by J. Kenner
Ollie has the good grace to look embarrassed. "No," he says, then runs his hand through his hair. His usually unruly waves are combed back, and his fingers loosen a few strands that now fall in his face, brushing over his John Lennon-style glasses. "What was I supposed to tell Maynard?" he asks. "That Stark doesn't want me around? I say that and I have to say why. And if Stark hasn't told Maynard that I told you attorney-client privileged information, then I don't see any reason to tell him myself."
"You could have thought of something," I say.
He nods slowly. "Maybe. But I've been working on Stark's defense from Los Angeles. It's been my full-time gig for over three weeks. I'm not here just because I have a personal connection, I'm here because I understand the law. I can be an asset, Nikki. And you know as well as I do that Damien needs all the help he can get."
I force myself not to ask him what he means. Maynard is aware of the abuse in Damien's past, that much I know for certain. But it was my understanding that not everyone on the team knows. Does Ollie? The thought makes me queasy, because I know how much Damien wants that aspect of his past to stay private. I can't ask without revealing the facts, though. All I can do is hope that the reason Ollie isn't in the current meeting is because he isn't in that inner circle.
"Are you sitting at the counsel table?" I ask, and am relieved when he shakes his head.
"I thought I'd sit with you. If that's okay."
"It is," I say. Things have changed a lot between me and Ollie, but he has seen me through most every crisis in my life, and it feels right that he will be beside me now, too.
His smile is gentle as he lays a soft hand on my shoulder. His expression, however, is intense. "You're doing okay? I mean, you're not--you know?"
"I'm not," I say but I don't meet his eyes. "I'm good." I draw in a breath and fight the urge to cry, mourning the loss of those days when I would have told Ollie everything. How every day I've awakened expecting to battle the urge to cut, and every night I am amazed when I get back in bed beside Damien and realize that the compulsion never came. I am not "cured"--I know I never will be. I will always crave that pain to keep me centered. I will always be just a little astounded when I get through a crisis without putting a blade to my flesh. But I have Damien now, and it is him that I crave. Damien who is my release valve instead of turning a knife on myself. Damien who keeps me centered and safe.
And that, I know, is another reason I am afraid to lose him.
"Nikki?"
"Really," I say, looking into his face. "No blades, no knives. Damien is taking good care of me."
I see the way he flinches, and for a moment I regret my words. But it is only a momentary weakness. Ollie has been an absolute shit about my relationship with Damien, and although I will always love him, I am not going to forgive or forget that easily.
"I'm glad," he says, his voice formal. "You're going to be okay, you know. No matter what happens, you're going to get through this just fine."
I nod, but I also notice that he's said that I will be okay--not that Damien will. And a peculiar spark of anger tinged with sadness rushes through me, spurred by the simple truth that Ollie no longer understands what I need. If he did, he would realize that without Damien, I won't be okay. Not ever again.
We have been talking in the hall a few feet from the wooden double doors that lead into the courtroom. Now Ollie steps in that direction and holds them open for me. I hesitate only briefly, glancing down the hall where Damien and Maynard went, but they have not come out of the conference room. I draw a deep breath for courage, force my feet to move, and sweep past Ollie into the courtroom where the course of the rest of my life will be decided.
Though the gallery is already full of reporters who have come to watch the spectacle of Damien Stark on trial, the area behind the bar is empty with the exception of one man in a uniform who stands at attention and will, presumably, escort the three professional and two lay judges into the courtroom once the proceedings are ready to begin.
Ollie and I walk up the middle aisle toward the bench that sits behind the defense table. As we do, the noise level in the room increases as the occupants whisper among themselves and shift their positions to get a better look at us. Despite the fact that I understand next to nothing in German, I can pick out the sound of my name and Damien's mixed in among the din. I concentrate on walking forward and on not turning around and slapping the reporter closest to me. On not screaming at the lot of them that this isn't entertainment--this is a man's life. This is my life. Our life together.
