Alex's eyebrows knit together, and he lets out a long exhale. My attempt at alleviating stress has failed in near epic proportions.
I twist in my seat and face him. "Look, even if he can get the jury to believe you resented your mother enough to want to harm her—they won't believe you acted in a way that caused her death unless there was a catalyst. If the jury sees you on the witness stand, calm and under control, it'll be nearly impossible to associate who they see with what the defense is trying to sell. Hamilton has to show you're easily enraged, and that rage—fueled by your resentment—pushed you over the edge."
He looks away from me, and back out the window. "These are some fucked-up games you lawyers play with other people's lives." Resting his elbow on the ledge of the door, he rubs his finger across his bottom lip.
I sit back in my seat, straighten my skirt, and peer out the front window. "Yeah, everyone hates the games until it's their ass in a ringer—then their disgust and high morals go right out the window, and they demand we use whatever tricks we have to get them the outcome they want."
The fucking double standard people have when it comes to the legal system infuriates me. They scream for reform, bang their fists on desks while proclaiming revulsion at our tactics, and then turn on a dime when they need—no, demand—we act in the very manner which left such distaste in their mouths.
"Hey," Alex says, and tugs on my hand until I look at him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it to come out that way. I'm frustrated James can even make the allegations in the first place. Hamilton has no idea what I went through that night, how helpless it is to watch someone slip away and not be able to do a damned thing about it. If he did, he would never mount this type of defense."
I doubt that's true, Hamilton is defending his client, and will use any defense he thinks will get him that result, even if he doesn't agree with it. I caress Alex's cheek, and he relaxes into my hand. "Well, luckily, our side has someone with experience in criminal defense who can anticipate his moves and mount a counter-attack." I point to my chest and mouth "me."
Alex let's out a laugh, grasps my face in his hands, and kisses me. "Best damn criminal defense attorney turned special prosecutor in the world."
Jake pulls up in front of the courthouse, and our lively moods evaporate. Hundreds of people line the sidewalks, spilling onto the road. The incoherent rants are muffled, but the hatred is unmistakable. Many are thrusting their fists in the air, yelling at us, while others hold signs that proclaim Alex is a murderer and Free James Now.
Police officers in riot gear force the protestors back and create a path for us to get into the courthouse.
"Can't we go in through the garage, Jake?" I ask, not at all sure we'll be safe getting out of the vehicle here.
"No, they have closed it off," he answers, his eyes moving around the crowd to guard against—what?—I don't want to even consider the possibilities.
"How am I going to get all my boxes inside?"
"I'll pull around to the side and park in one of the designated spots for law enforcement. Thomas and I will unload them and bring them up."
"Well, if we're going to do this, we better do it now," Alex says, and glances at me. "You ready?"
I nod. He reaches for the door handle, grabs my hand, and hauls me out of the vehicle. Profanity-ladened insults are directed towards us, many protestors shove against the police officers acting as human barricades. I keep my head down, subconsciously ducking as we rush to get inside. Once we make it to the steps, the doors open, and we are hurried in, the doors swiftly closing behind us.
Reyes comes up beside me, places his hand on my elbow, and directs me to the security screening area. "Are you okay?"
"Uh, yeah," I mutter, and slip my elbow out of his grasp. Alex comes up beside me, his arm snakes around my waist and pulls me into him.
"Sergeant," Alex greets Reyes, with no warmth to his voice.
"Mr. Stone," Reyes responds, and glances at the vitriolic mob outside. "You certainly know how to draw a crowd."
I glare at Reyes. He's not going to rile up Alex before he testifies. "Jake and Thomas are bringing in the boxes. I need for you to wait here and help them get through security. I'll see you upstairs."
He nods, and sheepishly adds, "Yes, ma'am."
I'm still fuming as Alex and I step off the elevator on the fourth floor and walk down the wide corridor to our assigned courtroom. I reach for the door handle, but Alex grabs my hand and takes a couple of steps back.
