Vindication: Of Demons & Stones: Tri-Stone Trilogy, Book Three

by Anne L. Parks

  Footsteps indicate someone coming up the stairs. I know I locked the exterior door, so it has to be someone with a key. I glance at the clock. Only seven. Too early for Sarah, especially on a Friday morning. She goes out on Thursday night with friends, and typically comes in hungover.

  I swivel in my chair and watch through the glass wall to see who emerges from the staircase. The instant I see the gray hair, I know who it is.

  "Jack, what are you doing here this early?" I ask as soon as he spots me in the conference room.

  He walks in and takes the seat across the table from me. "I could ask you the same thing?"

  "Just want to get a jump on these final hours to trial prep for it."

  "Have you started on your opening statement? "He quirks up an eyebrow.

  I hold up my blank legal pad.

  Exhaling through a sigh, he stands. "Let me get some coffee, and see if we can't muddle through this together."

  "You haven't told me why you are here so early."

  "I knew you were here."

  "How?"

  "Alex called me." Jack sits down and takes his Mont Blanc pen from his briefcase and grabs a legal pad from the credenza behind him. "He's worried about you. So, am I. You know you have to take care of yourself, or you will not be in top performance during the trial." He pulls his eyeglasses down his nose and peers at me over the top of them.

  I nod. I know this, and believe in it wholeheartedly. I usually practice it when I'm going to trial. Except this time. Except for this case. Everything is different. The rules have changed. This means too much to me to follow the rules.

  "Okay, let's start with what we know. The prosecution is trying to pull a rooster out of a hat and convince people it's a rabbit. Now, all we have to do is show the jury that the prosecution is trying to pull a fast one on them, and convince them they really see a rooster in bunny clothing."

  I slide my gaze over to Jack and chuckle. "Well, I guess I could lead with that. Although, the jury may think I'm insane."

  Jack leans back in his chair, taps his pen against his lips, and stares at me for a long moment. "What if you don't prepare an opening statement?"

  "What? Wait until the prosecution is done presenting their case in chief, and then give it?" I shake my head. "I don't like doing that. I need to at least let them know we think it's all bullshit, so they are on guard to look for where the BS creeps into the DA's case."

  "I mean wait until you hear what the prosecution has to say, and then address each point, and blow it out of the water."

  "So, do a closing argument at the opening?"

  "Yeah," Jack nods. "I guess that is sort of what I'm saying. You know this case, Kylie. And you are excellent at opening and closing statements. I think it will come across less rehearsed and more honest if you look like you are answering the DA's assertions with facts that are so common sense, you don't need to prepare a formal statement to address them."

  I lean back in my chair, cross my arms over my chest, and blow air out of my puffy cheeks. "It's dangerous. What if I miss something?"

  "Then we address it at the close."

  I shrug. "If you think it's a good idea, let's do it."

  Jack knows his shit when it comes to criminal defense and trial strategy. And, at the moment, I need someone more objective than me to give me advice.

  But at the end of the day, if this fails, there will be no one to blame but me. And that thought is a constant pounding in my head, like a pile driver driving a steel beam into the ground. The resounding echo taunting me with "you'll fail."

  * * *

  A soft rapping at the library door pulls my attention from the pictures of the crime scene at the warehouse. Alex opens the door, and walks behind the desk to kiss me.

  "Ryan and Paul got in, and are at The Rowe. They said they will see us tomorrow at the courthouse," Alex says, glancing at the picture of the bloody couch on my computer screen.

  "Why aren't they staying here? We have plenty of room."

  "They didn't want to disturb us. Apparently, Baby Kyle is colicky, and they didn't want him to keep us up all night with his crying."

  I sit back in my chair. "Well, that sucks, but I guess it's probably for the best."

  "When will you be done here?" Alex asks, nodding toward the computer screen.

  "A while—probably most of the night."

  "Nope, wrong answer." He takes my hand and pulls me out of the chair, wrapping his arm around my waist so I can't escape. "You are taking the night off."

  I shake my head. "Alex, the trial starts tomorrow—"

  "—And you're ready. Baby, you need to take some time to relax. Eat some dinner. Spend some time with your lonely husband, who—I might add—has been very supportive of your need to work and has tried not to bother you. That said, I insist you take the night off." He kisses me on the end of the nose. "Refusal will get you fired as my attorney." A smile spreads across his face.

  There is no way I can resist this man. And he is right, as much as I hate to admit it. There is nothing more I can do to prepare. Tomorrow is the start of his first degree murder trial, and I'll be in charge of his defense.

  Tonight, he can be in charge.

  Maggie prepared steak and scallops in a white wine sauce, with asparagus. Between the two of us, we managed to finish off a bottle of pinot noir from Alex's private reserve.

  The fire pit is lit on the back patio, taking the slight chill off the shaded area as the sun sets. Alex sets a bottle of champagne and two flutes on the glass table, and sits beside me on the love seat. He pours each of us a glass and hands one to me.

  "Do you know what happened a year ago today?" He asks.

  I can't even remember what happened yesterday. My mind is so stuffed with forensics, experts, evidence, and witnesses, I barely know that it's a Sunday night—and that's only because the trial starts on Monday morning.

