Faithless: A High School Bully Romance (The Privileged of Pembroke High Book 3)

by Ivy Fox

  “Overruled, Mr. Coen. Mr. Rosenblum is correct. You were aware of this witness beforehand, so this shouldn’t come as a surprise. You can reserve the right to call Mrs. Hurst at a later time. You may proceed with your witness, Mr. Rosenblum,” Judge Katz states, waving her hand aside to give permission for the DA to put on his dog-and-pony show, just as he intended.

  We watch Addison and Reid’s mom walk to the stand, ready to place her hand on the bible as if she’s about to hold a congress. I’ve never seen the usually wide-eyed woman look so stern.

  “State your name for the record, please.”

  “Claire Elizabeth Hurst,” she says plainly.

  “Please raise your right hand,” the bailiff instructs, holding out the bible for her to place her left hand on it. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” he adds.

  “I do.”

  “Please take a seat.”

  Claire looks flawless in her navy Valentino dress. Even though she spawned the devil’s child in Addison, I always liked Claire. When I went over to her house, I was always envious of Reid and his bitch of a sister for all the coddling they received from her. A helicopter mother if I ever saw one. But I guess when you have a loving mother taken away, you get awfully jealous of the friends who still have one present in their lives.

  On the other hand, they’re father, Charles Hurst, is a right bastard. Like a runner-up for the ‘Worst Father of the Year’ title, right behind our father.

  Claire, however, I always thought of the woman to be a saint. So, how come I feel like she’s about to rip heaven to shreds and reveal she is just as much of a devil as the man she’s married to? Why is she testifying for the prosecution? And why all the fucking secrecy? None of this settles my unease.

  “Mrs. Hurst, to the best of your recollection, can you please tell us the events that took place on the 25th of December last year?” the DA asks, coming out swinging.

  “It was Christmas day, so I spent most of it at home with my children and my husband,” she explains, facing the jury. All of them give her an appreciative nod and understanding look, thinking of her as a dutiful senator’s wife.

  “And did you stay there the whole day?”

  “No. We were invited to have Christmas dinner at our friends’ home, the Mannings. It’s a tradition we have upheld for the past decade.”

  “I see. And how were the festivities there?”

  “Good, as expected. Once you go to a party every year, nothing much takes you by surprise,” she adds with a soft laugh.

  The jury grins at her, and she gives them a warm smile, winning their affection even more.

  “The fuck is going on?” I mumble under my breath, not liking one bit how Claire easily won the room with just a few words. Snow squeezes my hand to cool my temper, but the sudden chill of her skin tells me that she’s just as apprehensive.

  “So, the party was uneventful?” Rosenblum continues, leading the conversation to a place none of us yet know.

  “It was. Until Vivienne Grayson received a phone call from Liberty General, advising her husband had just woken up. All of us thought it to be a Christmas miracle.” Claire holds her hands to her heart as if she can still recollect the blessing.

  Fuck this shit! The only miracle that happened that day was the fucker kicking the bucket.

  “And what happened then, Mrs. Hurst?”

  “As the hosts of the party, the Mannings offered to take Vivienne to the hospital. And, of course, my husband and I immediately offered to be there for her, too. Both Judge Grayson and Vivienne have been close friends of my family for years, and we knew we needed to be there for them at such a crucial time in their lives.”

  I watch Snow’s forehead wrinkle in confusion, while my own scowl deepens. It’s true the Senator was always up my father’s ass, but Claire never seemed to be his greatest fan. When I was a kid, she would come to the manor and let me and Ollie play with Reid all the time. But when Mom died, she never set foot inside the manor again, unless it was to fulfill some social obligation at some fundraising event or a fancy party my father held with the senator.

  “And who arrived first?” Rosenblum continues his line of questioning.

  “My husband and I.”

  “What happened then, Mrs. Hurst? Leave no detail out.”

