Revenge

by Anne L. Parks

  I glance over my shoulder at Alex in the front row of the gallery, and he gives me an acknowledging nod.

  I smile at Dr. Loftus. "No further questions."

  Matt leans in close to me as I take my seat, and whispers, "Did you have any idea how the good doctor was going to answer that last question?"

  I ignore him and continue organizing my notes.

  Matt exhales. "Dangerous little game, counselor."

  I shrug. "We got what we needed."

  "And by we, you mean Alex, correct?"

  Hamilton stands, and it offers me an escape from Matt's inquisition.

  Risky, yes, but the pay-off is worth it.

  "Defense has no questions for Dr. Loftus," Hamilton announces.

  Judge Franklin pulls his glasses down the bridge of his nose, and peers over the top of them at me. I stand behind the table and address the court.

  "The State rests, Your Honor."

  28

  Jake pulls up in front of a new farm-to-table restaurant a few blocks from the courthouse. Alex takes my hand and guides me inside. Oak and metal tables line the dark exposed brick and cream-colored walls. Various works of art are hung, all by aspiring local artists.

  Alex shakes hands with a man greeting patrons, who promptly grabs a couple of menus and leads us into a wine room set apart from the main dining area. Bottle after bottle of wine are nestled in iron holders and fill the walls. A narrow, glass-enclosed, gas fireplace is inserted into a stone wall. Only two tables are in here, along with a few wine barrels and a couple of leather recliners facing the fireplace.

  A young man in a chef's jacket comes up behind Alex and slaps him on the shoulder. "I was wondering when you were going to come in and check out your investment?"

  Alex chuckles, shakes the man's hand, and gestures toward me. "Kylie, this is Patrick, the owner and brainchild of this establishment, and one of the best chefs around."

  "Part owner," Patrick corrects him, and shakes my hand, a wide grin across his face.

  "It's nice to meet you." I glance at the menu, all the ingredients are local, and the farmers are listed next to each item. Garlic and basil fill the air with hints of onion and bacon, and my stomach reminds me my bowl of Cocoa Puffs is long since digested. "Everything looks wonderful."

  "Along with only using local producers, we feature smaller plates – think of it as something between tapas and an Italian supper," Patrick explains. "You can have a tasty, filling meal, support the local farming community, and not have to contend with a food coma when you leave."

  "It's a brilliant idea." I scan the menu again. If the food tastes as good as the descriptions sound, there's not a bad choice.

  "Wouldn't have been possible without this man," Patrick says, and points at Alex with deep gratitude in his eyes. He glances out the door into the full dining room, and then back at us. "I better get back to the kitchen. Looks like the lunch rush is in full swing." He shakes our hands again and gives a wave as he leaves.

  I take a drink of water and watch Alex as he peruses his menu. He's seriously going to just sit there and not explain? "So, you invested in this business and have a percent ownership in it?"

  "Yeah," he acknowledges, and glances into the main dining room. "I thought it was an excellent concept, so I provided the start-up funds and negotiated a deal on this building."

  "How – when – did this come about?"

  "When you were in a coma. It's one of the happier memories of that period of time." His eyes become a little distant, and one side of his mouth tips up in a smile, as he gazes at me once again. "Excluding when you woke up, of course."

  He takes a large drink of his water, and I just stare at him, patiently waiting for the rest of the story. "Patrick was in the hospital, peddling sandwiches and other items to the nurses and doctors. I happened to be at the nurse's station, and we got to talking, and he pitched his idea for this restaurant. Of course, he thought it wouldn't happen for some years, but after I'd been eating his food for a couple of weeks, I couldn't find a reason he should wait. So, I offered to help."

  "Wow," I shake my head and chuckle, "your generosity never ceases to amaze me."

  "Well, he helped me as much as I helped him. I was going crazy waiting for you to regain consciousness, and Patrick offered a welcome distraction from the fear you might never wake up."

