by Nenny May
“I’m going to ask you again, Detective, do you believe Terrence Gresham was responsible for the death of Lawrence Harrington?” At that, he turned to her and wore a smile like a tacky t-shirt.
“He’s already facing charges. I’m just here to look into his murder charges regarding Michel Gresham.” Detective Harrington was on his feet again.
“There’s nothing to look into. He killed Michel. But he had nothing to do with the death of Lawrence Harrington… And what do you mean he confessed?”
“There’s a recording from one of his interrogation sessions. He was emotional and spoke extensively on being provoked, that he didn’t want to… and when we asked about the murder weapon he fell silent.” Christina gulped. Could he see the panic in her eyes of gentle hickory? The way the lids slowly parted and the balls bulged?
She cleared her throat.
“He made this confession before the charges were finalized?” She flung her legs over the edge of the bed. She was closer to him. His scent, a blend of aromatic cardamon and earthy vetiver, swirled about her nostrils. He nodded. “He never said anything about this… And I spoke to him… It hadn’t even come up in his arraignment!” Or had it and she’d merely overlooked it? No, it hadn’t. He’d confessed to sabotaging his own event, a slave to his own selfish interest… Had that been what Detective Harrington had been implying? Or was there more Terrence had left out? “What did he say… in his confession, what did he say?”
Harrington had blinked. Once, twice, his bottom lip clutched between his teeth.
She couldn't quite get an answer to the question she’d put across, it was always that much harder to speak with her soft blush pink lips crashed against his. He’d been startled to say the least even though his actions were an invitation to treat. Like ice he’d melted against her touch and he'd returned her kiss and it was almost like her world fell away. It was slow and soft, comforting in ways that words would never be. His hand rested on her scalp and another against her thigh that nearly made her wild. He’d groaned as if he'd wanted to take her right there on the petite hospital bed, but his lips sang a different tune.
And then it occurred to her, she would get farther with her father's case if indeed she'd let things escalate.
Feelings to Christina Gresham were like temperatures. Attraction was warm, Curiosity, warmer, Anger was boiling, and hate? Well, hate could torch, but it could also freeze. But love... Well, that's a temperature best left under neutral. This wasn’t about love. It neither was it lust. It was a selfish decision to cut corners for her father. She was in a goddamn hospital room. She didn’t know how much longer she had. If she could tip the chances in her favor, in Terrence’s favor… she would. She’d lick his bottom lip and nibble on them until he’d gone weak-kneed. Quite the seductress, Christina knew how to take control and wrap any man around her fingers.
For him, that one kiss was a promise and for her, it was a step in the right direction. Her kisses had once been described as hot chocolate on a bitter Wednesday night in the winter. They melted something in her victims, warmed them until all they could think about was having more… He’d succumbed to that, turning at an angle that she was beneath him, her back pressed against the bed and strong arms hoisting him up. She’d leaned upwards giving him little a time to resurface from his muddled thoughts. As the kiss began to grow heavy, like the sweet nuzzle of sleep after a drowsy day. She couldn't deny his lips created the colors of fondness. He tasted like November, like hot chocolate on stormy evenings and crisp autumn air. This was a selfish decision she was going to enjoy. She was using him for her own benefit. Taking control to stay one step ahead and keep her father from serving time for a murder he didn’t commit… but she was going to enjoy the high while it lasted.
And so, she’d gone in for the kill and kissed him was like it was the beginning of the end, fueled by a carnal hunger, lust.She was much to dressed for her liking. She’d shoved him aside, and piece by piece undressed before his dilated pupils. Hooded eyes had trailed her body, a body that had been cast in stone. She could only assume what Barron Harrington had thought about her bewitching naked form. His eyes had travelled from her face, the pulsing strength on it, to her collar bone, delicate in a smooth coat of melanin, then to her breasts. Without lingerie, she knew her breasts sat lower, more natural, less close together, each so perfect and moulded to her form. There was nothing in her body she needed to feel… concerned about. She didn’t have a head of mushroom hair, she had cancerous cells in her blood… and it was all okay.
