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Duke cleared his throat. “Jessica,” he said quietly, “Is this item—in your private safe deposit box—the stamp collection previously owned by your ex-fiancé?”
Chucky practically broke out in hives, he was so agitated. His face—which had previously been filled with color—turned crimson after Duke’s simple question. “Of course it is. Look at the picture you idiot! That’s my box of stamps. Mine!”
“I’m asking her,” Duke said, raising his voice, glaring at Chucky.
Jessica folded her arms smiled politely and said, “No. This is my wooden box. I do keep stamps in it sometimes, but I wouldn’t call it a collection.”
“Liar!” Chucky was nearly apoplectic. “Look at the carving on the lid. That’s a family crest.”
“It’s not your family crest,” Jessica said tersely.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s my box. And I want it.” He reached for it, but Duke kept it out of his grasping fingers.
Warrick, the prosecutor, spoke for the first time. “The court order allows us to look in the private safe deposit box. If you believe this is your property, and you’d like to press charges, then there is a process.”
“I definitely want to press charges,” Chucky said enthusiastically. “Tell me what form to sign.” He pointed his index finger at her. “You’re in trouble, Jessica. You should have given me the box back like I asked you to before.”
“It’s not your box, Chucky. This wooden box is mine,” Jessica stated in a calm voice.
“Don’t call me that. My name is Charles.”
Jessica shrugged. Garrett was still worried about Jessica being in trouble, although she suddenly didn’t seem as concerned. From Garrett’s point of view, she might be in trouble if Chucky could somehow prove the box was his. It looked like he had a picture of it. Was that enough? Jack, her lawyer, didn’t seem too upset so far.
“However,” the prosecutor said, “If Ms. Hoyt disputes that this is your wooden box, then a different process will have to be followed.”
“I totally dispute what he says. This is not his box.” Jessica’s tone was even, but assertive.
“What does that mean?” Chucky eyed the box as covetously as a child looking at the biggest gift under the Christmas tree.
The prosecutor said, “We can proceed, but you need more proof than a single picture. Can you prove this box and the contents are yours, Mr. Wetherill?
Chucky stared at the prosecutor, his eyes squinting as if he didn’t understand why the man couldn’t simply take his sterling exemplary word for it. “I need to prove it?”
Warrick looked suddenly weary. “Yes. I need proof beyond the picture and the family crest—which isn’t truly your family crest, I mean. What else signifies that this box is your possession and not Ms. Hoyt’s?”
Everyone’s eyes were on him. However, Chucky’s attitude remained superior.
“In other words, can you prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is your property?” the prosecutor asked.
Chucky looked constipated. Perhaps he thought that if they found the box, it would simply be handed over to him on his word alone. “Like what?” Chucky said.
“Is there anything special about this piece? Any features not easily seen from a picture.”
Jessica smiled at Chucky, goading him with her own gaze of superiority. Garrett knew that look. She was confident the box was hers and that he wouldn’t be able to prove it wasn’t. She had something up her sleeve.
Unfortunately, Chucky stupid face morphed to an equally gratified look, like he was also as confident he’d win the day. From his inner jacket pocket, he produced a piece of paper. “How about this? I have a list of all the stamps inside.” He slapped the paper on the table next to the still-open SDB. “Open it up. Look inside.”
Jessica held up her hand. “Wait. I don’t want the box opened up.”
Chucky’s face started changing color again.
The prosecutor looked at her. “May I ask why not?”
Jessica glanced at Jack who nodded, and said, “No one has proven the box isn’t mine. And I don’t want anyone to see the contents.”
