“Yes.”
“And afterward, my client never physically harmed either one of you.”
“No.”
“In fact, she walked away after the interaction ended. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“No further questions.”
The witness stepped down, visibly relieved to be done, while Ms. Franklin returned to the defense table beside me without acknowledging the stares following her across the courtroom.
People always stared at her. Men especially. The judge tried not to. Ms. Franklin never seemed to notice any of it. Or maybe she did and simply didn’t care.
She sat down beside me and quietly slid a legal pad closer to herself.
Good job, she wrote neatly across the top, then underlined it once.
A few minutes later, the bailiff announced the next witness. “State calls Martavious Reed.”
The courtroom doors opened, and when Tink stepped inside, I wanted to sink through the floor.
He looked older now. Taller too. The softness that had clung to him before my arrest was gone completely. He wore slacks and a button-up shirt, and he carried himself differently now, more reserved, like life had forced him to grow up faster than he should’ve had to.
Tink scanned the courtroom as if he was still searching for the version of me he used to know, the one who’d been scared but trying, not this woman sitting in chains with her name splashed across the news. I watched him take in the orange jumpsuit, the shackles, and the bailiffs standing nearby. His expression barely changed, but I still caught that slight recoil. Then the tiny adjustment afterward.
He prepared himself for this, and still wasn’t. Somehow, that pained me worse than disgust ever could’ve.
Then his eyes met mine, and just like that, I saw the hurt, disappointment, and confusion all over again.
I looked away first.
Ms. Franklin had warned me about this. She’d told me Tink would testify, and that the prosecution would use him to paint a picture of instability, a woman spiraling—someone capable of violence. She’d prepped me for it, but knowing it was coming and actually seeing him walk through those courtroom doors were two different things.
Tink took the oath with his hand raised, his voice steady when he swore to tell the truth. He didn’t sound like the boy I remembered. There was no hesitation in him anymore, and no uncertainty. He sat down in the witness chair and looked directly at me again.
My head lowered in shame, and I blocked out the first part of Tink’s testimony.
“Martavious, did you ever witness the defendant talking to herself?”
Tink hesitated. “Yes, sir, but not at first.”
“Do you remember the first time you saw her do it?”
“After my momma’s birthday barbecue.”
“How often?”
“A lot.”
“Can you describe what you saw?”
“Yes. I ran an errand for her one day, and when I got back to her house, she introduced me to her boyfriend.”
“Do you remember his name?”
Tink nodded. “Booda.”