The second time their lips met, they'd locked tighter, but it wasn't for long. He'd began nuzzling her neck with delicate kisses. So faint, they were whispers. Her body began to quake, almost uncontrollably. His head was angled slightly to the side as his lips marked her skin from her neck to her left nipple where he'd suckled, and she was surprised to find her lips parted, her breathing short, stuttered. Her heart fluttered inside her chest. At first, it was a delicate butterfly in the pit of her stomach, one that subsequently became an inferno when his unoccupied hand fundled with her right breast, squeezing and releasing, his fingers curling and tugging on her hard nipple.
Their bodies seemed to fit together as if they were made just for this moment, to fall into one another, to feel the natural rhythm. Pausing, he’d undone his belt buckle shuffling above her for something… protection from his back pocket. Why had he had it there? Did he have a woman in his life? Had he had intentions for her? She was second guessing… She pushed the thoughts aside. It didn’t matter. This was a step in the right direction… She returned her attention to him. In eyes of lust asked a question… he was looking for consent. She nodded. She would die before she would let her father serve time for a murder he didn’t commit. With her eyes fluttered shut, she reclaimed his lips.
Their skin moved together softly, like the finest of silk. She'd felt him, within her, the entirety of Barron Harrington, changing her breath with every gradual thrust, listening to the music of her moans timed to his body, his movement. His lips against hers knocked the strained breath from her lungs. He'd kissed her and the world fell away. It was slow and soft, almost in pace with his continuous thrusts. He'd relished in the way her body would writhe, and his pace increased, harder just long enough to intoxicate her mind before he'd slowed.
They'd continued, his hands pinning her to the bed and her toes curling. And as quick as they'd started screaming for each other, it was over. In a final thrust, he'd pounded into her. Her scream a celebration, blurred in a white bliss. He slowed to a stop and kissed her lips.
This was supposed to be the right decision why then did it all feel so wrong?
Chapter Twelve
Terrence Gresham sat mute by her left, hands interlinked, resting tensed on the table. He hadn't once asked about his case, hadn't once peeked through the body of papers Christina had stacked between them, it was almost like he'd trusted her or he'd completely lost faith.
She knew what was coming. It wasn't her first criminal case, and neither was it going to be her last. She knew why she and the residue of the courtroom sat in an uncomfortable silence, palms damp, and the hairs at the back of their head standing on end. They were patiently awaiting the judge.
There was a cough, loud, echoing against the room. It was accompanied by the screeching of chairs. A door was thrown open, eyes trailed the black robe as it strode elegantly to the front of the room. "All rise for the honorable judge Sandra Parker!" A voice chimed. Christina as well as the courtroom had risen to their feet, she could bet neither felt the twitch in a muscle at the corner of her right eye, or the rigid grimace that formed on her HoneyLove lips. Neither felt the gradual exploding pains in her bones, silent grenades.
Sandra Parker was quick, dropping to her seat, her gavel clicking against the pinewood table. She didn't glimpse at the court, but rather fixed her eyes and busy fingers on the papers before her, her brief. "Court is in session, please settle down." Her eyes rose, they were a brilliant brown above
a slight frown. There was silence as one by one, people dropped back to their seats."At this time, the court calls the people of the state of Manhattan V Terrence Edwin Gresham, case number 23C0357. Will the parties please state their appearances for the record."
Harper rose to her feet, features blank as a whiteboard. "Good Morning your honor, Harper Berkeley representing the people of the state of Manhattan. I'm the District Attorney of the New York County. Assisting me is Peter White, assistant District Attorney, also of the New York County."
"Welcome." Sandra Parker flashed a smile, small enough to go unnoticed in the packed courtroom.
"Thank you." Harper mumbled a reply, sitting. Christina rose, she couldn't deny the slight hurricane of thoughts erupting within her, or the the dull ache, as if some lazy torturer dawdled underneath the table, only applying enough pressure to be an annoyance. It throbbed, just the sides of her right foot toward her toes in her one-size too small Marc Jacob heels, a hasty online decision driven by her anxious need to feel confident in her case. There were eyes, tired eyes, angry eyes of the jury, a jury Christina had to believe were of Terrence Gresham's peers.
