by Noelle Adams
“Had your husband shown any signs of romantic interest in you before he married you?”
The shift in topic was so abrupt that Emily couldn’t follow it. “What?”
“Had your husband shown any signs of romantic interest in you before he married you?”
“No,” she admitted, “But he didn’t—”
“So your courtship and marriage were…sudden?”
“Yes.” She sniffed a few times, desperately needing a tissue.
Barton didn’t give her time to explain further. “Did you find it surprising that a rich, attractive, older man would be willing to marry someone like you?”
The question hurt and surprised Emily so much she gasped.
When it looked like Hathaway was about to object, Barton added, “I mean, marry a teenage girl he'd never shown any interest in.”
“There were certain circumstances,” she began, trying desperately to think clearly, even though her hands were shaking helplessly and her eyes still blurred with tears.
“Ah, circumstances,” Barton interrupted. “Was your testifying in this trial part of the marriage agreement you made with your husband?”
Emily gulped, understanding where this was going. “Yes.”
“Do you believe that your husband is in love with you?”
It was awful. Absolutely awful. That Paul didn’t love her, and that she was ruining him now by speaking the truth. She choked, more tears sliding down her cheeks.
“Please direct the witness to answer the question, your honor.”
“Mrs. Marino,” the judge said, “You need to answer.”
Emily managed to force back the emotion. “No. He’s not in love with me.”
“Did your aunt recently die, Mrs. Marino?”
“Yes.”
“Is your father dead?”
“Yes.”
“Where is your mother?”
She shrugged. “On the street somewhere.”
“Have you been diagnosed with a terminal illness?”
“Yes.”
“Are you seventeen years old?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Marino, has your husband taken advantage of you?”
“No!”
“You wouldn’t consider it taking advantage if a man marries a vulnerable girl in order to get her to testify against his father?”
“That’s not how it happened.” She was washed with heat again, hating her weakness, her illness, her stupidity, everything that had led her to make such a mess of this now. “That’s not why he married me.”
Barton arched his eyebrows. “Do you care for your husband, Mrs. Marino?”
“Yes.”
“Would you try to help him whenever you could?”
“I wouldn’t lie for him.”
“Please answer the question.”
“Yes, I would help him when I could, but I wouldn’t lie for him.”
“Do you like to please him?”
The room was spinning again, and it was too hot. Emily clutched at the seat of her chair, desperately trying to breathe. She couldn’t pass out. She just couldn’t.
“Please answer the question, Mrs. Marino.”
She opened her mouth. Tried to answer. But the room darkened around her.
“Your honor?” Barton prompted.
“Mrs. Marino,” the judge said, “You need to answer the question.” Her voice had been gentler than normal, but it changed when she turned her head and said, “Please sit down, Mr. Marino.”
Emily nodded. Tried again to answer. But she felt herself swaying on her seat.
“Mrs. Marino?” the judge asked. Then, “I said sit down, Mr. Marino.”
“Your honor,” Hathaway jumped in. “We request a short recess. The witness has spent the last two days with a high fever. It’s obvious she’s not yet fully recovered.”
“You have thirty minutes,” the judge said. “But then we have to move on.”
Emily wasn’t sure what happened after that. Maybe she actually did pass out for a few seconds. The next thing she was aware of was Paul’s arms around her, his helping her out of the room, then his settling her on a loveseat in some sort of small conference room.
She leaned against him, shaking desperately although she didn’t have any tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Paul. I messed everything up.”
“No, you didn’t,” he said, his arms still holding her tightly. “You didn’t mess anything up. You did fine.”
“No, I didn’t. I was terrible.” She stared up at Hathaway, who was looking down on her with a surprising sympathy in his eyes. He hadn't seemed to care that much about her before. “Wasn’t I?”
“No, you really weren’t,” he said. “In fact, I think stepping into you was a mistake on Barton’s part. Marino had obviously told him what buttons to push, but he didn’t expect you to be so fragile or he wouldn’t have pushed so hard.”
“I’m not fragile,” she gasped, offended by the word despite the circumstances.
Paul stroked her hair and murmured dryly, “Let’s try to focus on essentials.”
The faint irony in his tone actually helped. “How could my breakdown have helped? Didn’t it look like I was overwhelmed by how Paul had taken advantage of me? Or maybe they thought I was faking to earn sympathy.”
“There's no way you were faking—you turned dead white. We can clear up the circumstances of your marriage in redirect,” Hathaway said. “The incident made Barton look like a bully. Several of the jurors looked like they wanted to jump up and help you themselves. You did fine, Mrs. Marino. You did just fine.”
She nodded, something easing in her chest. She looked up at Paul. “Sorry I’m such a wreck.”
“You’re not a wreck,” he objected gently, wiping lingering tears from her face with his thumb. “You’re sick.”
Emily was really tired of being sick.
* * *
Emily was exhausted but steady again when she took the witness stand one more time.