  I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. "You can't get rid of me that easily, Mr. Stone. I intend on being around to drive you crazy for many years to come."

  His eyes brighten, his smile grows, and my heart swells. "Looking forward to every minute, Ms. Tate," he says and raises my hand to his lips.

  Alex received a call as we left the restaurant, so Jake dropped me at the courthouse before taking Alex to Stone Holdings. “I just need to clear a few things off my desk before heading back to court this afternoon,” he says, and gives me a quick kiss.

  I glance at my watch, thankful I have plenty of time before court reconvenes for the afternoon, and decide to take the stairs to the fourth floor.

  Halfway to the second-floor landing, the heavy metal door closes on the ground floor, the sound echoes through the empty space. Footsteps pound on the stair treads and then go silent, pausing on the first-floor landing. The person says something, but the words are muffled by the time they make their way up to me. I strain to hear what is being said, in case the person needs assistance of some sort, but mostly curious for no good reason I can think of.

  "Kylie." My name drifts through the air, almost as if it were being carried on the wind, but there is only stagnant air in the stairwell.

  I'm hearing things. Paranoia is getting the best of me.

  "I will always be near, Kylie." The whisper is at odds with the footsteps that pound on the stairs once again, steady as they advance toward me.

  I'm rooted to the spot, the sound of my rapid heartbeat pulsates in my head, and the part of my psyche that deals with fear is screaming at me to get the hell out of there. But as the footsteps draw nearer, I remain paralyzed. I hit the button on my cell phone to call Alex. No service.

  "No matter where you are, I'll be near you."

  John's voice is in my head, and it triggers my flight response. I pull on the door handle to escape the stairwell, but it's locked—or stuck—I don't know which. Whoever this is—it's John, it can only be him—is hellbent on scaring me.

  I dart up the stairs to the next landing, and yank on the third-floor doorknob. Locked.

  Fiendish chuckles echo through the space. I race to the fourth floor. My name is a chant between heavy footsteps. I twist the knob and jerk on it.

  Please open, please, please open.

  The foot falls clang against the metal steps. A resounding death march.

  I ball my hands into fists and pummel the door.

  He's on the landing – between the third and fourth floor. I strangle on a cry caught in my throat. My hands tingle, close to numbness, but it doesn't stop me from banging on the door harder.

  Turn around. Confront the bastard!

  My brain is swimming with desperation and fear. Kick him, watch him fall back, and hit the steps with enough force to break the asshole's back. Don't let him win!

  I drop my fists to my sides, take a tentative step back, and close my eyes in a desperate attempt to summon courage. Turning slowly, I open my eyes—

  Click.

  The door opens into the stairwell. I jump out of the way before it hits me, and a man steps onto the landing.

  "Jake," I breathe out, and send a prayer of thanks to the heavens, while Jake stares at me as if I have a third eye.

  "What the hell is going on?" he asks. "Why were you banging on the door?"

  "I couldn't get out—it was stuck, I guess." I peer down the stairwell, expecting to see John, his evil grin darkening his features.

  No one's there.

  Jake follows my gaze. "What are you looking at?"

  Shit, will he believe me? "Someone is stalking me."

>   He narrows his eyes. "How do you know the person wasn't going to one of the lower floors?"

  "He was coming up the stairs—he was almost behind me when you opened the door."

  "He who?"

  I slowly inhale through my nose, steeling myself for his reaction, my stomach suddenly heavy, weighing me down. "John."

  Jake wags his head, walks to the steps, and peers down the stairwell. "Are you sure? Did you actually see him?" he asks, and looks at me, his eyebrows knit so tight he has a unibrow.

  I bite my lip. "Not exactly." My voice is meek and unsure, and—dammit, that pisses me off. I hate being scared all the time, unable to handle anything anymore. "I know his voice, Jake. He was calling my name, taunting me, trying to scare the crap out of me."

  "Looks like it worked." He scratches his jaw, and gazes at me with—what? pity? worry? "You should head into the courtroom. I'll check out the stairwell and the first floor…see what I can find."

