The jury comes in and takes their seats while the defendant walks to the witness box. This is a new experience for me, typically when a defendant takes the stand, I'm sick to my stomach. I've never been on the prosecuting side of a case, so this feeling of giddiness, the ear-to-ear grin I'm keeping under wraps, is nice. Not that I want to permanently switch sides, but knowing what James Wells put Alex through, seeing him so uncomfortable – knowing I get to be the one who lights the fire under the hot seat he's on— makes this all the more enjoyable.
"Mr. Wells," Hamilton says, "were the police ever called to your house prior to the night of your wife's death?"
Wells leans into the microphone. "No, not once."
"And have you ever had any charges of domestic violence filed against you before you were arrested and charged with murder?" Hamilton must make some type of motion to Wells, because he nods, and glances over at the jury.
"No," Wells answers, "never."
"Now I know this is unpleasant to talk about, but please tell the jury what happened the night of your wife's death."
Wells drops his eyes, and when he looks back up, his features are soft, mournful. He mimics remorse, his shoulders sag, eyes droop. My stomach clenches, my chest tingles, and I want to laugh at the audacity that he is a simple man, who wouldn't hurt a fly.
"I admit—shamefully—that I got physical that night with my beautiful Ellie—my wife. I hit her one time, and only one time, and for that I am truly sorry," he entreats the jury. His voice cracks, and I wonder how long it took in front of a mirror to perfect his act.
"But when I left that night, she was still alive." He clasps his hands together in his lap, pauses, and gazes at the jury with what I can only surmise are supposed to be sad, remorseful eyes. "I wouldn't kill her. I loved her—she was my soulmate." His shoulders quake with repressed sobs, but no actual tears hit his eyes.
I want to puke—and smack the shit out of him.
"Mr. Wells," Hamilton's voice has a quiet, reverent tone, and I now want to smack him, too, "who do you think is responsible for your wife's death?"
"It pains me so much to say this—" He hesitates, his expression pensive, and his chin begins to quiver on cue, "it took me years to finally accept it and talk about it, but I know in my heart that my son, Alex, killed his mother." He covers his face with his hands. "I don't think he meant to—he has a horrible temper—things just got out of control, and he…he went too far."
James glances over at Alex, and curls his shoulders in. "Please, son, take responsibility for what you did. End this charade and tell the truth. Admit you are the one who killed your mother—"
Matt and I jump out of our seats at the same time, each of us screaming objections. The judge pounds his gavel against his bench. James is staring at Alex, and I glance back at him. He's emotionless, looks past his father, pointedly ignoring the man. I step in front of him and block him from his father's view. I don't need James inciting Alex and giving the jury a front row seat to Alex losing his temper.
Matt is arguing with Hamilton, the two yelling at each other, when the judge orders all of us to take our seats. "The witness’s statement to Mr. Stone will be stricken and is inadmissible. Mr. Wells, you will address the court—and only the court—is that understood? Any more outbursts like that, and you'll be removed from this courtroom."
James shrinks away from the judge. "Yes, Your Honor."
"Next question, Mr. Hamilton," Franklin growls.
"Nothing further, Your Honor."
I pick up my notepad, but before I can rise, Matt grabs my wrist. "Are you sure you can handle this? I can cross him."
There is no way I'll let Matt take over for me, not when the desire for vengeance pulses through my veins and is within my grasp. No, this is for Alex, and no one is going to do this but me.
I shake my head. "I can handle it." Matt tilts his head to the side, and his eyes narrow. "I'm good," I reply. "I promise."
He releases his grip on me. I stand, slide my eyes to Alex, and make my way to the evidence table. Picking up the crime scene pictures, I walk to the witness stand, and toss the pictures of Ellen and Alex in front of James. Both show swollen eyes and lips, cuts, and bruises.
"Do you see these, Mr. Wells? Do you see what you did to your wife? To your son?"
"Yes, I've seen them, and I am so very sorry," his voice is quiet, his eyes downcast.