  “Well… I stayed in the room with Malcolm while my husband tried to get a hold of Vivienne and the Mannings. They had taken a different route and, as surprising as it is on Christmas day, caught some traffic.”

  “Ah, the chaotic life of a New Yorker,” the district attorney teases, gaining a few chuckles from the crowd.

  “Yes. Quite right,” she agrees, less than humorous.

  “So let’s recapitulate. Your husband, Senator Hurst, is out of the room trying to locate Mrs. Grayson and the Mannings, who are stuck in traffic, while you are alone with Mr. Grayson in his hospital room. Did I miss anything?”

  “No. That’s exactly right.”

  “Good. Now while you waited, what occurred?”

  “As I waited for my husband to return, Malcolm woke up.”

  The fuck?

  Snow instantly turns pale at the revelation, while Elle, at her side, looks pissed as hell. I look past my baby sister to Ollie, who immediately feels my gaze on him. In his eyes, I read words that are also playing inside my head.

  The bastard told Claire about Snow.

  Game over.

  We’re fucked.

  I grab Snow’s hand, ready to get the fuck out of here, but she won’t budge. Instead, she shakes her head, wanting to hear Claire’s testimony to the very end.

  Shit.

  Fuck!

  FUCK!!!

  “And did he talk to you? Did Judge Grayson say anything to you that night?”

  “He did.” She nods, looking steady in her resolve.

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said someone tried to murder him,” she chokes out, creating an eerie silence in the room. Every person here is glued to their seat, their ears attentive to every word she utters.

  “Someone? Did he say ‘someone,’ or did he tell you who it was?” The DA probes further, his beady eyes beaming with victory.

  Claire bows her head down, her shoulders trembling furiously.

  “He gave me a name,” she says at last, after an excruciating, pregnant pause.

  “And what name did Judge Grayson say? Who did he pinpoint as his murderer, on his death bed?”

  “Rome. He said his son Roman tried to kill him.”

  Chapter 12

  Holland

  “That’s a lie!” I shout in outrage.

  “Order in the courtroom! Order in the courtroom!” the judge yells above the loud thumping sound of her gavel, while the rest of the crowd behind me snickers and mumbles out their shock at my little interference in this sham of a witness’ testimony.

  “Snow, sit down, baby,” Ollie begs, pulling me back down onto the bench, cradling me next to him.

  “But she’s lying, Ollie. She’s lying!” I plead loudly, grasping at his lapel, my whole body trembling with rage.

  “I said order in my court, miss, or I will hold you in contempt,” Judge Katz warns, and even though I want to jump out of my seat and slap that lying nurse’s face, I do as I’m ordered and bite my tongue, while Ollie holds me at his side, ensuring I don’t follow my inner instinct to bitch-slap the witness on the stand.

  Rome throws me a forlorn look over his shoulder, one that I’ve seen too many times on his face during this trial—a sign that he wants me to cool down and take a minute to keep my head in the game.

  And that’s exactly what this is—a game. One conducted by lying snakes, intent on placing an innocent man behind bars for the rest of his life, either because of their greed, or morbid sense of entertainment.

  First, it was my mother with her theatrics; then Claire Hurst, of all people, accusing Rome of mur
der; and now this lying, two-faced, money-hungry nurse. Her false testimony was bought. I know it. No way in hell did Malcolm Grayson point the finger at Rome as his murderer. It’s just not possible. He wouldn’t use his last breath telling such a harmful lie to condemn his son and let his real killer go scot-free. He wouldn’t do that.

  Would he?

  Ollie tightens his grip on my shoulder as the prosecution asks the fibbing woman on the stand to repeat, yet again, what she said.

  “Can you please tell this court the exact words Judge Grayson said to you when he woke up from his coma?”

  Her skittish eyes lock with mine, and I’m sure she sees the venom laced there. Still, she has the audacity to not retract the fabricated tale, even when I’m throwing daggers her way.