"Good morning your honor, Christina Gresham, council for the defense, and with me is Terrence Edwin Gresham." She finished. Christina knew little and next to nothing about the judge presiding over her fathers case. She was weak-kneed, not that she'd made it known. She along with the court cast a lingering glance at the woman whose decision at the conclusion of the case would determine Terrence Gresham's freedom. Terrence hadn't killed Lawrence, they were friends, unknown to others, but they were close and Christina was determined to have the sitting jury see that in him, that not only is he a sweet old man, but a father as well.
"Welcome." Christina smiled sitting.
"Thank you."
"Good morning jurors, the court has already called the case between The People v Terrence Edwin Gresham, case number 23C0357. Now in a moment, I'm going to be reading to you some opening instructions, but before then, I would request you all to rise so I can swear you in." Chairs screeched, the cough echoed once more and the jury had risen from their sleepy chairs.
"It is the duty of the jury to scrutinize and weigh the testimony of witnesses and evidences as a whole. You will be the sole judges of the credibility of the witnesses, it will be up to you to determine the weight of their testimony. You are invited to consider several factors in weighing their testimonies; this could be the interest of the witness, conduct and even the clarity of their recollections." There was a pause, one that hung like an approaching storm. "The defendant is charged with counts one through four of first degree felony murder under section 125 of the New York Penal Code." The pause still walked like a spectator to Terrence Gresham's case. "Now to prove the defendant is guilty of first degree murder, The People must prove several facts, beginning with the defendants performance of the act that caused the murder of Lawrence Malcom Harrington, as well as proving whether that act was a felony. The People can also decide to prove whether the defendant made use of a perpetrator to carry out the action that lead to the death of Mr. Harrington." Sandra Parker didn't seem interested in the constant shuffling in Christina's seat. Since the learned judge had stepped into the court room, the underrated defense attorney had altered her sitting position from crossing to uncrossing her legs underneath her table. "Members of the jury, at this time we're going to hear the opening statement from the state, Miss Berkeley, are you prepared?"
"Yes your honor." Harper muttered rising to her feet, a single hand running down the hem of her black pencil dress.
With fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her damp palms, Christina couldn't say she'd ever felt like the life of her only other family member was undeniably in her trembling hands.
"Your honor," Harper Berkeley began calmly, eyes hooded, but beneath were glazed over like the surface of a puddle. Christina Gresham knew what Terrence would face if he were convicted. The stated had requested the death penalty. She would lose her father if she wasn't able to prove his innocence. His life was in her hands, and there was nothing she could do to change that. There was no body else she could crawl to for help. "Council for the defense, Miss Gresham," With a glimpse over her shoulder, Harper offered the opposing council a nod, then turned to the body of viewers who'd taken out their time to arrive at Terrence Gresham's first hearing. There were familiar faces, one of which Harper recognized to be the family of the victim. From late Lawrence Harrington's wife to his son, faces like rocks on a sandy beach shore, sat at the farthest end of the room, cornered, almost like the didn't want to be noticed by council, judge or even the jury. "families of the victim," Harper noticed Christina's restless whirl in her seat, glimmering head focused on a single chestnut haired detective, but then again, she couldn't be too sure. "and members of the jury, good morning." Harper concluded, stepping away from her pinewood table.
"We're here to answer a single question." With eyes dancing around the room, there was a certain bitterness shimmering beneath them when they'd settled on the defendant Terrence Gresham. "Did Terrence Edwin Gresham murder his colleague Lawrence Malcom Harrington?" She turned to the jury, easily pacing the span of the courtroom front. "Is Terrence Edwin Gresham a killer? And Did he by way of annoyance snap the neck of Lawrence Malcom Harrington? Did he try to cover it up with a gunshot to the head of the late Lawrence Harrington?" She turned to the family of the deceased. "I will prove without a reasonable doubt, assisted by the testimony of well prepared witnesses, and physical evidence, to prove what really happened to Lawrence Malcom Harrington."