My back is still to the crowd when the room gets even noisier. I turn, certain of what I will see, and sure enough, the doors are pulled open and there is Damien standing at the threshold. He is flanked by Maynard and Herr Vogel, his German lead counsel, but they are little more than white noise in my vision. It is Damien I want, Damien I see. And now it is Damien striding toward me with such confidence and power it makes my knees go weak.
There are no cameras in the courtroom, so when Damien pulls me into his arms to kiss me, I know this moment will not be captured on film. I wouldn't care if it was, though. My arms go around his neck, and I cling to him, fighting not to cry, and then fighting to let go, because I cannot clutch him forever.
He releases me and steps back, his eyes burning into me as he gently brushes his thumb across my lips. "I love you," I whisper, and see the words reflected back in his dual-colored eyes. His smile, however, is sad.
His eyes shift, and I realize he is looking over my shoulder at Ollie. His expression is unreadable. After a moment, he nods in greeting, then turns his attention again to me. He squeezes my hand, then steps through the swinging gate in the bar to sit at the defense table next to his attorneys who have already moved past him and are now opening their briefcases and pulling out documents and files and the other accoutrements of trial work.
I collapse onto the bench, suddenly exhausted. Ollie settles beside me. He says nothing, but I hear the silent question, and I turn to him with a wan smile. "I'm okay," I say, and he nods in response.
All too soon, the judges enter the courtroom and the proceedings officially begin.
The prosecutor stands. He begins to speak. I do not understand German, but I know what he is saying. He is painting Damien as a young, eager, competitive athlete. But more than an athlete. Because from a very young age, Damien was driven by ambition. He had a head for business, a passion for science.
What he didn't have was money.
Oh, sure, he started bringing in the prize money, but how much is enough for a young man with dreams of founding an empire? And isn't that exactly what he did? Isn't Damien Stark now one of the wealthiest men on the planet?
And how did he get that way? How did he earn that first million?
Did he take out a patent as a young man while still on the tennis circuit? Did he convince his father--who had control over his income as a youth--to invest his tennis winnings?
Or did he inherit that first million from the coach who had trained him? Nurtured him? Doted on him?
And how did Damien repay that attention and affection? He saw dollar signs--and he killed Merle Richter. That first million was blood money, the prosecutor is arguing. Blood money for which the German people now want Stark to pay.
That is the story, and without Damien testifying in counter to it, I am afraid that it is a good one.
The prosecutor seems to speak forever. I watch the faces of the judges. They do not look sympathetic.
When it's over, I realize that I have drawn blood on my knees. I don't remember taking a pen out of my purse, but I must have, because I have been digging the point into my flesh.
"Nikki?" Ollie's voice is sharp beside me.
"I'm fine," I snap. I lick my finger and try to rub out the spot of blood and ink. Damien will see it, and he will worry about me more than he worries about himself.
As I watch, I see Maynard whisper to Herr Vogel, who is reputed to be one of the best defense attorneys in B
avaria, if not Germany. He's a polished, practiced man, and I have been impressed with him so far, but now that we're in court, I'm going in blind and I'm nervous. He rises, readying himself for his chance to speak, when the tallest of the professional judges accepts a piece of paper from his clerk.
He reads it, frowns, and then speaks in rapid-fire German before standing. He aims a hard look at the prosecutor and then at Herr Vogel. Maynard turns to face Damien, and from where I sit I can see the deep lines of his frown.
I have absolutely no idea what is going on, and I don't think Damien does, either. As if he can feel my thoughts upon him, he turns. What? I mouth, but he only shakes his head, not in dismissal, but in confusion.
At the bench, the professional judges stand and the lay judges follow suit. They don't look happy.
The tall judge points to Herr Vogel and the prosecutor, and says a few more words in German. Again, I'm left clueless, but considering how quickly the two move to follow him through the heavy wooden door to the court's inner sanctum, I can tell that something important is going on.
