Page 20 of Glass Wings

“So, your knowledge comes from secondhand accounts?”

“Yes.”

“Accounts given in the chaos of a crowded festival. Loud music, flashing lights, intoxicated individuals everywhere?”

The officer shifts. “Yes.”

Rick nods. “No further questions.”

The prosecutor calls the so-called victim next. He walks in with a bandage still faintly visible under his hairline, milking the limp he most certainly doesn’t need. My fists clench, chains rattling. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Harley’s hand fly to her mouth.

He swears in, sits down, and paints me as a monster. “He came at me out of nowhere. I don’t even know him! Next thing I know, I’m on the ground, bleeding.”

Rick rises again. “Did you have any interaction with Mr. Diggs prior to this incident?”

The victim hesitates. “He, uh, he accused me of something. Said I was messing with a drink. Which wasn’t true.”

Rick tilts his head. “Not true? So, you weren’t anywhere near Ms. Starr’s drink?”

The victim’s eyes flick toward Kennedy in the gallery. She sits straighter, her glare like a laser beam. He shifts uncomfortably. “I might’ve brushed the table. But I didn’t do anything. I don’t know her either.”

Rick lets the silence hang. The judge scribbles something in his notes.

“No further questions at this time.”

The prosecutor smirks, thinking she’s dodged the bullet.

But then Rick stands again. “Your Honor, the defense would like to call a witness.”

My heart lurches. Who would be willing to testify for me?

Kennedy walks to the stand, chin high, blue eyes blazing. She swears in and sits down. Her voice is sharper than I’ve ever heard it before. “I saw him. He put something in my drink. Easton noticed it before I did and reacted immediately. I was on the dance floor with my best friend and thought my boyfriend would take care of it, but he didn’t. Before I could do anything, he shoved Easton. And Easton defended himself.”

The prosecutor snaps, “Ms. Starr, you were drinking that evening, were you not?”

“Yes. But I know what I saw.”

“And your friendship with the defendant’s fiancée doesn’t color your memory?”

Kennedy’s lip curls. “No. What colors my memory is almost being drugged at a music festival.”

The courtroom stirs. The judge bangs the gavel once for silence.

Rick’s questions are short, deliberate. “Did Easton strike the first blow?”

“No,” Kennedy says firmly. “He was shoved first.”

Rick nods. “Thank you.”

When Kennedy steps down, Harley catches her hand briefly, squeezing, whispering something I can’t hear. My chest aches watching them. There’s my Little Bird, clinging to her best friend while I sit in chains.

The prosecutor tries to recover, arguing the testimony was biased, unreliable. Rick counters with calm precision, pointing out the inconsistencies in the victim’s story, the lack of direct evidence, the officer’s admission he hadn’t seen the fight.

Finally, the judge leans forward, eyes scanning both attorneys. The silence stretches until it’s unbearable.

“Probable cause is established,” he says flatly. “This matter will proceed to trial.”

The gavel cracks. Harley gasps. My stomach plummets.