"I certainly never expected Mr. Gresham to be a killer, he definitely doesn't look like one. But he is, he is because he killed Mr. Harrington in cold blood, he let his growing agitation from the outcome of the trade-fair drive him to snapping the neck of his colleague, and when he realized that he would get caught, when he realized what he'd done, he'd tried to cover it up with a gunshot to the head of the deceased. Quite frankly, that was an amateur move, using his own gun."
She paced the room, hands behind her back. "But Mr. Gresham even after committing such a heinous crime had the audacity to lie to not one, but multiple investigating officers, creating a false alibi, one that removes him from the scene of the murder, one that completely erases his role in the death of Mr. Harrington."
"His crime didn't just alter the life of one person, it didn't alter the life of two people, but it altered the lives of a family, and aggrieved an entire state of people who'd be satisfied knowing the man who'd mercilessly taken the life of a world recognized author and economic mogul would be charged and convicted for his felony."
There was a cough, Christina shifted in her seat. She'd heard about the protests, read about them and even stumbled into a small group by the entrance of the court, hands decorated with signs requesting her father be killed for his crimes against the state. How was she to tell the young teenage girl that Terrence was being framed? Or the elderly lady with a sign wondering whether murderers roam free? that Terrence didn't even know who'd killed Lawrence Harrington.
"I sincerely wish Mr. Gresham's crimes had ended there. That he hadn't concealed the body in the office of the deceased for over two days before it was uncovered." She stopped by her table. "I guess we're all just learning a little bit about Mr. Gresham."
"But to understand what had lead Mr. Gresham to commit this drastic crime, we must first understand the First Annual Gresham Square Stock Trade-fair, an unethical, uncontrolled disaster that unavoidably sent more than fifty people to the hospital, forever plagued with the memory of the night they'd gone bankrupt."
Over her shoulder, Christina could feel the piercing glare of a pair of steel grey eyes. Stainless steel nails, stabbing the back of her neck. She hadn't expected his attendance. He wasn't supposed to see her. He wasn't supposed to see the change in her, in her health. He wasn't supposed to be here. But then again, she would be stupid to think he wouldn't be in attendance of the case that would decide whether
or not his father's death would or wouldn't be in vain.
"I suppose I wouldn't be wrong to describe this event as a scheme by Mr. Gresham, one that trudged in its wake multiple lawsuits from unpaid vendors, dissatisfied clients of the investment company and victims of the chaos that had broken out just minutes after the event had begun."
"I guess I should congratulate him, he'd only managed a single fatality amongst multiple injuries caused."
"Witnesses from that event will testify to the conduct of Mr. Gresham toward his colleague during and after the chaos that ensued, it will be noted, the fear that had gripped many who'd heard threats that left them feverish."
"The family of the deceased will testify to the last words of the victim to them, his rippling fear towards the defendant in his last days will be noted." Harper stopped, she wasn't facing the judge, neither was she facing the body of spectators, or even her own opposing council, but rather, she was facing the jury. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I thank you for your time." She concluded.
"Thank you, Miss Berkeley." Sandra Parker sat up straighter in her seat. "Miss Gresham, are you prepared." And Christina at that moment was smart to recognize the feeling in her gut, the one that over emphasized everything around her, and left her feeling like a pebble had just been tossed over a marble floor in a silent room.
The silence caressed her skin like a cool summer breeze, except it wasn't summer, and the frigid air conditioning could have chipped her hair off had she not already shaved it. She'd risen from her seat, fingers trembling to the point she could barely adjust the button on her blazer, but rather ended up fiddling with it. "Yes, your honor, I'm prepared." Christina Gresham heard herself say. She gulped a breath thinking not about what she would have to endure if she'd lost, but rather what she would enjoy when she'd won. The shaking in her hands reduced. She stepped aside from her table, from her father. She became the lawyer who'd won more cases than she'd lost. She became the woman she'd been before her diagnoses, the woman who felt at pease before the glaring eyes of a courtroom. She was Christina Gresham, defense attorney. She belonged to herself, she belonged to her success.