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Judge Gellar sighs. “Want to check your messages, Mr. Hatcher?”
He pivots to face the judge, his narrowed eyes sweeping me. “No, Your Honor. I don’t care to play into courtroom theatrics.” Then to me: “I fail to see how attempting to disgrace me proves your evaluation of Charles Reker was thorough, Dr. Noble.”
I shift my position, alleviating the throbbing pressure at the base of my back. I’m officially tired of sitting here. “A crime of passion suggests an act of immediacy. Charles Reker, after careful analysis, proved to be aware of his wife’s infidelity for over a year. Like you, Mr. Hatcher, Mrs. Reker was obvious in her attempts to hide the affair. So if you’re suggesting that an affair alone is motive enough for murder…then I would be very wary of going through with your weekend plans.”
At his intense silence, I add, “My findings and diagnosis are all documented in the files I sent to your paralegal.” I nod to the mountain of files on the prosecution’s desk. “If you’d been as invested in this case as you are with your extra curricular activities, you’d have read my reports, and not presented such a weak case for the prosecution.”
A flash of anger stains his face, then he takes measured steps to his table. “I’m done, Your Honor. No more questions.”
Judge Gellar shakes her head. “I agree there, Mr. Hatcher.”
* * *
An hour after my testimony, the trial concludes, and the jury is sequestered for deliberation. High profile cases can’t be kept out of the media, unfortunately. Judge Gellar is doing what she can to give Charles a fair trial.
I’m confident I was able to help the jury see past the grisliness of Charles’s crime to the sick individual beneath. And, Mr. Hatcher won’t ever call me to the stand in the future, I’m sure. Which I consider a double victory.
The crisp scent of spring greets me as I exit the courthouse. Maine is so fresh in the spring, as if everyone is given a clean slate. I inhale the jasmine in the air, letting it cleanse the trial from my system. I head down the steps, careful not to trigger another flare-up, and pain lances my arm.
It’s acute and not the norm. As I spin around, cold liquid douses me—the shock of it stealing my breath. I drop my briefcase and wipe at my face, clearing away the thick substance.
My hands are covered in red.
“You got a murderer off!” a woman shouts. She throws a metal bucket at me, her aged features creased in anger. “That devil killed my sister. He burned her alive and hacked her up. Her blood is on your hands, you animal.”
My mouth pops open, and is immediately filled with the metallic taste of blood. I gag. I’m only given a moment to process what’s taking place before she flees down the steps at the sound of sirens.