  I nod. "Thanks, Jake." But I know he doesn't believe me. I scarcely believe my story, so I can't really blame his skepticism, but it doesn't lessen the hurt.

  I slump into my chair at the prosecution's table, and startle Matt, who looks over with a cocked eyebrow.

  I raise my hand. "Don't ask." Mercifully, he nods and focuses on his notes.

  I open my briefcase and pull out my legal pads, rifle through them, and set aside the one I'll need for this afternoon's testimony. My heart rate is nearly back to normal, the comfort of this familiar place centers me, and I block out everything that occurred in the stairwell.

  There's no time for me to dwell on what happened. I need to strap on my armor and prepare for this battle. My focus has to be here, this is where I'm at my best, in front of a jury arguing my case. Everything else will have to wait.

  Everyone rises when the chamber door opens and Judge Franklin steps up to his perch, his robe flowing behind him, the black wings of a raven. The jury files in and takes their seats. They all seem to be engaged in the case, but the first signs of weariness are evident in their slightly droopy eyes.

  The judge sits, and everyone follows suit except Geoffrey Hamilton, who steps up to the podium and calls his first witness.

  29

  "The defense calls Dr. Roger White."

  The bailiff escorts in a severe-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair which flows into a neatly trimmed beard, and a frown which looks as if it's permanently in place. Slowing as he passes, his eyes slide over to me. He squares his shoulders and struts to the witness stand.

  Matt glances at me, his eyes questioning me as to what the hell that was all about, but all I can do is shrug. I have no idea what Dr. White's issue with me is—I've never seen the man before today. I take in the defense's forensic expert. His chin juts out confidently, his back straight, legs crossed. All-in-all he's a commanding presence in the courtroom.

  "Dr. White, is it common procedure to take photos during autopsies?" Hamilton asks after vetting the witness for the jury.

  "Yes. It is," White responds, making eye contact with the jurors.

  "May I approach the witness?" Hamilton directs to Judge Franklin, gets a head-nod affirmation, and walks over to the witness stand. "Have you had an opportunity to examine these photos?"

  White shuffles through the pictures, briefly pausing on each one, and then hands them back. "Yes, they are from the Ellen Wells autopsy."

  "At this time, Your Honor, defense would ask to admit the photos into evidence and publish them to the jury."

  There's shuffling behind me in the front row, I swivel and watch Patty, Ellie, and Francine leave the courtroom. Alex's body is rigid, a tight-lipped frown across his face, his eyes narrow slits locked on the witness. I glance over at Harold and Will and give them a small smile.

  Matt stands beside me. "No objection."

  I turn my attention back to the testimony. Hamilton inspects the crime scene photo on the large screen. "Please explain to the jury what you have concluded from your examination of the crime scene photos and autopsy."

  "As you can see," White turns on the laser pointer, and aims it at the screen, "ligature marks—or bruising—appear around the victim's throat." He makes wide circles around purple bruises on Ellen Wells' neck.

  "And what does that indicate to you, Doctor?" Hamilton asks. The jurors stare at the picture, some lean in closer, others scribble in their notepads.

  White turns off the laser, fidgets with his tie, and turns to face the jury box. "They reveal the injuries are more consistent with strangulation as the cause of death." White glances at me out of the corner of his eye, but his facial expression stays the same, stoic and self-assured, and I can't help but feel he is somehow mocking me.

  "So, you don't agree Mrs. Wells sustained a traumatic brain injury that led to her death?"

  The faintest hint of a smile crosses White's face. "I do not doubt the coroner's conclusions that the victim suffered a closed head injury—I do not agree, however, that it was the cause of death. It is far more likely that the actual cause of death is strangulation after the brain injury occurred."

  "Thank you, Dr. White," Hamilton says. "Your witness, Ms. Tate."

  I walk to the podium, no notes, my attention on the jury—they're buying White's version.