"What's the matter?" I ask, a little more brusque than I intend.
"It's your turn to calm down. You look mad as hell, and while I'm no expert in courtroom appearances, if I walk in after you, everyone is going to think you and I are fighting. Or that you want to cut off my balls and feed them to me." A crooked smile graces his face and reaches his eyes.
I sigh, close my eyes, and rub the bridge of my nose. "I'd like to cut Reyes's nuts off and—"
"I object, counselor. I don't want you anywhere near that man's lower extremities, even if it is to cause immense pain." He pulls my hand from my face, steps into me, and gives me a chaste kiss. My forehead rests on his, and I take a deep breath, allowing his calm reserve to center me. This is what he does for me—one of the many reasons I love him. We have the uncanny ability to provide what the other needs without a single word, our bodies totally in sync with each other. "Better now?"
I gaze into his eyes. "Better now." I lean in close, my lips brush up against his ear, and whisper, "I love you, baby," and give him a quick peck on the cheek before leading him into the courtroom.
24
Judge Franklin nods at me to begin.
"And away we go," Matt whispers beside me.
I grab my legal pad and step up to the podium. "The State calls Alex Stone."
Alex walks calmly past me to the witness stand, takes his oath, and adjusts the microphone.
I wait for him to look at me before I begin. "Please state your name and your relationship to the defendant."
He swivels the chair so his body faces the jury, and I have to bite my lip to stop from smiling. Nicely done.
"Alex Stone, the defendant is my biological father."
"And do you have an adopted father?"
"Yes, Harold Stone. He and his wife, Francine, adopted my brother and sisters and I after our mother's death. Harold is my mother's brother." He glances in the front row behind me where his family is sitting, and then back at me.
I take a deep breath before plunging into the start of many difficult questions to come. "Can you walk us through the events of the night your mother died?"
"The defendant and my mother were in the living room, arguing."
"Do you recall what they were arguing about?"
So far, he is maintaining his composure. But this is just the start.
"No, I never paid attention. It was usually some ridiculous issue my father would be upset about."
"Where were you when your father started to yell at your mother?"
"Objection," Hamilton states. "The witness never stated there was yelling."
"Sustained," Judge Franklin says, and glances at me. "Restate your question, Ms. Tate."
"Where were you at the start of their argument?"
"I was in the bedroom with my younger brother and two sisters when I heard my father shouting at my mother."
I peer at the jury to assess the reaction to his answer. They seem engaged in the testimony, some taking notes. Most of the women are staring at Alex, with just a hint of a smile on their faces. Even in this vulnerable position, Alex has a commanding presence.
"Did you at some point leave your siblings and go to the living room?" I ask.
Alex shifts slightly in his seat and darts his gaze briefly over to mine before looking back to the jury. "Yes, when I heard something like glass breaking and my mother started crying."
"What happened when you entered the living room?"
He takes a deep breath, gives me a knowing look, and
faces the jury box. "He—the defendant—was hitting her. He knocked her down, and when she tried to get up, he punched her in the head. Finally, she just stayed down. She curled up in a fetal position with her arms covering her head—until he started kicking her in the stomach. When she moved her arms from her head, he sat on top of her, and slammed her head against the floor."
The mental images are having a visceral effect on the jurors, some of them covering their mouths in shock, other's wrapping their arms around their midsections. It's perfect—the response we need, and the one I'm counting on. But the reality of what Ellen Wells endured is weighing heavy on me.
Don't do this, stay focused on the trial, not the emotional aftermath.
"I tried to tackle him," Alex continues, "to get him off of her. He put his arm out to block me, and I fell back. He stood up, grabbed me, and hauled me to my feet before he punched me in the stomach. I doubled over—I was having a hard time catching my breath. I think he called my name…or called me a name…I can't recall which, but I looked up and before I could figure out what was going on, he punched me in the jaw. I hit the floor, and he started yelling at me to get up and fight like a man. I managed to get to my feet, but I was dizzy, and my vision was blurry. I felt his fist hit the side of my head, right by my ear."
