all the evidence.

Detective Miller saw my silence and assumed I had conceded.

He pulled up a chair, sat opposite me, and spoke in a tone as if lecturing a misbehaving junior.

Lucas Rochester, Lucas Rochester, I ask you, so young, good-looking too, why choose such sordid acts when you could do anything else?

Now the evidence is conclusive, denying it is useless.

Just sign and put your fingerprint, and I can still plead with the prosecutor for you, so you get a lighter sentence.

He pushed a document and an inkpad towards me.

Come on, put your fingerprint, finish this early, its good for everyone.

I could hear the perfunctory and impatient tone in his voice.

He didnt care about the truth at all.

He just wanted to close the case quickly.

I slowly lifted my head, facing him.

Detective Miller, if I put my fingerprint, does that mean I admit to all the charges?

Of course!

Will I be sentenced for sexual assault and disseminating obscene materials?

Yes, with multiple charges combined, at least three years, to begin with.

Will my name, my life, forever be branded as a sexual predator and pervert?

Detective Millers patience seemed to have run out.

Why are you so verbose! This is your own doing! Who else can you blame?

I smiled.

My laughter sounded particularly eerie in the empty holding cell.

Yes, who else can I blame?

I murmured to myself.

Then, I reached out, fumbling for the transcript.

Just as Detective Miller thought I would press my fingerprint, I used all my strength to tear the transcript into shreds.

The paper scraps fell like snowflakes.

Detective Miller was stunned; he hadnt expected me to dare to do such a thing.

You youre crazy!

He stood up abruptly, pointing at my nose and yelling.

This is resisting arrest! An aggravated offense!

Facing his rage, I spoke each word clearly.

I didnt do it, and I wont admit to a single word.

You can fabricate evidence, you can beat confessions out of people, but you will not make me bow down.

You want me to confess? Over my dead body.

My words were like a resounding slap, hitting Detective Miller hard across the face.

His face turned from red to green, then green to purple.

Good! Good! Good!

He repeated good three times, trembling with rage.

Youve got guts! Ill see just how tough you are!

He turned and stormed out, roaring at the door.

Guards! Cuff him! Request formal detention!

Ill make sure he learns what the dignity of the law means!

Soon, two officers rushed in, roughly dragging me off the bed.

Cold handcuffs again clamped onto my wrists, this time tighter than before, cutting into my skin.

They pushed and shoved me, making me stumble forward.

Just then, my phone rang.

It was the monotone electronic sound typical of blind-accessible phones.

One officer impatiently reached to hang up.

But I spoke.

Let me answer.

My voice held an undeniable calm.

The officers paused, surprised.

Detective Miller yelled: Answer what! Take him away!

If this call delays the truth you seek, the consequences are yours.

My words made Detective Miller stop.

He looked at me suspiciously.

Finally, he motioned for his subordinate to hand me the phone.

I fumbled and pressed the answer button.

On the other end, a cold yet familiar female voice spoke.

Lucas Rochester, I am your landlady. I demand you vacate my property within three days.

I dont want a disgusting pervert living in my apartment.

The voice on the other end of the phone belonged to my landlady, Ms. Jenkins.

Her voice, through the receiver, was cold as ice.

Ms. Jenkins, its not what you think.

I tried to explain.

I dont want to hear it!

She brutally cut me off.

All I know is, you only moved in a week ago, and youve already caused such a scandal!

Now the entire neighborhood chat group is exploding! Everyones cursing me for letting a wolf into the fold!

How will I rent my apartment out in the future? What about my reputation?

Her voice grew sharper, filled with the anger of being implicated.

Lucas Rochester, I dont care if youre a genuine pervert or wrongly accused, Im giving you three days!

If youre not moved out in three days, Ill hire someone to throw all your belongings out!

With that, she slammed the phone down.

Silence once again fell over the holding cell.

Detective Miller showed a hint of schadenfreude.

Heard that? It doesnt feel good to be abandoned by everyone, does it?