  "To be clear, you were not present when the actual autopsy was performed on Mrs. Wells, correct?" I ask Dr. White, who looks as if he's bored with my simplistic questions.

  "I was not."

  "So, your testimony regarding strangulation is speculation on your part and not based on an examination of the body?"

  White sighs, "Technically, yes, but—"

  "Nothing further, Your Honor." I return to my seat, needlessly look at my notes, and ignore Dr. White as he is excused and struts past me.

  * * *

  * * *

  Dr. Gabriel Mason provides the exact same testimony for the defense in court that he did during the deposition a few days earlier in my office. He's also just as arrogant during my cross examination of him. This time —I'm ready for him and his pretension.

  "Doctor, you have a great many theories on the events and the people involved in this case. How did you come to these conclusions?" I abandon my notes on the podium, stand off to the side, casually resting my hand on it. I've dealt with egomaniacs like Dr. Mason before, and it's best to let him know early I'm not intimidated by his God complex.

  "I based them off the trial transcripts, police statements, and reports from social workers and other mental health professionals who interviewed the children," Dr. Mason says, and smiles at the jury.

  I cock my head slightly to one side. "Did you ever meet with the defendant personally prior to submitting your report?"

  "No."

  I pause, raise an eyebrow for effect, my gaze never leaving his. "What about the defendant's children – have you spoken with them regarding their mother's death?"

  Dr. Mason sits up a little straighter, not looking nearly as confident. "No."

  "Nothing further, Your Honor."

  Judge Franklin glances at the clock on the wall. "How much time do you anticipate needing for your next witness, Mr. Hamilton? It might be more prudent to adjourn until morning."

  "We anticipate calling Mr. Wells to testify, and as such, I expect his testimony to take up a good portion of the day tomorrow," Hamilton says, and drops a bombshell on the proceedings.

  "Then we will adjourn for the day," Franklin says with a quick bang of his gavel.

  Matt looks at me, eyes wide, mouth agape, and I can only imagine my expression mirrors his. "Did Hamilton actually just give us the biggest gift of these proceedings?" he asks.

  "He just ensured I'm going to be knee-deep in preparations and getting no sleep tonight," I respond, quickly pack all my notes, and make a mental checklist of everything I need for my all-nighter.

  30

  James Wells fidgets in his seat. He's nervous—and I have to think the defense has to be feeling pretty desperate if they are willing
to put him on the witness stand.

  "Before I bring in the jury, I need to address Mr. Wells." Judge Franklin leans forward in his chair, arms resting on his desk, and points a pen at the defendant. "Mr. Wells, you have a Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination. You are not required, and are under no obligation, to testify on your behalf. If you choose not to testify, the jury cannot infer guilt on that basis, or use it to come to a decision during deliberations."

  Wells is bobbing his head up and down as the judge is speaking.

  "If you choose to testify, however, you will be waiving your right, and will be subject to cross-examination. What that means, is that you will open yourself up to all admissible, relevant questions by your attorney, as well as the State. You will not be able to invoke your right for questions you may not want to answer. Giving up your right against self-incrimination should not be taken lightly, and you should give serious consideration as to the consequences of testifying in these proceedings."

  The court clerk hands a form to the judge, he scans it, and continues speaking to the defendant. "Mr. Wells, has your attorney discussed with you all of your options, potential outcomes, and provided his assessments of the success of these options?"

  "Yes—" Wells begins. Hamilton elbows him, and indicates he needs to stand. "Yes, Your Honor."

  "And are you making this decision with full knowledge, and a full understanding, of the consequences of testifying and not testifying?"

  "Yes, Mr. Hamilton has talked to me about it, and I want to testify."

  Franklin swivels in his chair and addresses the court reporter. "Let the record reflect the defendant has been advised of his rights and is choosing to waive his Fifth Amendment right and will testify in these proceedings." Franklin flourishes his pen towards the bailiff in an unspoken command to retrieve the jury.