"And what was the result of that blow?" I ask, my eyes on my notes. My heart is racing, and it's all I can do to keep my breathing normal. I can't look at him right now. I'll start to unravel and fall apart, and that won't win this case.
"I was knocked unconscious."
"Do you know how long you were unconscious?"
I glance at him, but mercifully, he's giving his answer to the jury. "No, but long enough for my mother to internally bleed to death."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hamilton rise from his seat. "Objection, assumes facts not in evidence."
"Sustained," Judge Franklin announces. "Mr. Stone, please limit your answers to the facts."
Alex nods, and peers over at me. The rise and fall of his chest are accelerating in anticipation of the next question. I would give anything if I could stop now, avoid this part of his testimony, because this is going to be as painful for him to retell as it was to experience.
"When you regained consciousness, what did you find?"
I look away from him, focus on the jury, and do whatever I can to ward off the rush of emotions on the verge of being exposed.
"My mom was lying on the floor. I tried to get up, but I couldn't stand—my head hurt, and it was affecting my equilibrium. I had to crawl over to her." He pauses to take a drink of water, the glass shaking in his hand as he carefully places it to his lips. He stares at me for a moment, his eyes beg me to end it here.
I want to tell him I'm sorry, let him know that if I could—I would testify for him and relieve him of this burden. But this is where we win the jury early—we break them emotionally, leave them raw, force them to witness Ellen's death through the eyes of her fifteen-year-old son. This is what will stay with the jury through the rest of the trial, what they likely will still feel as they deliberate, and that empathy will result in a guilty vote.
"Take your time," I tell him. I know the toll this will take on him, and I fear the aftermath of offering up his greatest pain to strangers.
"Blood was coming out of her mouth and nose. There was a large puddle under her head." He pauses and takes a deep breath. "She couldn't breathe."
Hamilton rises again, inevitably to object. But I can't have him break Alex's flow. This is too important. I can't put Alex through all of this for nothing. "How could you tell?" I ask and catch Alex off guard. He turns his head to me, confusion flitting through his eyes.
"When she exhaled, there was a loud wheezing sound. I could see she was struggling to inhale…gulping for air…"
Alex lowers his head slightly, pinches the bridge of his nose, and then takes in a shaky breath. He clears his throat, and nods at me to proceed.
"What happened after that?"
"I told her I was going to call for help, but she told me to wait. I pleaded with her to let me go to the phone and call nine-one-one, but she begged me to stay with her. She held my hand…and said she wanted to spend whatever time she had with me…" His voice cracks, he lowers his head, and his shoulders tremble. I nearly weep when he lifts his eyes. I gaze into them, red with unshed tears.
"I know—" my voice falters. I close my eyes for a second and force all my emotions into the dark space in my mind. I have to detach, or I'll never make it through Alex's testimony. And I desperately need to get him off the stand. "I know this is difficult, and I'm truly sorry to put you through this, but I need you to explain to the jury what happened."
Alex turns away from me, and a part of me knows it's not just so he can talk straight to the jury. He's upset, hurt, and I'm the one causing all of his pain.
"She struggled to talk to me—said she had things she needed to tell me." A single tear rolls down his face. "Then she was quiet. I remember watching her, waiting for her to say something else. She took a couple of slow breaths, and then there was a long exhale." He drops his gaze to his hands that rest in his lap. "And then she was…gone."
The courtroom is eerily quiet. Someone sniffles behind me. Alex is still and hasn't moved.
God, I want to run to him, wrap my arms around him, and make the rest of the world disappear so only we exist.
"Ms. Tate?" Judge Franklin says, breaking the silence. I glance up at him, and remember where I am.
"Nothing further, Your Honor."
25
Geoffrey Hamilton steps up to the podium, and wastes no time firing questions at Alex. "You hated your father, didn't you, Mr. Stone?"
"I hated what he was doing to my mother –" Alex begins.