Red clouds my vision, an internal roar rips through me. I lean closer, I want to intimidate him, but I have to be careful not to be obvious and get my ass thrown out of court. "You hit your wife so hard you knocked her unconscious, didn't you?"
"Yes, but it was an accident." His voice cracks, beads of sweat appear on his upper lip.
I glare at him. "And when your son tried to protect his mother, you beat him until he passed out, as well, isn't that right?" My muscles twitch and tense, my pulse speeds out of control.
"He—he attacked me first," he refutes, his eyes dart to the jury.
My blood pressure is skyrocketing, and there's a burn in my belly, muscles so tense it's painful. "The injuries you inflicted on your wife that night caused her death. You killed your wife, Mr. Wells, not your son, isn't that right?"
"No, I—" he shakes his head, eyes wide, and blinks rapidly. "No, he—" Wells looks around me at his attorney. "Alex is to blame. He did it." He points a shaky finger in Alex's direction.
"Your Honor," Matt says behind me. I jerk my head around, not at all sure what he's doing, and a bit pissed he's breaking my flow. "May I have a moment to confer with Ms. Tate?"
Franklin nods, so I join Matt. He draws in close, mouth near my ear. Voice low, but there's no mistaking his irritation. "Kylie, you have got to get your emotions under control."
"I'm confronting him on his testimony, Matt, that's what I'm supposed to do," I respond in a low, measured tone.
"You're attacking him, and your body language suggests you're a hair's breath away from ripping his throat out with your bare hands. Back the fuck off before you lose the jury, and I sit your ass down. I understand you want this asshole to pay, but I won't allow you to destroy any chance of getting a conviction. Am I clear?" The muscles in his neck strain, a red flush invades his cheeks, and his eye twitches.
I take a deep breath. He's right, I have to reset. I can't win this case if the jury is sympathetic to him and despise me. Cross examination is a tightrope walk, the perfect balance between asking the right questions to attacking the witness to the point they look like the victim. Leaning one way or the other will throw off that balance, and the only thing I'll be able to do is figure out where I went wrong as I fall—right before I slam into the ground, and my case implodes. I can push Wells, but I have to be detached, allow Wells to bury himself.
I give a nod to Matt, but his eyebrows raise. "I'll rectify the situation," I affirm and move past him to the podium.
"Mr. Wells, were you drunk the night of your wife's death?" My voice is steady, my demeanor calm and in control.
"No, I was not." Wells is more confident, as well, the broken, despondent man now just a memory.
"What did you and your wife argue about that night?"
He juts his chin out. "I don't remember."
I step out from behind the podium and tilt my head just slightly. "The night your wife dies, you can't recall what you were fighting about? Come on, Mr. Wells, what did she say to you to get you so upset?"
"I don't—"
"Sure, you do." I step next to the jury box, my arms open, my voice upbeat. "What did she say to set you off?"
His faces reddens, his gaze bounces around the courtroom, but he avoids eye contact with me. "Nothing," he answers, flatly.
"So, you just like hitting women for no reason?" I move in front of him again, force him to look at me. "Or does it make you feel superior?"
"Objection," Hamilton bellows from his table.
"Sustained, the jury will disregard the questions.”
"Why did you hit your wife?" I as
k, my voice elevated, placing emphasis on every word.
Wells tugs on his tie, his Adam's apple bobs up and down, and his voice wavers.
I continue to barrage him with questions. "You've already admitted you hit her. You claim you were not drunk. There had to be a reason, so tell us what your wife said that pushed you to your breaking point and you beat her."
Wells' mouth is clamped shut, and his nostrils flare. "She told me she was leaving me and filing for divorce," he blurts out.
I blink—what did he just say? I step closer to the witness box, block his view of his attorney, and give him only one option of where to look—at me. "And you weren't going to let that happen, were you?"
His breaths hiss with every exhale through his nose, and his eyes flame with rage. "She was my wife," he snarls through clenched teeth, "those were my kids. I wasn't going to just let her leave me."
"She didn't get to make decisions like that, did she?"