  "No."

  "One year ago today, you were running along, minding your own business when you stopped to help a poor guy with a broken down Maserati. You let him borrow your cell phone and then schooled him in basic mechanics and misogyny."

  How is it he remembered this? How could I forget?

  "I can't believe it's been a year."

  "It was the day my life changed forever. I knew I would never be the same after I had spent five minutes with you. And I was right. You have brought so much happiness into my life—pretty much from the first moment. Love was elusive for me—unnecessary and unwanted. Until you dug into my heart and soul, and forced me to accept your love. There is not a day that goes by that I don't thank God for bringing you into my life."

  He tips the rim of his glass against mine, and takes a sip.

  "So much has happened in a year," I say, and take a long sip of champagne. "I didn't even know who you were that day, and certainly never considered I'd be married to you within the year."

  "Well, as much as falling in love with you surprised me, so did the desire to want to marry you. Like everything with us, when it feels right, I know it's supposed to happen. I regret nothing in our relationship, everything has happened exactly when it was supposed to."

  "You regret nothing in our relationship? Not my crazy ex stalking me, shooting me, drugging me. Not your father getting a new trial, escaping prison, kidnapping me, and then inconveniently being killed in order to frame you?"

  Alex shakes his head. Lifting my hand to his lips, he kisses the tips of my fingers. "Baby, that's not our relationship. That's outside forces reeking havoc on our relationship. The feelings between you and me, that is our relationship. Those are the things I hold dear. You and me. Always and forever."

  He places our champagne flutes on the table. Sliding his hand to the back of my head, he sinks his fingers into my hair, tips my head back and claims me. Over and over again.

  * * *

  My heart is nearly beating out of my chest. The only sound I can hear in my head is the steady breaths in and out of my nose. Alex sits next to me.
I think Jack is keeping him occupied with small talk so he's not bothering me. Tremors move through my hand as I reach across the defense table for my legal pad. I clench my eyes shut and will my nerves to calm down.

  Opening arguments. This is your thing.

  My head knows this, but for some reason, the message is not getting to the rest of my body. I have a basic idea of what the prosecution is going to say, but this is the first time I have come into court without a prepared opening statement. And, right now, I am seriously rethinking my decision.

  "What the fuck," Alex says, his voice barely above a whisper.

  I glance at him, ready to tell him he can't cuss like that in court. He's glaring at someone over my shoulder. I turn in my seat, and watch Reyes shake hands with Rebekah as she sits behind the prosecution table. Swinging my gaze to Reyes, he glances at me out of the corner of his eye, and smirks.

  Is she testifying for the prosecution? No, she's not on the list. And she wouldn't be allowed to be in the courtroom prior to giving testimony. Besides, what could she possibly testify about.

  Asshole Reyes. He did this to try to throw me off my game. The best way to shove it up his ass is to not let her presence affect me. I turn around, take a deep breath and exhale slowly while counting to ten.

  "This is unbelievable. I didn't think even she would stoop so low as to come here and support the prosecution. What is the point? To rattle me? You?" Alex asks, his voice hushed but his words sharp.

  Closing my eyes, I take a couple of slow breaths. "Alex, I have no idea what she's doing here, nor do I care. Right now, I need to concentrate on this case, not stupid games with your ex."

  I don't look at him to see if I've hurt his feelings, or pissed him off. I also don't really care right now. I'm being way too harsh, but I'm wound so tight that the slightest nudge might break me in two. I'll apologize later. What I need right now is to focus.

  Judge Franklin calls the courtroom to order, and the bailiff escorts the jury to their seats. The fresh faces and wide eyes are always apparent on the first day. By day three, the novelty of being a juror on a first degree murder trial wears thin, and is usually gone by the time they experience a weekend sequestered from their family and friends, without TV, newspapers, or internet access. If the trial goes on longer than a week, the attorneys get death glares from the jury who just want to go home and forget the crime scene photos that will haunt them.

  A couple of the jurors, both women, glance at me but look away immediately. Jury selection was just last Friday, yet I can't recall either woman's story. Did I try to exclude them? Or are they upset that I wanted them, and now they are forced to stay at the hotel until they come to a decision? Whatever the issue, I can't deal with them at the moment. I have to pay close attention to Matt's opening statement, so I can get a general sense of how to address the issues he brings up when it's my turn at the podium.

  God help me, what was I thinking not preparing a statement ahead of time?

  "Good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm District Attorney Matt Gaines, and I stand before you today with a heavy heart. I don't want to be here. I do not relish trying a man I know well, and hold the highest respect for as a leader of this community. But that is the unfortunate position I'm in—seeking a conviction against Mr. Alex Stone for the murder of his father, James Wells. This is not an easy task for anyone in the courtroom today, especially you. Once the evidence is laid out, however, the path clearly leads straight to the defendant as a killer. Justice dictates that he—" Matt points to Alex, —"be held responsible for the heinous crime he has committed. The state will show that the defendant waited until his wife had gone to sleep, left his home without anyone knowing, and drove across town to an abandoned warehouse owned by his company. He crept into the office where his father slept on a couch…"

  And here comes the dramatic pause for effect.

