Billy Ray came over and squeezed my shoulder. “It’s okay, sis. I’ll do it. Got nothin’ to hide.”
“Thanks,” I managed to whisper, terrified.
In only two days, my trial would start.
I wasn’t ready.
44
Statements
My hair was done in a low, tight bun. No loose strands to frame my face, just a military-style bun that was supposed to project the right image to the judge and jury. I wore a navy-blue skirt suit with a white silk blouse—no plunging neckline, just a neat shirtlike collar all buttoned up. My engagement ring was at home, as Colton had insisted female jurors could hate or envy me for the stunning piece of jewelry. It had taken a lot of soapy water to slip it off my finger, and now my hand felt strangely bare without it.
We’d arrived about fifteen minutes early and found a large mob of newspeople and photographers gathered outside the courthouse, which was a modern building in glass and metal on Clark Avenue. Colton had kept his arm wrapped around my shoulders the entire time we’d made our way through them. Following his advice, I hadn’t responded to any of the provocative questions hurled at me.
“All rise! The Honorable Judge Antunez presiding. Court is now in session.”
The bailiff’s loud announcement had snatched me back into reality. Standing, I looked over my shoulder to find the courtroom filled to the brim, every seat taken, and a few spectators standing, lining the backwall. Claire Donovan wasn’t among them. The only familiar face in the crowd was Billy Ray, seated right behind me.
When the judge walked into the courtroom, I recalled why his name had sounded so familiar. It was from a newspaper article I’d read a while ago, about his harsh sentencing practices.
“Be seated,” he ordered, taking a seat himself. He seemed cold and unyielding, his face carved in stone and his eyes intense.
Colton squeezed my hand under the table, then looked at a legal pad with jotted notes. “Remember what we discussed,” he whispered, leaning closer to my ear. “No fidgeting, no persistent eye contact with anyone, no smiling, no crying.”
“I’ll try.”
The gavel fell, and the public settled into perfect silence. “Not every day are we called to do our jobs in a capital murder case,” the judge said. “I am telling you right now, I will not have this courtroom turned into a circus. Any cell phone use, social media posting, or sounds of any kind, and you will be held in contempt. This is your only warning. Clear?”
He waited a moment, but no one said anything. The audience kept still and silent, as if the entire courtroom were holding its breath.
“Good,” he continued. “Counselors, a few key points. First, ensure all evidence is properly disclosed and admissible. Objections should be made promptly and succinctly. Avoid making public statements that could unduly influence the jury. Any questions before we proceed?”
“No, Your Honor,” Colton replied at the same time as the ADA, Mitchell. I looked at him with morbid curiosity, wondering how someone who was willing to throw innocent people in jail could sleep at night. Based on his perky demeanor, he slept perfectly well, perhaps because he believed I was guilty as sin.
“Great,” the judge said. “We’re going to get along just fine if you follow my rules. Bailiff, please bring the jury in.”
A door in the back of the courtroom opened, and the jurors walked in single file to take their seats. The first one, an overweight woman of about fifty, wearing thick-rimmed glasses, threw me a poisonous glance.The next one, an Asian man, thin and rather short, looked at me with morbid curiosity. The next two jurors, a white man and a Black woman, glared at me, the contempt in their eyes painfully obvious. These people knew nothing about me, but they were ready to end my life.
A cold, paralyzing fear gripped my heart, squeezing the breath out of my lungs. I felt utterly powerless, just a pawn in a sickening game where the stakes were my own life. Anger simmered inside me—a bitter resentment toward the strangers who condemned me without truly understanding. It felt as if the walls were closing in, each minute bringing me a step closer to a terrifying future.
Unable to take it anymore, I looked straight ahead, pinning my eyes on the courtroom seal on the wall, right above the judge’s seat. While Antunez instructed the jury, I kept staring into thin air, willing myself still, projecting an appearance of calm I wasn’t feeling, and wondering how I would be able to resist falling apart throughout the entire day.
“Ready for opening statements, gentlemen?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Mitchell replied, standing quickly and buttoning his jacket.
“Proceed.”
Mitchell walked over to the jury box and smiled politely. I watched him closely, noticing how he took the time to make eye contact with the jurors, to establish a connection before speaking his first word.
“Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my name is Dylan Mitchell. I’m a prosecutor for the State of Nevada, and today, you and I share the same goals. We are here to bring justice for Winston Donovan, a visionary entrepreneur and a beloved member of our community, whose life was brutally and mercilessly stolen. The evidence you will see will reveal a dark and sinister truth about the woman who stands accused, Olivia Taylor—a woman who, behind an appearance of glamour and sophistication, hides a heart of pure malice.
“First, we will peel back the layers of deceit that Olivia Taylor has wrapped around herself. This is a woman who has lived under a false identity—a carefully and professionally constructed one—weaving aweb of lies so intricate that it ensnared even the most vigilant among us. Olivia Taylor is a phantom; a fabrication designed to manipulate and exploit those around her, going to great lengths to appear to be someone she was not.”
Some of the jurors were nodding almost imperceptibly. A couple of them were frowning. I lowered my head under the weight of the ADA’s words.
“She lived in temporary arrangements, prepared to flee at a moment’s notice,” Mitchell continued. “There are no bank accounts to her name, no work record, no tax filings, no ties with the community. Until a few months ago, Olivia Taylor did not exist.”