"No," he spits out.
"So you reminded her who was the boss?"
A menacing smile spreads across his face, his focus solely on me, as if we are the only two people in the courtroom. "Yes, I did."
"But you didn't just stop with one hit. You kept hitting her—over and over, didn't you, Mr. Wells?"
"Yes—"
"And then you turned that rage on your son?"
Wells glances at Alex, and something shifts in his demeanor, his features slack. He takes a couple of calming breaths and glances at me. "No."
I've already invested too much in this line of questioning. I'm so close, and he's about to break—expose all the lies and destroy the allegations against Alex. I need to fire him up, guide him to the edge, and encourage him to jump.
"She told you she was leaving, and you decided right then what you had to do." His eyes slide over to me, and I press on. "You were going to take care of the situation—if she wanted out of the marriage, you were going to let her, but not by walking out the door, and certainly not with your kids."
Wells seethes, and I get a glimpse into what Ellen Wells saw that night—the fear, the knowledge he would beat her. Did she know he was going to kill her? His eyes have murder in them, and I'm not sure if he is reliving that night and the rage he felt, or if he wants to claim me as his next victim.
"She had to die for even considering taking your kids and leaving. And so that's what you did, isn't it, you knew exactly what you were doing, because you had a plan to make sure there was never any divorce?"
We stare at each other, I can see it in his eyes—he wants to confess, vow I meet the same fate—and then it's lost.
He drops his head. "No." His voice is quiet. He looks past me at the jury. "She was alive when I left. Alex—he was the only one there. He strangled her to death."
I walk back to the podium. He didn't confess to killing his wife, but he did provide a strong motive for murder, and I hope the jury sees his true colors.
He murdered once—and he'll do it again, given the chance.
31
Matt and I exit the courtroom and join Alex and his family.
"Nice closing argument," Alex says to Matt, and shakes his hand.
"Thanks, it was an easy wrap-up thanks to Kylie and her…persistence. Now, all that's left is to wait for the jury."
A young woman dressed in a suit with DA credentials on a lanyard around her neck stands behind Matt and whispers something to him. He nods at her, and she walks away. "I have to put out a fire in another case," he says to the group before turning to me. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Get started without me, if you need to, and I'll be in as soon as I can."
I nod, and he walks down the hall, catches up with the young woman and they enter another courtroom.
"Kylie, you were brilliant," Harold says, a big smile brightening his eyes, as he wraps me up in a bear hug.
Francine gives me a tight smile, typical for her, glances at me for a second and then looks away. "Yes, well, I guess we'll see if the jury agrees."
I smile, accept her backhanded compliment, and nod. Alex watches me, but I can tell he is a million miles away, his demons pointing out ominous outcomes if the jury acquits.
Harold releases me, takes Francine's arm and links it through his, and they say their goodbyes. I love Harold, and his ability to read his nephew, and know when to get Francine away before she makes the situation worse.
"Hey," I say to Alex, place my hands on his waist, and pull him out of his head. "What if—after Paul and Ryan's wedding—we take some time for ourselves. You, me, a secluded beach. You can leave all your suits behind, and I'll leave my swimsuits…" I bat my eyes which elicits a chuckle from Alex.
"Intriguing idea, what island do you suggest?" He asks, pulling me in closer.
I pull back, knit my eyebrows, and cock my head to the side. "You don't own a secluded, private island in some far away tropical locale?"
"Not yet, but I will look into it."
"You do that." The bailiff steps out of the courtroom, glances around until he spots me, and waves me over. I put up one finger, he nods, and I turn back to Alex. "I have a meeting with Hamilton and Judge Franklin. You should go home, and I'll call when I get done."
"Are you sure? I don't mind waiting for you," he says, his hands sliding into mine.
"Yeah, I'm sure. I may be here for a while. There's no reason for you to hang out." I step in closer, drop my voice to a seductive tone, and whisper, "Besides, I was hoping you would make a pitcher of margaritas, and we could turn on the patio fireplace, snuggle and get drunk…who knows where it will go from there?"
