Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. All those Sherlock Holmes books I’d shelved and sold and read twice. Observe without judgment.
The CA pressed play again, and I had to stop myself from asking him to pause it again.
It was right there, practically on the tip of my tongue.
The seat belt!
Oh, my god! The fucking seat belt!
It was angled the wrong way.
If Jameson had been in the passenger seat as everyone claimed then the strap should have gone from his right shoulder down to his left hip but in the video the seat belt crossed his torso from his left shoulder to his right hip, exactly as it would if he were in the driver’s seat.
Extending my arm, I clutched at Mr. Finkle’s cheap suit. “It’s wrong! The video is a fake.”
He dislodged my grasp. “We have been over this—”
“Look at the seat belt! The seat belt proves it’s a fake.”
Finkle bent closer and squinted at the screen. He shook his head. “I see nothing wrong.”
I explained how it was slanted across Jameson’s chest at the wrong angle.
Blotchy patches of red bloomed on Finkle’s cheeks and down his throat, disappearing into his grimy shirt collar.
He caught the CA’s gaze.
From the way the prosecutor was staring at me, it was obvious he had overheard our conversation. He pivoted and shut off the television.
I hissed through clenched teeth, “Say something!”
Finkle’s brow wrinkled. “What do you want me to say?”
“Object! Tell them the video is a fake.”
He shook his head. “The judge has already ruled it admissible. There is nothing I can do.”
I sat back and stared at him.
He blushed an even deeper shade of red. I’d had my suspicions about Finkle. No one could be that bad of an attorney. But until now, I hadn’t been totally convinced.
“He got to you,” I accused.
“Who?”
“Pierce Worthington, he got to you.”
Finkle shifted in his seat. “I...I...don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How much?”
“Please, Miss Hastings,” he said, casting a fearful glance between the judge and the CA. “Lower your voice.”
Uncaring, I asked again. “How much? How much was my life worth, you slimy piece of shit?”
The judge lowered his glasses onto the tip of his nose and glared down at us both. “Is there a problem, Mr. Finkle?”
“No,” he answered.
“Yes,” I responded.
The judge’s jowls trembled. “What is it this time?”
I stood. “I want a new attorney, Your Honor.”
“Denied.”
“But Your Honor!”
“I said, denied. Now sit down before I hold you in contempt.”
“But the video is fake and my attorney knows it!”
“Not another word!” roared the judge, his outburst causing his glasses to fly off his head and crack against the marble floor.
There was a collective gasp across the courtroom.
The gavel came down hard enough to crack wood. The jury was ordered out. Court was in recess. He then pointed to the two attorneys and ordered them into his chambers.
A bailiff appeared at my elbow before I could get any more words out, ready to drag me back to a small holding room just off the courtroom.
I turned and called out to Hailey and Rylee, “The seat belt in the video! Look at the angle!”
Hailey and Rylee rose in unison. “What should we do? Who should we tell?”
The bailiff yanked on my arm, forcing me through a pair of swinging double doors before I could respond.
She pulled me across the narrow hallway, past the crowded benches filled with handcuffed criminals in orange jumpsuits and shoved me over the threshold of the holding room.
The door slammed in my face and locked the moment I turned to plead with her.
Alone in the tiny room, I paced around the small rectangular table. Its wooden surface was scarred with countless scratches and etched curse words, except in one corner.
Faintly, in thin, spidery handwriting, someone had scrawled the words “help me.”
My knees buckled.
Leaning my forehead against the edge of the table, I crouched low, trying to force air into my lungs. For the first time in my life, I prayed.
Oh God, please, please help me.
Just then, the latch clicked.
I rose, expecting to see the sourpuss face of the bailiff coming to fetch me back to the travesty otherwise known as my trial.
Instead, the arrogantly handsome face of Pierce Worthington appeared.
His presence filled the sparse room.
Gone were the musty odors of dust and neglect, replaced by the clean sandalwood scent of his cologne. He unbuttoned his expensive-looking suit jacket as he stepped into the room, gesturing for the court officer to once again close and lock it behind him.
I had prayed to God, but it was the Devil who answered.
His voice was laced with venom. “Hello, Madison.”
CHAPTER 10
PIERCE
Ihad to stifle the growl which rumbled low in my chest.
Two weeks behind bars and she hadn’t broken.
Her hair was limp, her skin pale under the fluorescent wash, and there were shadows beneath her eyes that hadn’t been there in the courtroom. None of it mattered. She stood with her chin up and her shoulders back, staring at me the way no one in my life had ever dared—like I was the one who should be in a cell.