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The expert testifying wasn’t going easy on me. Fucking asshole.
“If you look at the injuries to his throat, it’s apparent that Officer Trenton was facing away from the defendant, unable to pry his hands off before his neck was broken. The cervical spine was misaligned, which was his cause of death. Since the victim and defendant were seen together before his death, I think it’s safe to say the defendant caused the fatal injury.”
Unlike at my last trial, the prosecutor is a woman and she’s a fucking pit bull. She’s sharp, her questions are on point and she doesn’t let up. Fuck me.
She puts her hands behind her back, standing straight as an arrow and points to the image of Trenton laid out on the uncomfortable mattress on the cell in the hole. “So, from your findings, the defendant attacked him, unprovoked, and caused these injuries?”
Before Shane can object, the expert says, “I can’t speak to that. I can only tell you what I saw. There is bruising on his knuckles here,” he says, pointing his red pointer to the redness on Trenton’s hands, “and here, so it could have been a fight that the defendant came out on top of.”
Shane’s face shows surprise. I don’t think he was expecting him to say that either.
The prosecutor looks like she sucked on lemons but dips her head. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
After buttoning his jacket, Shane stands and asks his questions. It’s mostly to do with the injuries on Trenton that would signify an actual fight and not me taking him by surprise. I mean, I did, but not completely. He got what was coming to him and I’m not sorry.
From there, a few of the inmates that I know are brought forth to testify about their complaints against Trenton. Luckily for us, the people that are called up are known to be model prisoners. They aren’t innocent, by any means, but they’re petty criminals—in prison for things like robbery and grand theft, nothing violent like me. They catalog all the times Trenton and other guards beat them for no reason other than them mouthing off. The jury seems to appreciate their testimony, but I don’t know if they feel like it justifies murder.
The proceedings conclude for that day and I’m escorted out of the courtroom before I can say anything to my brothers. They haven’t been able to visit, so the only information I’ve gotten about any of them has been through Shane, but we only have fifteen-minute visits and most of it was to cover trial information, so I’m in the dark.
Fuck. I really fucked myself here. Shane, nor any of my brothers know who could have spilled the beans. Prez questioned everyone, in some not so pretty ways as Shane put it and Prez didn’t think anyone is lying. The cop on the inside said the audio file with the anonymous tip isn’t being released to the public and since the person didn’t leave a name or number, they weren’t called to testify. Fucking anonymous hotlines suck.
That night, when I’m lying on the hard-ass cot in my single cell, I think about the likelihood of me getting out of this. There’s none. The most I can hope for is several life sentences. At least with life sentences, I can be around other prisoners, mingling in gen pop. Some of my brothers might come in and out of whatever prison I’m sent to. I can have some human contact.
When I was in prison before, I kept to myself and spent a lot of time in my cell, but I had the option to talk to people. I haven’t seen another soul but the guards in the prison they have me in now. They’re not like the ones in the other prison—these guards don’t socialize; they work in pairs and they don’t get closer to me than they have to. It’s maddening.
The next morning, when I’m escorted into the courtroom, I see Finn’s beautiful face and my heart starts to race. He looks really good. Not happy, since there are dark circles under his eyes and he looks a little gaunt, but he doesn’t look unhealthy. His blond hair isn’t colored at the ends, which makes me frown. Did Shane make him change his appearance for the trial? That’s not necessary. I’m sure with all the photos that were blasted online and on the news, they knew the tips of his hair was green. He told me he dyed the ends often.
He’s wearing a blue suit with a crisp white shirt and I can see his discomfort. Finn doesn’t like shit like this. Sure, he wore the shit Zeke brought for him—t-shirts, basketball shorts and joggers—but from what he had on the day I met him, and what the photos of him showed, he likes tight jeans, tight shirts, and crop tops.
This isn’t him.
Something is wrong. No matter how much I stare at him, trying to catch his eye, he doesn’t look my way. Shane elbows me, telling me to stop staring, but I can’t help taking glances at him. Why won’t he look at me?
It dawns on me what’s wrong. Finn isn’t sitting on my side with my brother’s. He’s on the other side. I ask Shane about it and he sighs. "He's their witness. He has to sit there so it doesn't seem like he's too chummy with the MC. But don't worry. I prepped him last night. He’s ready.”
At that, the prosecutor stands up and says in a loud, clear voice, “The prosecution calls Finnegan Coombs to the stand.”
Shane nods beside me, giving me the signal that Finn won’t fuck me over. I try to catch Finn’s eye, but he won’t look over at me. Shane meets my eyes and raises an eyebrow as if to say, what did you expect? I don’t expect him to look over at me—to keep our plan on the low—but it would have been nice for him to stare back at me as hard as I’m staring at him.
He’s sworn in, then takes a seat in the witness box. The sharp prosecutor walks over to him slowly, her face a mask of sympathy. “Mr. Coombs. I’m so sorry about your ordeal. Are you holding up well?”
Finn pulls in a deep breath, then plucks a tissue from the box in front of him. “As good as can be expected. I’m … broken.”
My chest hurts. Those two words ripped my fucking heart out. I sit up straighter, wishing I could walk to the stand and pull my sweet pea in for a hug, telling him everything will be fine and that Shane will fix it so he doesn’t say anything wrong.
The prosecutor pats his hand in a motherly way. “Can you tell me what happened? How did you come to be taken by the defendant?”
Nodding, Finn pulls in a shaky breath. “I uh … I was shopping. I do my grocery shopping early in the morning most days. In a small town, if you’re not an early bird, you’ll miss out on the good stuff.” She nods in understanding. “Anyway. After I finished my shopping, I saw Rax—” Finn’s breath catches and he looks at me for the first time. In the place of the lust, desire, infatuation, and love I saw shining before, now, I see … nothing. His expression—though he’s obviously in pain—is blank. None of the emotions I’m used to seeing are there.
What the fuck is going on? I give Shane a look, wondering why Finn is testifying. Why is he saying anything besides “I plead the fifth,” or “No comment”?
Shane looks stunned as well, as if he’s just as lost as I am. He’s staring Finn down, shaking his head slowly as if he’s never seen him before.
Finn continues his testimony.
“When I saw Mr. James,” he corrects, “he made me believe he needed to make a call because his car was broken down. I later found out it was the car of the man he killed and he didn’t make a phone call at all. He pretended to call someone and ask for a tow.”
Turning to the projector, the lawyer clicks a button on the remote in her hand and pulls up the surveillance footage of us outside the grocery store. “Is this you and Mr. James?”
