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“Short recess while the jury deliberates,” I hear as I turn to gather the file of papers.
Derek sidles up beside me and claps me on the shoulder. “Remind me to never go up against you, Cole.”
I grin at him. “I’m not the best for no reason, Savage.”
He walks out of the courtroom as the prosecution have their heads close together. They know they’ve lost this case, there’s no way they can win it with the evidence I just provided.
Taking one last look at Jeremy, I raise a brow before spinning around and following Stacey out of the room.
Deliberations can take anywhere from thirty minutes to two days—I’m hoping this is the former and not the latter. Pulling my cell out, I check my messages as I make my way to a bench in the hallway. There’s nothing back from Holland yet so I click open the Facebook app, but I’m only sitting for
ten minutes before someone announces the jury have reached a verdict and we can go back in.
Being that quick can only mean one of two things: they’re either sure he’s guilty or sure he’s innocent. If I was a betting man then I’d have to go with innocent.
Sitting back behind the table on the left side of the courtroom, we watch as the jury are called back in, followed by Judge Ferguson.
He signals for the head juror to stand, and as he does, he opens up a piece of paper folded in half before he says, “Based on everything we have been presented with, we find the defendant, Derek Savage, not guilty.”
Derek blows out a breath and stands, the blondes he walked in with earlier squealing with delight behind us in the gallery.
He shakes my hand and Stacey’s. “Thanks, I know I’m a sleaze.” His gaze skirts to the women. “I don’t deny it. But I didn’t do this.” He smirks. “I’m going to go and celebrate now.”
He walks off with the two blondes on his arms and Stacey scoffs. “Sleaze is a major understatement.”
I couldn’t agree more.
“Cole, you never fail to amaze me,” Jeremy says, sidling up next to us. “I honestly thought I had this one in the bag.”
I look him in the eyes as I shrug. “Maybe next time.”
Although both he and I know my firm and I are formidable so the chances of that happening are slim to none.
Stacey and I gather our stuff as we walk out, shaking hands with people in the gallery over our win. There’s nothing like ending the week on a complete and utter high.
The bus ride to the beach takes nearly an hour because it pauses at every little stop. It would have only taken maybe twenty minutes if I would have taken the car Tris gave me. It doesn’t matter how many times Tris tells me to take it—like this morning before I left—I never use it unless the kids are with me.
Taking a deep breath, I soak in the smell of the ocean air. It’s remarkable how it can feel so different even though I’m not far from the house. It’s like I’ve stepped into another state. The sound of the waves thrashing soothes me and has my shoulders slouching and a lazy grin forming on my lips.
I walk past the ice cream shop and a shack renting wetsuits before taking a left and walking into the main part of the town.
A few minutes later I’m standing in front of my own slice of heaven. The sign above the door is dark blue with white writing displaying the words “Beats & Bass.”
The glass door to the shop is littered with posters: local band gigs, wanted ads, and even one about a lost cat. A bell dings as I step inside, my eyes taking in all of the vinyl records displayed on the walls and in carts throughout the store.
Like I said: heaven.
I head toward the jazz section at the back, walking past Vic who owns the shop. “Morning.”
His hand floats to the white beard that touches his sternum as he strokes it. “New ones are on the left, Amelia,” he says, knowing exactly what I’ve come for.
“Thanks.”
I head to where he said, flicking through them but being careful to not damage any. Some of the cases holding the records are well worn and well listened to, whereas others are in near pristine condition. It’s not those ones I want though: I want the ones that have stood the test of time, been listened to over and over again. Been danced to and been the background noise to budding romances, weddings, or even parties from decades ago.
The pads of my fingers brush against a red cardboard casing and my heart skips a beat. This was the first record I ever owned, it’s probably still sitting on my shelf in my childhood bedroom. I slowly pull it out, my heartbeat drumming in my ears as I turn around, heading over to the record player allowing you to listen before you buy.
The first backing vocals of the song come through the headphones and I stare at Ray Charles’s smiling face while I trace over the letters of the words on the righthand side: “I can’t stop loving you.”