Tense moments pass. Maynard leans over and says something to Damien. Damien shakes his head. The observers in the courtroom shift and mumble, and I know that all eyes in the gallery are on Damien. I am clutching the bench upon which I'm sitting, terrified that if I don't hold on I will go spinning off into space. And equally afraid that I will dent the wood from my fingers pressing in too tightly.
Time has no meaning to me until the door finally opens again. The bailiff steps out. He speaks to another of the German attorneys, who then bends and whispers something to Maynard. I try to read his lips, but of course I cannot. I see Charles stiffen, though, and my own body tightens as well. Charles reaches for Damien, his hand closing over his elbow. He speaks low, but I am only one row behind and I make out the words. "They want to see us in chambers."
I swallow as Damien stands, and without thinking, I reach for him. I don't see him move. I don't see him reach for me. But for the briefest of moments, his fingers close over mine. Electric shocks whip through me. He squeezes my fingers, his eyes meet mine.
I open my mouth to speak, but I don't know what to say. I am scared, so scared. But I don't want Damien to see that. He knows it, of course, but I want to be strong. I need to be as strong as he believes me to be.
And then he is walking away, moving through the heavy wooden door to the judges' chambers. Going where I cannot follow into a world I don't understand.
All I know is that trials are not usually interrupted in this way.
All I can see is the stern expression on the judges' faces and the blank control in the eyes of Charles Maynard.
All I know is that they have taken Damien from me.
All I feel is fear.
Chapter Four
Ollie has moved to the defense table to sit with the legal team. I know he is trying to find out what is going on, but his absence makes me feel even more at loose ends. It has been over an hour now. I am alone and desperate for information. For the first time since I came to Germany, I truly feel what it is like to be in a foreign country, because I have no understanding of what is going on around me.
It's not the language, though. The fact that I do not speak German only exacerbates the illusion. The German attorneys all speak fluent English, and I can hear what they are saying to Ollie. And what they are saying is that they do not understand any more than I do. We have all stepped through the looking glass, and I'm afraid that what we will find on this side is something even worse than the spectacle we anticipated.
I press my hands to the bench beside me, preparing to lever myself to my feet. But I force myself to remain seated. Pacing will only call attention to me, and I have already noticed how many of the people in the gallery are staring at me, whispering among themselves. In the absence of Damien, I stand as his proxy. It is not a role that I would mind under normal circumstances, but today I do not want to be in the spotlight.
When I am certain that I will go completely mad if even one more minute passes without any word, the door to the judges' chamber opens and the group files out. The professional judges come first, their expressions unreadable. Then Maynard, then Herr Vogel. The lay judges follow, and Damien brings up the rear.
I'm not sure when I stood up, but I'm standing when my eyes meet Damien's. My hands are fisted in my skirt, and I'm silently screaming at him to tell me what happened. He remains silent, and though I search his face, I can find nothing helpful in his expression. It is completely blank.
He slips in behind the counsel table, and he is only inches from where I stand. My heart lurches, because he is no longer looking at me, and a cold wave of fear settles over me. Then he shifts, his eyes once again meeting mine. I blink away tears and reach out for him. He takes my hand in his and squeezes it.
It's bad, I think. Whatever it is, it must be very, very bad.
Damien releases my hand, and my sense of foreboding increases. He sits at the defense counsel table, and I take my seat, as well. There is already one witness--a janitor--who saw him arguing on the roof with Richter before Richter fell to his death. Could there be another witness? It is the only thing I can think of, and worry consumes me.
Then the judges are back at the bench and Ollie returns to the gallery. The bailiff calls the proceedings to order just as Ollie sits beside me.
"Do you know what's happening?" I whisper.
"No." His forehead is creased, and he looks as confused as I feel.
The tall judge begins to speak in slow, controlled German, and although Herr Vogel and Maynard and Damien stay perfectly still, the other attorneys at the defense table begin to shift in their seats. They weren't privy to what was said behind closed doors, and from my perspective, they look like men about to explode.