  “He was very groggy when he came to, so we immediately called his doctor. After we took the all intubation out, he seemed to settle down. Nonetheless, Dr. Nassir told me to administer more morphine since it was obvious he was still in a lot of pain, and his anxiety levels were at its peak.”

  “Was anyone else in the room with you at the time?”

  “Not that I recall, no. I think Dr. Nassir had stepped out to call the family and alert them to Judge Grayson’s current state.”

  “And then what happened? Explain in detail what occurred once you were in the room alone with the deceased during his final moments of clarity,” the DA probes, turning his head in my direction, his eyes forbidding me to interfere.

  I grind my teeth, but this time, I don’t do anything to draw more attention to myself. If this nurse is going to lie on the stand, my contempt and outrage won’t stop her from doing so.

  “As I said before, I administered the drug without much issue. When I was about to turn around and dispose of the needle, I felt Judge Grayson’s hand grab my arm. It startled me for a moment as he was meant to be resting, but he seemed so anxious in grabbing my attention that it was natural to take me off guard. I told him to relax and let the medication take effect, but he continued to shake his head, looking very distraught.”

  “So, he was agitated?”

  “Yes. Very much so,” she confirms, looking directly at the jury with the most earnest expression.

  “And what did he tell you?”

  “He said his son tried to kill him. That they had a fight and that his son hit him in the head,” she croaks, looking as if the lie is choking her windpipe as much as it’s choking mine.

  “Is that all he said? Or did he give you a name?” Rosenblum enquires further, wanting her to repeat the name that will forever condemn my love.

  “Yes. He specifically called out his son’s name—Roman.”

  With gasps and murmurs filling the air, the district attorney looks ready to wipe his hands and call it a victory.

  “Thank you. No further questions, Your Honor,” Rosenblum adds, all smiles as he makes his way behind the prosecution’s table.

  “Mr. Coen, the witness is yours.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Coen replies, getting up from his seat with a firm scowl in place. “Ms. Jenkins, can you please confirm that you were alone when Judge Grayson made this grave accusation against my client.”

  “As I said, there was no one else in the room,” she states plainly.

  “In other words, to the best of your knowledge, these were his first words after months in a coma? Is that correct?” Joel Coen insists, and the wrinkles that form on the nurse’s brow reveals she has no idea what he’s up to. And to be honest, neither do I.

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I had other patients to attend to. Judge Grayson was going to be out for a few hours anyway, so aside from what Dr. Nassir asked me to do, I left him. When I returned later that day, Dr. Nassir had already pronounced him dead.”

  “So, as far as you know, Judge Grayson in no way, shape, or form ever pointed out that his son, Roman Grayson, tried to murder him, to anyone else but you? Not his family. Not your colleagues. Not his doctor. No one but you. Is that correct?”

  I watch her swallow dryly and look at the suspicious jury at the side.

  “I am unaware of what Judge Grayson did or did not do after he confided in me.”

  “Let me just try to wrap my head around that statement, Ms. Jenkins. What you’re testifying to, under oath, is that a patient of yours told you that someone tried to murder him, and you just went about your daily routine as if nothing happened, only to return when he could no longer tell anyone else what he confided in you?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. That’s what happened,” she mumbles under her breath.

  “So, what did you do then?” Coen continues, tilting his head to the side as if the woman on the stand was a five-year-old in need of severe discipline.

  “I don’t follow,” she counters, confused.

  “Ms. Jenkins, it’s an easy question. What did you do next? Did you warn the police of the statement your patient made in your care? Did you advise the family, for instance?”

  “Well, no.” She lowers her eyes, biting her lower lip nervously.

  “And why not? Did it not seem important for you to do so?”

  “At the time, I honestly didn’t give it much thought. Judge Grayson was heavily sedated. He was groggy. I didn’t know if he was even lucid when he said those words.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that it could have been a product of his imagination, heightened by a cracked skull, and powerful drugs? Is that correct?” Coen asks, and the sliver of doubt that I see clouding Judge Katz’s eyes is enough for my thumping heart to skip a hopeful beat.

