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“Objection! Hearsay!” the prosecutor cuts in, and the tiniest flutter of hope passes through me. It isn’t much, but any time the prosecution can throw a wrench, I pray it lands right in one of their fucking spokes.
Mr. Clayton looked at the judge, his hands extended at his sides. “Your Honor, considering my client is on trial for the attempted murder of Andrea Shaw, it would be a disservice to not present the jury with the full picture and character of the so-called victim.”
“Objection! Andrea Shaw is not the one on trial here today, Your Honor!” The defense is scrambling to stop this testimony by any means.
The judge slams down his gavel, the sound vibrating through the deadly silent courtroom.
“You’re on thin ice, Mr. Clayton. You better tread very, very carefully. The witness will refrain from answering any questions where he does not have direct knowledge. The objection is denied for now.” There is a stiff warning in the judge’s eyes, but it doesn’t bring me any comfort.
“Yes, Your Honor.” Mr. Clayton clears his throat before continuing his questions. “Mr. Morales, did Christopher complain to you regularly about Ms. Shaw?”
Mr. Morales nods. “Yes, almost every time we saw each other.”
“Did Mr. Gates ever express fear or apprehens—”
The prosecutor rises. “Objection! Leading the witness!”
The defense attorney’s shoulders stiffen, but he quickly relaxes them. It’s obvious he’s getting irritated. “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I’ll rephrase.”
I’m practically on the edge of my seat. The rage I feel is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
“Mr. Morales, how did Mr. Gates act when he talked about Ms. Shaw?”
“Like he was scared of her or something. I never understood it until much later.”
The murmurs pick up in the courtroom.
“Quiet!” The judge bangs his gavel three times. “Members of the gallery, you will refrain from talking, or you will be removed from my courtroom.”
A hush falls over the room, energy pulsing in waves as everyone’s attention slides back to the lanky man up front.
Mr. Clayton continues. “Can you elaborate?”
Morales nods and shifts uncomfortably. It’s so fucking obvious he’s nervous. Far more so than a normal witness. He’s lying through his fucking teeth, and I don’t even say that as the brother of the woman he’s speaking about. It’s as a man who has years of experience watching the behavior of the opposition to find a way to catch them in their lies and take them down.
“Yes, a little over eight months ago—this would have been around February of this year—I was at my bank. I think I was there to make a deposit, but I can’t remember. What I do remember is seeing Andrea Shaw. I’d never met her in person, but Christopher had shown me pictures. So, I was pretty confident it was her. I was about to go up and say hello when she went back to the safe deposit box area.”
“And then what happened?”
“She came out a few minutes later in a hurry and barking at the man who helped her. I thought it was odd, but then again, the way Christopher talked about her, it kind of added up, you know?”
The attorney only nods his head, walking up to stand right in front of the witness. He lays his hands one on top of the other.
Where the fuck are they going with this? Yes, Andrea went to the bank to try to get proof that Christopher hired a hitman. I highly doubt that she was rude to anyone in the bank. She would never do that.
And the way they’re trying to set her up as some crazy, unhinged woman? I grit my teeth, my hands balling into fists. I’m ready to beat the fuck out of the piece of shit telling lies on the stand about my sister.
Mr. Clayton’s head cocks to the side. “What happened next?”
The dick on the stand clears his throat. “Well, it so happens that Christopher and I were having lunch that day, and I mentioned I saw her there.”
“What did Mr. Gates do or say?”
The witness shifts in his seat uncomfortably, straightening his already straight tie. He suddenly turns white as a ghost and seems tense when he makes eye contact with Christopher. Maybe even scared. I lean forward in my seat, waiting for this slimy fuck to answer the question.
“Did he tell you why?” Mr. Clayton prods.
“Yes.”
