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And leading the group is a well-dressed man with a briefcase. He takes the first chair at the table, the older man sitting beside him.
Blake and the young guy sit in the stacking chairs, though the young guy looks less than excited about the worn seat.
Don’t worry, a little dirt never hurt. Except maybe your dry cleaning bill.
“Your Honor, my name is Raymond Walsh, attorney on retainer for Everlife Insurance. Please forgive our delay this morning. We were unsure what floor your courtroom was on.” Mr. Walsh gives the room a look of repressed condescension, his face impassive but the impression clear enough. “May I present my client? Mr. Frederick Neilhouse, representing Everlife Insurance.”
“Mr. Walsh, Mr. Neilhouse, let’s get started,” Judge Hopkins says crisply. At second glance, either he’s got something in his left eye or it’s starting to twitch. Probably not a good sign for Everlife. Judge Hopkins might know his courtroom isn’t exactly on par with what’s up at the capital in Superior Court . . . but that doesn’t mean he’s to be disrespected.
I try to catch Blake’s attention to warn him to have his guy chill out with the fancy-schmancy talk and snobby looks, but he’s staring solidly at the back of Mr. Neilhouse’s head. Frederick, that’s what the attorney said his name is.
Pssst! Blake! Your lawyer’s coming off like an arrogant asshat tourist. Oh, and also, you left your toast on the counter this morning. Don’t worry, I ate it. Can we get lunch later? Or maybe tonight can be our dinner date . . . finally. Yeah, I know it’s only finally because I’m a big, scaredy cat, but I’m ready. I think. I hope. I know I’m definitely ready to do that thing you did last night with your fingers again.
I can feel my lips stretching into a smile as I have an entire conversation with Blake in my head, and I have to cover it with my hand and force a tiny cough. Even then, he doesn’t so much as blink in response.
“Before we begin, let me make this clear,” Judge Hopkins says. “This isn’t a trial, it’s a hearing. As such, while I’m going to be a bit more relaxed with certain rules, I won’t allow this to degenerate into some TV show. So both sides, save your grandstanding for some other case when there’s a jury and someone who hasn’t been on both sides of where you’re sitting now. Understand?”
Everyone’s quite clear, and the judge nods. “Mr. Monroe, the floor’s yours.”
At Judge Hopkins’s direction, Mr. Monroe stands to give an opening statement. He does a really good job of making Yvette Horne sound like a grieving widow whose pain at losing her husband is being worsened by Everlife twisting the knife to leave her destitute.
Yvette plays the part, dabbing at her eyes again now that she has an audience. I think she even squeezes out a few actual tears, though I don’t see anything resembling sadness in her eyes. If anything, she looks bored at having to sit through the proceedings. Especially when Mr. Walsh does his opening statement, dryly discussing industry standards and contract timelines.
Mr. Monroe calls Yvette to the stand, which is really just the chair sitting next to Judge Hopkins’s table.
The judge swears Yvette in himself, and then Mr. Monroe begins questioning her. By the time he’s done with her, I could actually believe that Yvette Horne loved her husband, especially when she talks about how much they loved their surrogate child, Rusty the dog.
“I’ve always wanted a dog, since we were never able to have children. But Dickie said we’d know when the time was right, and boy, did we. I saw Rusty on a website, biggest boy in the litter, and I knew that was our baby. Dickie loved that dog too. I’m glad I’ve got him now because he’s my only comfort in the empty house . . . the empty bed at night. That’s when it’s hardest, you know?” Yvette trails off, sniffling and wiping at her eyes.
“Do you need a moment to compose yourself, dear?” Judge Hopkins asks gently.
Yvette shakes her head. “No, thank you. I’d rather get this over with, you know. It hurts” —she holds her palm against her chest over her heart— “but better to rip it off like a Band-Aid.”
“Brave soul,” Mr. Monroe murmurs.
I must make some sound of disbelief because Jeff bumps his knee against mine, and when I look over, his eyes are screaming at me to ‘shut up’ and ‘stick to what we talked about’.
“Fine,” I mouth back, and he looks back to the front of the room just in time for Mr. Monroe to call him to the stand.
“In the interest of Mrs. Horne, I won’t ask you to get too detailed, Sheriff Barnes, but is it safe to say Mr. Horne is dead?” Mr. Monroe asks.