He winked at his subordinate.

Take him away!

I was escorted, walking through the long corridor.

This time, no one whispered.

They just looked at me with expressions of utter contempt.

I was shoved into a police car, heading for the city detention center.

There, I would await the so-called judgment.

Outside the car window, the citys clamor gradually faded.

I leaned against the cold car wall, feeling the vibrations of the vehicle.

Despair, like a tide, surged from all directions, threatening to drown me.

Just then, another voice suddenly echoed in my mind.

A calm, efficient, emotionless female voice.

Mr. Rochester, I am Quinn Vance, a lawyer from the City Legal Aid Center.

Your case is now assigned to me.

I froze.

Legal aid?

I hadnt applied for it.

The police applied for you.

As if guessing my question, the lawyer named Quinn explained.

According to regulations, in your situation, a lawyer must be present.

I understood.

This was just a formality.

A mere procedural step.

This lawyer, Quinn, probably already assumed I was guilty, just like Detective Miller and his team.

All she had to do was persuade me to plead guilty, then sign a stack of papers.

I have nothing to say.

My voice was dry and tired.

I am innocent.

Silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds.

I expected her to launch into a lengthy lecture, just like Detective Miller.

But she didnt.

She simply spoke in a matter-of-fact tone.

Ive reviewed your situation with the police.

Binoculars and a camera with candid photos were found at the scene, the victims accusations are vivid, and multiple neighbors can testify to your suspicious behavior.

All evidence is heavily against you.

Every word she spoke was like a hammer, striking my heart.

If you insist on not pleading guilty, once the trial begins, and the judge accepts this evidence, your sentence will only be harsher.

I closed my eyes, my deeply sunken eye sockets dry.

So, youre also here to persuade me to plead guilty?

No.

Quinns answer surprised me.

Im not here to persuade you to plead guilty. I am your lawyer, and my duty is to protect your legal rights.

I now need you to answer a few questions. Please be absolutely truthful.

Her voice was as calm as a precise instrument.

First, are those binoculars and that camera yours?

No.

Second, did you know the plaintiff, Amy Lestat, previously? Or have any contact with her?

No, no contact.

Third, besides your eyes, are your other senses, such as hearing, more acute than an average persons?

This question stirred something within me.

She was the first person to notice other changes in my body.

Yes.

Good.

A subtle, almost imperceptible tremor seemed to enter Quinns voice.

Mr. Rochester, the police will transfer you to the city detention center in half an hour. Before that, they will ask you to sign a criminal detention notice.

Do not sign anything.

Wait for me.

The call ended.

I held my phone, and despite the cold in my hands, a bead of sweat formed.

Hope.

In the endless darkness and despair, this woman named Quinn gave me a faint glimmer of hope.

Though this hope was as small as a candle flame in the wind, liable to extinguish at any moment.

The police car stopped.

I was led into an office, where Detective Miller threw a document in front of me.

Sign it!

I shook my head.

My lawyer will be here soon. I wont sign anything before she arrives.

Detective Millers face instantly turned purple with rage.

Lawyer? You can afford a lawyer?

He acted as if hed heard the biggest joke.

Let me tell you, its useless! No one can save you!

He grabbed my hand, trying to force my fingerprint onto the document.

Just then, the office door was violently pushed open.

A woman in a professional suit, with an upright posture, walked in.

She glanced at the scene in the room, her brow slightly furrowed.

Stop.

Her voice was soft, but it carried an undeniable authority.

I am Lucas Rochesters defense attorney, Quinn Vance.

Any coercive action on your part, when my client has explicitly refused to sign, is illegal.

Detective Millers face turned from green to pale as he looked at the suddenly appearing Quinn. He released my hand, scrutinizing the powerful woman, his tone unfriendly: Who are you? Who let you in? Quinn took a power of attorney and her lawyers badge from her briefcase, placing them directly on the table. Appointed by the City Legal Aid Center. These are my credentials and authorization. Now, I demand to meet my client immediately and privately.