"A simple 'yes' or 'no' will suffice," Hamilton admonishes him.
Alex glances over at me and I nod. He looks at the jury, and says, "Yes, I hated my father."
Hamilton moves from behind the podium and takes a step toward the jury box. "And your mother—you resented her didn't you—for not leaving your father?"
"No." Alex keeps his eyes on the jury, never once looking at Hamilton.
"Come now, Mr. Stone, you mean to tell me there is not some resentment that your mother didn't take you and your siblings out of this alleged abusive situation?"
"Objection, Your Honor," I say before Alex can answer, "asked and answered."
"Sustained," states Judge Franklin. "Next question, Mr. Hamilton."
"Do you have anger control issues, Mr. Stone?"
"No."
"No?" Hamilton snorts, but Alex doesn't look at him, just continues to engage the jury. "If I asked your friends, family, and associates – would they testify that you have problems controlling your anger?"
I'm on my feet again. "Objection, speculation. Mr. Stone cannot testify as to what other people would say."
The judge sighs. "Sustained. Move on, Mr. Hamilton."
Hamilton clears his throat, straightens his tie, and scurries back to his notes on the podium. He flips through a couple of sheets of paper until he finds what he's looking for, and peers at Alex again. "The truth is, your siblings were scared of you, isn't that right?"
"No," Alex responds without emotion. I have to look down at my feet to hide the wide grin on my face and suppress my laughter. Alex is doing exactly what I told him to—and what Hamilton insisted he do—giving one-word answers. The way Hamilton is raking his hands through his hair, I'd say Alex is thoroughly flustering the attorney.
"Are you in denial, Mr. Stone?"
I stand, and an exasperated sigh precedes my objection. "Your Honor, this is inappropriate cross examination. Defense counsel is attempting to badger the witness in an effort to get him to lose his temper."
"The objection is sustained. Defense will limit questions to relevant issues," the judge admonishes Hamilton, and I take my seat. "And, Ms. Tate, no more grand-standing during objections."
Hamilton glances ove
r his shoulder at me, and it's all I can do not to leap across the table and smack that smug grin off his face. He turns his attention back to Alex, straightens the papers in front of him, and squares his shoulders.
"Mr. Stone, did you wait for your father to leave the house, and then strangle your mother to death—"
"Objection!" I'm out of my chair and on my feet so fast, my chair tips over behind me.
"Call the police and lie to them—" Hamilton bellows.
Matt jumps out of his seat, shouting his objection.
"Your Honor?" I shout.
"And frame your father for the murder of your mother when she died at your hands?"
The courtroom is in a frenzy, a low murmur from the gallery mixes with gasps from a couple of the female jurors. I look at Alex. His throat muscles twitch, and a deep shade of red covers his neck and face. He glances at me, and I keep eye contact with him, and wish I could telepathically remind him to stay calm. I intentionally take a deep breath, hold it in before releasing it and repeat the process.
Judge Franklin pounds his gavel against the bench, the sound reverberating throughout the courtroom. He points his gavel at Hamilton. "You know court procedure when there is an objection, Mr. Hamilton. If you cannot follow the rules, and refrain from further questioning until I render a decision, you'll be found in contempt of court. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Your Honor," Hamilton says, sheepishly, "my apologies to the court."
The judge makes a harrumph sound and turns to me. "Now, Ms. Tate, what are your objections?"
"Assumes facts not in evidence. Badgering the witness. Compound question. Relevancy."
"Your objections are sustained. Do you have any other questions for this witness, Mr. Hamilton?"
"Defense is done with this witness," Hamilton spits out.
"Rebuttal, Ms. Tate?"
"No, Your Honor."
Matt shifts in his seat beside me, probably second-guessing me, but this is a gut call. The jury empathizes with Alex and what he had to go through at fifteen. And they have just witnessed the defense go after him, kick him while he's down, and attempt to corner him. Alex didn't bite, and the jury now sympathizes with him, also, while looking at James Wells and his attorney with a skeptical eye.
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