"Oh, I know," Alex growls, and places his lips to my ear. "I plan on showing you just how much I appreciate you—every inch of you."
"Don't get me all horny before I have to go into the judge's chambers. There's no telling what I will agree to in order to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible."
His hand snakes around my waist, rest on my lower back, and he chuckles. "Do your job, Ms. Tate. Then come home to me."
"Always, Mr. Stone." I give him a quick kiss, walk to the courtroom, and smile before I enter.
Sometimes it's still hard for me to believe that Alex and I have known each other for less than a year. We've been through so much in such a short amount of time. It feels as if I've known him my whole life, which is somewhat true—I didn't ever truly feel alive until he came into my life. He's been challenging and exasperating, and we continue to struggle with his need to protect me and my fierce independence. But we always fit together, from the very start, it was natural for us. Never fake or forced. Being with him is easy. We butt heads, yes, but I have always been comfortable with him, as if I was always meant to be with him.
I used to wonder if we would have found our way to each other if I hadn't been in danger. So much of our relationship involves John and his sadistic threats. Alex has an endless amount of love and devotion that even he didn't realize he had.
People see the persona—the billionaire playboy, ruthless in his business dealings, slated to be a confirmed bachelor for life. He let me see a side of him which contradicts what the public believes. Even I thought I knew him. I saw him as a protector, a man who would do whatever he had to do to keep John away from me, devoted to making me feel safe.
There is so much more to Alex Stone, though. A vulnerability he keeps hidden, the fear of abandonment, riddled with guilt for so much of his life, and the demons who convinced him love didn’t exist. Breaking down his walls led to a discovery of who he really is at heart. Funny, playful, generous, insightful, and—though he still denies it—romantic. He loves with his whole heart. There is not a day where I question his love for me. His devotion to my happiness, the way he cherishes me—it's overwhelming, at times.
He made it safe for me to share my burdens, release my own demons, and divulge my darkest moments. It's so easy to love him—he owns my heart, possesses my soul, and I willingly give every part of myself to him.
He is home, family, and love
. He is my life—and I'm his.
I knock on the door, enter Judge Franklin's chambers, and redirect my focus. This is the final step, the last part of the process which involves me. After this, the jury will determine the strengths and weaknesses of each side's arguments and make a decision on James Wells' fate.
During that time, I plan on refocusing Alex's attention, so the outcome of this trial is the farthest thing from his mind.
32
I gather all the evidence, transcripts, depositions—everything we brought to court from the office—and load them back into the boxes. I was so preoccupied with other things, I forgot we had to remove everything from the courtroom. My hopes of getting home, out of this suit, and slipping into something sexy are delayed. I have given up trying to semi-organize the items, and at this point, I'm tossing everything together to sort out next week. I'm sure I'll kick myself for doing this, but I want nothing more than to get home, seduce Alex, and make love until I pass out from blissful exhaustion.
The door at the back of the courtroom opens, and Reyes walks in. He grabs an empty box and starts loading it.
"Sorry," he says, "I planned to have this all taken care of, but I ran up to my office, and then everyone wanted to get the inside scoop on the trial."
"Well, I appreciate the thought, but it's not your job to clean up my mess. Go home, relax, and don't worry about this—I can take care of it."
He ignores me and continues packing, and I'm thankful for the help. I place the lid on the final box, giving it a final pop to make sure it's on tight.
"Are you taking these back to the office tonight?" Reyes asks.
"No, I'm going to take them home—oh, shoot, I meant to call Jake before I got started so he could get here by the time I was done." I pull out my cellphone, but Reyes places his hand over the top of it before I can dial Jake's number.
"I can take you home."
"You don't have to do that. I can get Jake to come in."
Reyes scrunches up his nose, shakes his head, a quirky smile on his lips. "You don't want to wait around for him to get in here. I can take you, Kylie, I swear I don't mind. Besides, if you call Jake, I'm just going to wait around with you until he gets here."
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