  Resisting the urge to roll my eyes takes a great deal of effort. I use this myself, and it never bothers me when other attorneys employ it's use. But not today. Not this trial.

  Matt forms a gun with his hand and points it at his heart. "And he shot his own father in the chest. Six times." Matt slowly counts to six. "He then spent time removing any evidence he was there while his father slowly bled out. The defendant removed the body from the warehouse and stored it in his boathouse. A few hundred feet from his sleeping wife. Why? Because he knew no one would go to the boathouse in the cold February winter months. It bought him time to properly dispose of the body—where no one would ever find James Wells."

  Stepping out from behind the podium, Matt takes a few steps toward the jury box. "I implore each one of you to see past the billionaire businessman you think you know, and see a man who hated his father. Blamed him for the death of the defendant's mother. And exacted revenge against James Wells by murdering him with premeditation and malice."

  Matt bows his head, and slowly lifts it and gazes at the jurors. "Thank you." He passes in front of me, a broad smile across his face, and winks.

  Asshat.

  Glancing at the clock, Judge Franklin recesses the court for lunch. Alex, Jack and I circle around each other to come up with a game plan for the next two hours. Lisa, my former legal secretary who is in her first year of law school, comes through the low gate and joins the huddle.

  "I need to go back to the office and get down some thoughts while Matt's opening is still fresh in my mind," I say.

  "Sarah ordered lunch to be delivered to the office," Lisa says.

  Jack nods. "Good, we can get something to eat, and get to work on some key points you'll need to address, Kylie."

  I force a smile. A part of me is happy that Sarah is so efficient, and thought ahead to ensure we have a quiet place to get away from the courthouse and have lunch. But a little part of me wishes I could have the office to myself—minus distractions—to get my head screwed on straight before my opening statement in the afternoon session.

  Screwing up the opening will set the tone with the jury for the remainder of the trial. If I look like an idiot now, it will be incredibly difficult to change that first impression throughout the trial, no matter how brilliant my arguments may be.

  Everyone trudges up the steps to the office, and makes a beeline into the conference where the food is laid out. Now that we are in trial, the conference has been cleaned out, and everything sits in boxes behind the defense table for easy access.

  Sandwiches, two different kinds of soups, and small bags of potato chips fill the conference room table. I know I should eat, but my appetite is non-existent at the moment. I walk into my office and close the door. Pulling my notes from my bag, I drop into my chair, and read over them.

  Jack opens the door with a plate of food in his hand, and sits in the chair across from me. I appreciate that he doesn't tell me I should eat something, even though I'm sure the thought is running through his mind. As a criminal defense lawyer for many years, he knows how the mind and body works under stress during a trial.

  "So," he says, picking up his sandwich, "Matt made some good points in his opening. How are you going to take advantage of them and get the jury back on your side?" He takes a big bite of his sandwich and immediately wipes his mouth.

  Leaning back in my chair, I rub my forehead before crossing my arms over my chest. "No fucking clue."

  I stare at him for a moment, waiting for pearls of wisdom from my mentor, but he takes another bite of his sandwich. He stares at me with a blank expression I know all too well.

  Perfect! Just what I need.

  He's going to use my husband's murder trial as a teaching moment. Usually I welcome this as a challenge. Today? Not so much.

  I take a deep breath, and lean forward over the notes I've taken. It all looks like a garbled mess of words without meaning. A whooshing sound reverberates through my head, like an ocean wave continually crashing against the rocks. No ability to calm the waters. No spark of brilliance.

  Jack chews the last morsel of his sandwich and swall
ows.

  Jack points at Alex, sitting in the conference room with Jake and Lisa. "Kylie, who is that man?"

  My eyebrows draw together. "Alex."

  "But who is he? The prosecution just described a man with no morals who would shoot his sleeping father in the chest six times without remorse." Jack leans his forearms on the desk. "You have the unique position of knowing the defendant better than anyone. Show them the man you fell in love with—the man who loves you, deeply. The kind of love most men aren't capable of giving. And then show them how flawed the prosecution is to even consider that your husband could ever do what they are accusing him of doing."

  Jack leaves, and I sit staring at a blank piece of paper. So many thoughts run through my head, but where they were a jumbled mess of nothingness moments earlier, are now semi-organized and coherent. Everything I know about Alex, the things I love about him, form a checklist in my mind. There's no way I can tell the jury everything wonderful about him—that would take hours. So, I have to choose the best points, and make them powerful enough for the jury to forget everything Matt said in his opening statement.

  A knock at the door pulls me out of my head. Alex comes in with a plate in one hand, and a bowl in the other. "I know you're working, and I don't want to disturb you, but we have about thirty minutes before we need to get back to court. You should probably try to eat something so your blood sugar doesn't plummet in the middle of the afternoon."

  Just another reason this could never be the man the prosecution says he is. I stare at him for a moment, his beautiful blue eyes calming me. There is nothing in this world that I could need more than him. He gives me everything—all that he is—and I will forever cherish this gift.