Chapter 16
Jax
The federal courthouse in West Palm Beach looks like it's hosting a costume party, not a criminal trial. I watch from my truck as the Walking Ladies exit their Buick wearing matching black pantsuits, oversized sunglasses, and what appear to be press badges made from laminated index cards.
"They're really doing this," I mutter to Kendall, who's sitting beside me in her navy suit, hands twisted in her lap.
"At least they left the FBI badges at home," she says, but her voice is tight with nerves.
"That we know of," I counter, then reach over to take her hand. "You ready for this?"
"No," she admits. "William's lawyer is supposed to be ruthless. Harvard Law, never lost a case like this."
"You're just telling the truth," I remind her. "That's all you have to do."
"The truth according to me versus the truth according to the conspirators who'll say anything to reduce their sentences." She squeezes my hand. "What if the jury believes them?"
"Then the jury's blind," I say firmly. "Come on. Let's get inside before Gladys tries to perform a citizen's arrest on someone."
The courthouse security is not amused by the Walking Ladies' "press credentials," but after some negotiation and badge confiscation, they're allowed inside. We find them in the hallway outside the courtroom, huddled together like they're planning a heist.
"Kendall, dear!" Florence calls out. "We're trying to get on the jury!"
"That's not how jury selection works," I explain patiently. "You can't just volunteer."
"Why not?" Betty demands. "We're registered voters, we pay taxes, and we've been involved since day one. We're perfect jurors!"
"You're biased," I point out. "You literally dressed as FBI agents and helped with the investigation."
"Allegedly," Gladys says with a wink. "Our lawyer says we were just concerned citizens in Halloween costumes."
"It was June," I remind her.
"We're very prepared for Halloween," Joan adds innocently.
Before I can respond, the bailiff opens the courtroom doors. "Jury selection is beginning. All potential jurors, please enter."
The Walking Ladies practically sprint inside, despite none of them being on the jury list. I shake my head and guide Kendall to the prosecution's side. The federal prosecutor, Patricia Chen, is already there, reviewing notes.
"Ms. Greene, good morning," she says warmly. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I might throw up," Kendall answers honestly.
"That's normal," Patricia assures her. "Remember, you're not on trial. William Thornfield is."
The defense table is still empty, but I know William's out on bail, probably arriving at the last possible moment for dramatic effect. Morrison and Valerie are being held as flight risks, so they'll be brought in by marshals when needed.
The jury selection is entertaining, to say the least. The Walking Ladies somehow positioned themselves in the front row of the gallery, making themselves as visible as possible to the judge. Every time a potential juror is dismissed, one of them raises their hand like they're in school.
"Your Honor," Gladys calls out during a break in questioning, "we'd like to volunteer as tribute!"
Judge Martinez, a no-nonsense woman in her sixties, peers over her glasses. "Ma'am, this is not 'The Hunger Games.' Please remain quiet or you'll be removed from the courtroom."
"Just trying to help," Gladys mutters, sitting back down.
The actual jury selection takes three hours.
William's lawyer, a sharp-dressed man named Richard Brennan, dismisses anyone who seems sympathetic to property managers or unsympathetic to wealthy developers.
Patricia counters by removing anyone who seems to think arson is a reasonable business tactic.
Finally, we have twelve jurors and two alternates. None of them are the Walking Ladies, much to their visible disappointment.
William Thornfield enters just as we're about to begin, and my jaw clenches.
He's lost weight since his arrest, playing up the "frail elderly man" angle.
His lawyer probably coached him on that.
He's wearing a modest suit instead of his usual expensive attire, and he's walking with a cane I know he doesn't need.
"Bastard," I mutter under my breath.
"He looks pathetic," Kendall whispers. "The jury might feel sorry for him."
"Not after they hear the evidence," I assure her, but I'm worried too. William's good at manipulation. It's how he got this far.
Patricia Chen stands for her opening statement.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the government will prove that William Thornfield orchestrated a campaign of terror against the residents of Hibiscus Harbor.
He conspired to burn down buildings full of families, elderly residents, and children, all for profit. "
She lays out the case methodically—the financial records, the explosive devices, the testimony from co-conspirators. It's damning when presented all together.
Brennan's opening is exactly what I expected.
"My client is a seventy-three-year-old man who built this community.