  “Maybe. It could have been, but he seemed very adamant of it. You didn’t see his eyes bulge out as I did. It was compelling.”

  “But you just said that he was groggy. If you believed him to be telling the truth, then I ask you again, why didn’t you alert the authorities before? Why wait for this trial to begin to come forward?” Coen accuses.

  “I thought it was my duty to come here and tell everyone what my patient’s last words were,” she gasps out, seemingly hurt by Coen’s line of questioning.

  “But how do you know they were his last? Maybe he woke up later and told something else to another nurse.”

  “I don’t think so.” She adamantly shakes her head.

  “And why not?”

  “Because someone would have said something,” she roars out, her own eyes wide in contempt.

  “Like you did, Ms. Jenkins?”

  The frown on the nurse’s face is evident, so I take stock of the jury’s reaction to her disgruntled silence. I know the defense is doing its best to discredit her testimony, but how well was Coen able to convince Rome’s innocence to these twelve people holding his fate in their hands?

  “Your Honor, the defense has no other questions for the witness at this time. However, we would like to reserve the right to call Ms. Jenkins again at a later date,” Coen explains nonchalantly.

  I—along with everyone else in the courtroom—can see the instant sheen of sweat over the lying nurse’s lip, showing how apprehensive she is for having to make another appearance on the witness stand.

  “Very well, Mr. Coen. I think we’ve had enough for one day. We’ll reconvene Monday at ten sharp. This court is adjourned,” Judge Katz informs and slams her gavel, bringing an end today’s torment.

  “Great. Let’s start next week with another shitshow like this one,” Elle mumbles next to me while my eyes beseech Rome’s.

  I silently beg him to reconsider what has been plaguing my heart nonstop, but to my dismay, he shakes his head. That’s all the answer he gives to my unspoken plea. Not even now—when two people have testified that his father accused him of the attack that caused his death—will he allow me to go to the cops with the truth.

  As the bailiff ushers Rome out of the room, we get up from our seats, and my eyes immediately catch the lying nurse walking out of the courtroom. But whil
e everyone is in a rush to leave, they miss what I manage to see—the nurse giving a little nod to none other than my mother as she passes by.

  My anger starts to bubble anew, and it’s Elle who senses my rage sizzling throughout my being. She grabs my hand, giving it a squeeze to keep me from going ballistic, and just like Rome’s golden jewels, her eyes plead with me not to lose my self-control.

  “Let’s get you home,” Ollie says, giving me a side hug, while Asher leaves us all behind, already laying it thick on Rome’s lawyers. Just like me, he isn’t one bit happy with how Rome looks guiltier and guiltier as days go by. Unless some sort of miracle occurs, I’m not sure how the Coens will be able to get Rome acquitted.

  “Actually, Ollie, do you mind if Holland and I have a little girl time? I think a distraction will do us good. Some shopping or even a walk through Central Park. What do you say?” Elle states cheerfully, and the little side wink she gives me behind her brother’s back is all the persuasion I need to be on board with whatever she’s got in mind.

  “Hmm, I don’t know. Today was pretty messed up,” Ollie mumbles, pushing his glasses back to the bridge of his nose.

  I hug his bicep and turn on the sweetest smile I can conjure without looking like I’m hiding something.

  “I think Elle is right. I do need some time away from the house. If anything comes up, I’ll call you. Okay, Ollie? We’ll be fine.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Oh, geez, Ollie. She’s not made of porcelain. Gaaahd!!! If you haven’t checked, your girlfriend is kick-ass. She won’t break just by spending an afternoon blowing off some steam doing something as frivolous as shopping. She’ll be fine, you big baby!”

  Between Elle’s exaggerated eye-rolling and me batting my butterfly lashes, Ollie is unable to resist or put up much of a fight.

  “Fine,” he grunts out, defeated.

  “It’s cute that you think you’re giving me permission.” I can’t help but taunt.