Thursday Afternoon
“All rise.”
The jurors filed back in, eyes skimming the room the way they always did after a break—taking the temperature, checking the tables.
Eleanor stood as they settled, hands resting lightly on the defense table.
Judge Harlan looked toward her.
“Ms. Harper,” he said, “you may call your first witness.”
She pushed back from the table and stood, shoulders squared.
“The defense calls Mark Ellison, Your Honor.”
A faint ripple went through the gallery. Across the aisle, Reid’s pen stilled above his legal pad.
A man in his late thirties stood from the back row and made his way down the center aisle. Work boots, clean jeans, a collared shirt that didn’t quite know what to do with a tie. He kept his eyes on the floor until he reached the witness stand.
“Raise your right hand, please,” the clerk said.
He did.
“Do you solemnly swear or affirm that the testimony you give in this matter will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“I do.”
He sat, shifting once in the chair.
Eleanor stepped to the lectern.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Ellison.”
“Afternoon,” he said.
“Would you please state your name for the record?”
“Mark Ellison.”
“Mr. Ellison, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a framer. Construction.”
“Did you at one time work for Mercer Construction?”
He swallowed.
“Yeah.”
“For how long?”
“Off and on… five years, I guess.”
“And who owned Mercer Construction?”
“David,” Ellison said. “David Mercer.”
Eleanor nodded once.