Barton, evidently realizing any further cross-examination would cast him in a negative light, declared he was through with her as a witness. Then Hathaway asked for a redirect examination.
He began, “Did you agree to testify against Mr. Vincent Marino after you married your husband?”
“No. I had agreed to do so before.”
“Did your husband originally suggest you testify?”
“No. It was my idea from the beginning. He didn’t know anything about it until my aunt and I had already gone to the FBI.”
“Who proposed the marriage between you and your husband?”
“I did.”
“Why did you ask Mr. Marino to marry you?”
“I had three months to live. I wanted to get married before I died.”
“Why do you believe he agreed?”
“Because he’s a good man, and he felt sorry for me.”
“Do you trust your husband, Mrs. Marino?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Have you known him to lie to you?”
“Never.”
“Has he ever taken advantage of you in any way?”
“No,” Emily said, looking over at Paul, who was sitting in his seat again, watching her steadily with an expression she was too far away to read.
Feeling an outpouring of affection, she continued, “He’s never taken advantage of me. He’s never been anything but caring, considerate, generous, and good to me. He’s given me more than I could ever dream of—and not asked for anything in return. He has selflessly sat by my bed when I was sick for hours to take care of me. Except for my father, no man has ever treated me better than he has. He wants justice for his father, not vengeance. He’s the best man I’ve ever known.”
Something twisted on Paul’s face. He put a hand over his mouth, like he was rubbing his chin, and glanced away from her.
Emily’s eyes returned to Hathaway, who concluded, “That’s all, your honor.”
The judge dismissed her and annou
nced that the trial would resume the next morning.
As Emily walked shakily past the defense table, she couldn’t help but finally glance over at Vincent Marino.
He arched his eyebrows and smiled at her—mockingly, tauntingly—as if he couldn’t believe she’d just said what she’d said.
But she had meant it. She’d meant all of it.
* * *
That evening, Emily took a long bath and pulled on her pajamas. Then, feeling restless and at loose ends, she’d wandered around looking for Paul.
He hadn’t said anything about her redirect testimony, but she hadn’t expected him to. He was a private man, and he wouldn’t know how to respond to her earnest declaration.
Emily didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, so she wasn’t about to bring it up herself.
He wasn’t in his office, and he wasn’t in the kitchen or main living area. She eventually found him in the media room, stretched out on the sofa and working on his laptop. He was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, and his feet were bare.
He usually worked in his office, so she was surprised to see him in this room. She was actually glad, though, since it meant she had an excuse to join him.
She walked over to the couch and lifted up his feet to make room for herself to sit down. Then she replaced his feet in her lap.
He cocked an eyebrow at her questioningly.
“Well, I wanted to watch TV, and you were taking all the room,” she explained.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, closing his laptop and putting it on the side table.
“I’m fine. Tired, but fine. What about you?”
“I’m fine too.” He clicked on the television and started to flip the channels.
She wasn't sure he was telling her the whole truth. Tomorrow, he would have to take the witness stand and be ripped to shreds by Barton in front of his father. Since his feet were in her lap, she took one of them with both hands and started to massage it.
Paul jerked in surprise.
“I give good foot rubs,” she said, although she wasn’t entirely sure if her foot rubs were good or not.
But who would turn down even a mediocre foot rub?
He looked dubious, but he didn’t pull his foot away, so she massaged it as skillfully as she could. Paul kept flipping the channels, but she could hear his breathing slow down as she kneaded his foot. Then it felt like his body was relaxing.
After several minutes, she switched to the other foot. Eventually, Paul landed on a cable news channel and left it there. When she looked over again, his eyes were closed.
He wasn’t asleep though. Occasionally his breathing would thicken to almost a groan.
His feet were like everyone else’s feet—not the most beautiful things in the world. But she loved them. She loved how Paul’s body had softened. She loved that she had the power to make him feel better.
Finally, her hands got tired, so she let them drop by her sides. She looked at Paul’s face and wondered if he'd fallen asleep after all.
Then his eyes opened. He smiled at her, looking drowsy and content.
Her heart surged with tender possessiveness at the thought that she might have made him look that way.
She wasn’t sure who moved first. Maybe they moved at the same time. But he reached down the couch toward her and she climbed up toward him. She ended up stretched out beside him, nestled between his body and the back of the sofa.
It was so nice. All her life, she’d never known how nice it was just to cuddle up next to a man, have him hold her against him, feel his heartbeat beneath her ear.
She might have died without ever knowing it.
She wasn’t sure who fell asleep first, but eventually both of them did—because they were still on the couch together when she woke up the next morning.
***
Emily’s stomach twisted anxiously as she rode in the back of a chauffeured car to the courthouse the following morning.
She was even more nervous now than she’d been the day before. Her part of the trial might be over, but Paul’s would start today.
She was so worried for him.
He’d barely said a word all morning, except for his normal greeting and inquiry about her health. His face was calm, stoic, as he sat beside her in the back of the car. He stared out the window, and someone who didn’t know him as well as she did would probably think that he was perfectly composed, perfectly at ease.
