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I might as well be talking about his movements that night, and not my mom’s.
But the man beside me doesn’t react visibly to my words. He doesn’t flinch or give any outward sign of discomfort. He just nods thoughtfully.
“That’s not ideal, obviously. But if most of the evidence against her is circumstantial, that leaves room for doubt in a jury’s minds. And that’s good. What tangible evidence do the police have?”
My body flushes hot, then cold. It takes every bit of self-control in me not to clench my hands into fists.
Not to plant my fist in his fucking face.
He knows. He knows what evidence they have, knows their trump card—because he was the one who had dirty cops plant it.
“They found Iris’s DNA on Mom’s car,” I admit, my voice strained. “Some blood and hair, I think.”
My stomach churns as I have a sudden vision of the dark lump of Iris’s body lying on the street, shadowed and inhumanly still. The kind of stillness that only comes with death.
Someone took little tiny pieces of her and smeared them onto the grill of Mom’s beat-up Nissan. The callousness of it, the injustice of it, makes me want to throw up. Iris deserved better than that. My mom deserves better than that.
Judge Hollowell frowns, rubbing a hand over his freshly shaved jaw.
“That… is trickier. That kind of verifiable DNA evidence looks pretty damning to a jury.” He lets out a noise under his breath and meets my gaze, squinting a little. “Do you have any idea how it could’ve gotten on your mom’s car?”
My stomach turns to ice, cold radiating through me from my core outward.
Fuck. Fuck fuck. Why is he asking that? Is he digging to see if I know what he did? If I know about the planted evidence?
I shake my head, trying to hide the jerkiness of the movement as my whole body quakes with nerves.
“No. I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense. I mean, Iris and a couple other cheerleaders put trash in my mom’s car and spray painted the windows a couple weeks into the fall semester. Maybe she scraped herself or something then.”
There’s a slight shift in Judge Hollowell’s expression as I speak, a hardening around the lines of his mouth. He didn’t know about their little prank, I realize. And he doesn’t like it.
Whether that’s a good or bad thing for me and my mom, I’m not sure.
Is he worried it could be used to invalidate the DNA evidence? If there’s a possible alternate explanation for how particles of Iris’s skin got on my mom’s car, that would undermine a huge part of the case against her.
Holy shit. Has Scott Parsons looked into this? I’d bet my last fucking dollar he hasn’t.
“I see.” Hollowell nods, appearing thoughtful. Then the perfectly practiced look of concern warms his hazel eyes again. “But that’s circumstantial too, unfortunately. There’s no way to prove when or how Iris’s DNA ended up on your mother’s car—just that it’s there now. Did she take her car to the shop?”
Goddammit. I don’t want to tell him shit.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I played along with this conversation so he wouldn’t realize I figured out who he was, but now I don’t know how to get out of it. I wasn’t ready for the fucked up, deadly game of chess we’re playing.
“Um, yeah,” I mutter, glancing down at my hands. My fingers are twisted so tightly around each other, my knuckles are turning white.
Judge Hollowell makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Then it’s entirely possible any DNA the girls left behind would’ve been washed off by whatever cleansers the mechanic used to remove the paint from the windshield.” His hand falls on my knee, and I almost jump out of my skin. When my gaze flashes up to his, I see pity in his eyes. “I’m not saying it means nothing, but I’m just trying to give you a realistic idea of what to expect.”
“Right.” I swallow and nod, my throat dry and scratchy as sandpaper.
“And, Harlow…” He hesitates, pressing his lips into a line as if he’s not sure he should say whatever he’s thinking. Then he sighs and continues. “I know you believe in your mom’s innocence. That’s good. I believe in it too. But that’s the way the story always goes, isn’t it? The relatives of a person who snaps and does the unthinkable are often caught just as unawares as everyone else is.”
He squeezes my knee once and then pulls his hand away, leaving pinpricks crawling up and down my skin.
“I’m not saying you should give up on your mother. I would never say that. She needs you, and she’s lucky to have you in her corner. But… well, we don’t always know the people we love as well as we think we do, that’s all.”
My jaw clenches. I don’t try to hide my anger, because I’d be pissed at his words no matter what, whether I knew anything about what he’s done or not. If I’m playing a role here, my next words are entirely in character.
“My mom’s not a murderer, Judge Hollowell. And if you think she is, maybe I shouldn’t be here at all.”
