The courtroom gasped in unison, and then whispers and low-key chatter rose like the tide.
“Order!” A loud strike of the gavel put an end to the noise. “The witness will answer,” Judge Antunez said. “Let the record show the image is that of the murder weapon.”
“Yes, that’s what the bottle looks like. There are millions sold each year,” she added quickly, and Colton didn’t interrupt.
“Yes, there are. In fact, anyone could get access to such a bottle, correct?”
“Exactly. They’re over the counter and widely available.”
Colton paced slowly, as if thinking what to ask next, and then stopped by the stand, facing the jury.
“Mrs. Donovan, please tell the jury how you met your husband, Winston.”
“Objection!” Mitchell countered. “Relevance?”
The judge turned to Colton. “Mr. Blake?”
“If you’ll allow us a few minutes, Your Honor, the defense believes the testimony will be quite relevant to this case.”
The judge considered it for a moment before he said, “Overruled. The witness will answer.”
Claire had turned ashen under the makeup, her chest covered in red blotches—a dead giveaway for high blood pressure. She must’ve been fuming, but I couldn’t tell whether she was afraid or just embarrassed.
“I was hired as a maid in his household,” she reluctantly admitted. Her words were met with subdued whispers from the gallery.
“And where was this, Mrs. Donovan?”
“In North Dakota. Winston was running an oil-fracking operation up there.”
“Who hired you, Mrs. Donovan?”
She glared at Colton for a moment, her lips pressed tightly together. “Winston’s first wife.”
Colton clicked the remote, and the bottle ofVisinewas replaced with the portrait of a charming, sophisticated blonde in her late thirties. “You mean Emelda Donovan?”
“Yes,” Claire replied, thrusting her chin forward as if to say she had nothing to be ashamed of.
“Then what happened?”
“Objection, Your Honor.” Mitchell rose from his seat, gesturing with both his hands. “Are we going anywhere with this?”
“I’ll allow it,” the judge replied. “Mr. Blake, get to the point.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” he replied, unfazed. “So, how did you get from housemaid to wife, Mrs. Donovan?”
More whispers came from the gallery, immediately silenced by the judge’s stare. The spectators shifted in their seats, visibly interested in Claire’s story.
“We fell in love,” Claire replied, with a shy smile perfectly tinged with sadness and a tentative shrug.
“Tell us, please, was Emelda older than Winston?”
“Yes. She was seven years older than him.”
“And did Winston divorce Emelda to marry you?”
Claire’s eyes narrowed again. “No.” She licked her lips nervously. “Emelda passed away. Winston was a widower when he proposed to me.”
“What did she die of, Mrs. Donovan? Do you remember?”