But he wasn’t.
When she noticed him absently rubbing the back of his neck, she was concerned enough to break the silence. “You didn’t get a crick in your neck or anything from sleeping on the couch, did you?”
He looked over at her, faintly surprised. “No. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Because I know it was kind of cramped and—”
“Emily, the couch is huge. I was perfectly comfortable.”
“Okay,” she said, eyeing his calm face. She had no idea how he did it, how he masked his emotions like that. She’d always found it so hard to hide what she was feeling.
“Emily, I’m really all right. You don’t have to look like I’m on my way to the gallows.”
The dry note in his voice was a relief. She relaxed into a smile. “I’m sure you’ll do a lot better than me and not break down in tears or faint or anything.”
Paul actually chuckled at that. “I sure hope I don’t faint.”
“You’ll do great,” she murmured, leaning her head back against the seat as she gazed over at him. “And it will be over by lunchtime.”
His face sobered, and he looked at her reflectively. She could tell he wanted to say something, but he didn’t say it.
“What is it?” she asked.
He cleared his throat. “What if…what if you leave the courtroom during my testimony?”
She gasped and stiffened her back. “No! Why would I do that?”
“There’s no reason you have to hear all of it.”
“I want to hear it. I want to be there for you.”
“I know you do, and I appreciate it. But it’s not going to be pleasant. I’d rather you not hear the whole, ugly rehearsal of every sin I’ve ever committed.”
“I don’t care if it’s not pleasant. I’m not going to leave. It would look like I’m…like I’m ashamed of you or something. I’m not ashamed.” She glared at him, daring him to challenge her on this. “I’m not going to leave.”
Paul just nodded and glanced away.
They sat in silence for a few minutes until Emily asked, “Did you look at the newspapers this morning?”
He turned back toward her, his expression changing. “Yes. I did.”
“I was too scared to look. What are they saying?”
In response to a defense motion about how media coverage of the trial would expose confidential corporate information to the public, the judge had closed the courtroom to the media for most of the hearings, including both Emily’s and Paul’s testimony. But naturally word would get out about trial proceedings anyway.
“They’ve got that we’re married and that you’re sick, so they’ve concocted a tragic love story for us,” Paul said. “They’ve got that my dad was threatening you, but not the reason, and he doesn’t come off well in the headlines trying to threaten a teenage girl. Overall, they seem to be on our side. That may change at any moment, of course.”
It didn’t sound as bad as Emily had feared. “Maybe it won’t. I think we’re a lot more sympathetic than your dad is.”
Paul gave a soft huff of amusement. “No argument here.”
She reached over and squeezed his arm. “You’ll do great today.”
“We’ll see.”
* * *
Emily shifted in her uncomfortable seat, praying Paul’s cross-examination would be over soon. Hathaway’s direct examination had been simple and brief, merely establishing what Paul knew of his father’s illegal activities and how he knew it.
The cross-examination was something else.
It see
med to have gone on forever, and Barton showed no signs of wrapping it up. Paul was doing a much better job than Emily had done—he’d been cool, clear, and articulate in his responses to every question, and he gave no obvious signs of being under stress or even of being particularly concerned by the nature of the questioning.
But, to Emily, he looked a little pale around the mouth, and there was a tension in his jaw that shouldn’t be there. This was hard for him. Really hard. She wanted it to be over.
Barton had done exactly what Paul had predicted—dredged up every act of questionable morality or dubious legality in his entire history. It wasn’t any fun for Emily. She didn’t want to hear about every stupid, reckless thing Paul had done as a teenager. She didn’t want to hear about all of the women Paul had fucked, the drugs he’d taken, the cars he’d wrecked. She didn’t want to hear about the things he felt guilty about, the things he knew he’d done wrong. But Barton asked about them all.
Hathaway jumped in several times to object to certain lines of questioning, and some of those objections the judge sustained, but there was still too much that Paul had to admit.
Paul hadn’t looked at her. Not once. He hadn’t looked at his father either. His eyes focused on Barton whenever the man was speaking, and then he would sometimes move his gaze to the jury as he answered. Emily thought he was doing a remarkable job—admitting his faults but not faltering on his testimony.
But it was just going on for too long.
Then Barton did one of his sudden shifts. “Do you have scars on your back, Mr. Marino?”
“Yes.” Paul didn’t look tense or surprised, but Emily was sure he was.
She held her breath, appalled by this new line of questioning.
“When did you get them?”
“When I was seventeen.”
“How did you get them?”
“I was arguing with my father, and I fell backwards into a china cabinet. The glass panes broke and cut me up.”
“He hit you?”
“No. He pushed me back from him, and I fell backward.”
“So you were attacking him?”
“No.”
“Then why did he need to push you back?”
“I don’t think he needed to, but I was in his face, and he didn’t like it.”