He's being scapegoated by the actual criminals—James Morrison, who was having an affair and embezzling money.
Valerie Thornfield, a bitter soon-to-be ex-wife looking for revenge.
Brad Hutchins, a career criminal with a history of property damage.
They're pointing fingers at my client to save themselves. "
"That's not true," Kendall whispers, her hands clenched in her lap.
"We know that," I whisper back. "The jury will too."
The first witness is Chance Carter from the fire department. He details the explosive devices found, their military-grade components, and the fact that only someone with significant resources could acquire them.
"How much would these devices cost?" Patricia asks.
"Based on our analysis, approximately fifty thousand dollars per device," Chance answers. "We found six devices in total. That's three hundred thousand dollars in explosives alone."
"Could Mr. Morrison, Ms. Thornfield, or Mr. Hutchins afford that?"
"Objection," Brennan calls out. "Speculation."
"I'll rephrase," Patricia says smoothly. "Detective Carter, did you investigate the financial records of the co-conspirators?"
"Yes," Chance confirms. "Morrison had less than ten thousand in savings. Ms. Thornfield's accounts were frozen in divorce proceedings. Brad Hutchins had negative bank balances."
"So who could afford these devices?"
"Based on the financial investigation, only William Thornfield had access to those kinds of funds."
Brennan cross-examines aggressively, trying to suggest the devices were crude, homemade, that anyone could have made them. But Chance holds firm—these were professional, military-grade, and expensive.
Morrison testifies next, brought in wearing shackles that the jury definitely notices. He looks worse than when I interviewed him—pale, shaking, clearly terrified.
"Mr. Morrison, how did you become involved in this conspiracy?" Patricia asks.
"William approached me two years ago," Morrison says, his voice barely above a whisper. "He knew I was in debt, struggling. He offered to pay off my creditors if I helped him acquire the buildings."
"How were you supposed to acquire them?"
"Make them worthless first," Morrison admits. "Drive out the tenants, create problems, make them too expensive to maintain. Then his shell companies would buy them cheap."
"Did you agree to arson?"
"No!" Morrison says quickly. "Never. I thought we were just... making things difficult. Bureaucratic problems. Not violence."
"When did you learn about the explosives?"
"The day of the first fire," Morrison says, looking at William. "He called me, said it was starting. I asked what was starting, and he said, 'The cleansing.' That's when I knew he'd gone beyond our plan."
"Objection," Brennan says. "Hearsay."
"It's a statement by a party opponent," Patricia counters. "It's admissible."
"Overruled," Judge Martinez says. "Continue."
Morrison details more of the conspiracy—the payments, the meetings, William's elaborate plans for development after the buildings were destroyed. It's damning testimony, even if Morrison is trying to minimize his own role.
Brennan's cross-examination is brutal. "Mr. Morrison, you're facing life in prison, aren't you?"
"Yes," Morrison admits.
"And you've been offered a deal for your testimony?"
"Yes."
"So you'd say anything to avoid life in prison, wouldn't you?"
"No, I'm telling the truth—"
"The truth that benefits you," Brennan interrupts. "The truth that puts all the blame on my client."
"Objection," Patricia says. "Argumentative."
"Sustained," the judge rules.
But the damage is done. Morrison looks exactly like what he is—a desperate man trying to save himself.
Valerie's testimony is more compelling. She enters looking genuinely broken, with none of her usual hauteur remaining.
"Ms. Thornfield, what was your relationship to the defendant?" Patricia asks.
"He's my husband," Valerie says quietly. "We've been married thirty-one years."
"Are you testifying against him for revenge?"
"No," Valerie says, tears starting. "I'm testifying because what he did was evil. I took part, God help me, but I never agreed to murder."
She describes William's escalation, his obsession with the development project, his willingness to kill for it. She produces text messages, recordings she made secretly, and evidence of his planning.
"He said the elderly residents were going to die soon anyway," Valerie testifies, her voice shaking. "He said we were just... speeding up the inevitable. That's when I knew he'd lost his mind."
"Why didn't you go to the police then?" Patricia asks.
"He said he'd kill me," Valerie says simply. "He showed me how he'd do it. Make it look like suicide. He had it all planned out."
Even Brennan seems affected by her testimony. His cross-examination is gentler, focusing on her affair with Morrison, suggesting she's a woman scorned. But Valerie holds steady.