Behind us, the spectators in the gallery begin to whisper. The gloom that has filled this space has lifted. I don't understand how or why, but I am sure that something shocking is happening. Shocking, but good.
I glance at Ollie, afraid that I'm seeing too much, but he meets my eyes and holds up his hand. His fingers are crossed, and in that one moment, I could kiss him. Whatever his issues with Damien in the past, right now he is on Damien's side. He is on my side.
And then suddenly the judge is finished, and he's standing, and he's filing out of the room with the other judges behind him. As soon as the door behind them has shut, the courtroom explodes into a cacophony of sounds, some cheers, some shouts, but some boos and catcalls. One of the attorneys takes pity on me. He turns and faces me. "The charges," he says in a thick German accent. "The charges have been dropped."
"What?" I say stupidly.
"It's over," Ollie says, pulling me into a hug. "Damien's free to go home."
He releases me and I stare at him, my body cold with shock. I'm scared to believe it. Afraid that I haven't heard right and someone is going to tell me that I've misunderstood and the trial will be recommencing any moment now.
I turn to face Damien, but his back is still to me. The prosecutor now stands in front of him, speaking earnestly, but in such a low voice that I cannot make out the words. Maynard stands beside Damien, his hand on Damien's back, the gesture almost paternal.
"It's true?" I ask the German attorney. "You really mean it?"
His smile is broad, but his eyes are soft with understanding. "It is true," he says. "We would not joke about such a thing."
"No, of course not. But why? I mean--" But he turns away in response to a question from another attorney. Then I see that the prosecutor has moved away from Damien, and a wave of pure joy sweeps through me and I no longer care how or why.
"Damien," I say, and my voice sounds light. His name feels delicious on my lips, and I want to capture this moment and hold it close to me. This singular instant when I got back the man I feared that I had lost.
He begins to turn, and I anticipate how he will look when I see his face. His eyes alight with joy, his features stripped of the worry that has been w
eighing on him since the indictment came through.
But that is not what I see. Instead of warmth, I see a chill in his eyes. And there is nothing joyous in his expression. Instead, it is flat and cold and desolate.
I frown, confused, and reach out for him. "Damien," I say, leaning over the bar to take his hands. His fingers close tight around mine, as if I am a lifeline in stormy waters. "Oh, God, Damien. It's over."
"Yes," he says, but there is a harshness in his voice that sends a shiver through me. "It is."
Damien holds my hand, but says nothing during the ride back to the hotel. He is shell-shocked, I think. Probably unable to believe that the nightmare is really over.
We are alone--the attorneys having hung back to take care of all the administrative stuff that goes on once a trial reaches its conclusion, and I can only assume that there is even more to do when the conclusion is unexpectedly premature. I let the silence linger until we pull up in front of the hotel, but then I can't take it anymore.
"Damien, it's finished. Aren't you happy about that?" Personally, I'm about to explode simply from the joy of knowing that Damien is free and safe.
He looks at me, and for a moment his expression is blank. Then his face clears as he smiles. It's not huge, but it is real. "Yes," he says. "About that, I couldn't be happier."
"About that," I repeat, confused. "What else is there? What's going on? Why were the charges dismissed?"
But now the valet has opened the door, and Damien is sliding that direction. I mutter a sharp curse and follow. Damien reaches for my hand to help me out, then twines his fingers in mine as we walk the short distance to the hotel entrance.
I'm so wrapped up in my storm of joy and confusion that it takes me a minute to realize that the walkway is lined with reporters, and that the hotel staff are making a human barrier to let us pass.
Damien was news when he was on trial for murder. Now that the charges have been dropped, he's an even bigger story.
The concierge greets us with a stack of messages that I take since Damien seems utterly uninterested. They are all congratulations, and the concierge himself adds his own. Damien replies politely, thanking the man, and then steers us both toward the elevator.