Chapter 11
Eleven
EASTON
The clank of chains echo with every step I take down the narrow hallway leading to the courtroom.
My wrists are cuffed, the cold bite of steel pressing into my skin a reminder with every shuffle that I’m a man they already think of as guilty.
The deputy guiding me forward doesn’t say a word, he just keeps his grip firm on my arm like I might try to bolt, even in shackles.
I know better, nor would I do anything to jeopardize my chance of getting out.
Rick is going to argue for bail again. He’s been grilling me the past couple weeks, looking for any angle to fight this, and now he’s finally found it. I didn’t ‘ hit ’ first. I might have landed the first punch, but that asshole shoved me first. I merely defending myself.
The air shifts the moment we pass through the heavy double doors.
Bright, sterile, thick with the weight of judgment.
My chest tightens. A hundred times I’ve told myself not to look for her.
That if Harley comes today, I don’t deserve to see her face.
But my eyes betray me the second I step inside.
I wasn’t able to answer her last letter asking about the date because I wasn’t sure yet, and then everything happened so quickly … and honestly, I don’t want her here.
But there she is anyway. My Little Bird.
Second row, hands clenching in her lap and chin trembling, but held high like she is daring the world not to break her. Rick must have told her, and I hate him for it. My gaze darts straight to her stomach, and I can hardly tell that she is, in fact, pregnant.
She shouldn’t be here; the emotions will be too much, and I don’t want to be the reason anything goes wrong with the baby.
Kennedy sits beside her, one arm crossing over her chest while the other rests protectively near Harley, her expression sharp enough to cut glass. They both look so out of place here, like flowers shoved into cement cracks, yet, somehow, still managing to bloom.
For a second, my knees almost buckle. Relief and guilt slam into me so hard I think I’m about to collapse, right here in front of the bailiff. She came. She still believes enough to show up. I hate myself, once again, for letting her see me like this. Chained, accused, less than human.
“Defendant seated,” the deputy barks, shoving me into the chair beside Rick. My lawyer adjusts his glasses, giving me a quick once-over. His expression is unreadable, but I catch the flicker of warning in his eyes. Stay quiet. Stay steady.
“All rise,” the bailiff calls out.
The judge sweeps in, robes flowing, his face as unreadable as stone. Everyone sits, and the gavel cracks against the wood. The sound rattles through my bones.
“Case number 22-1564, State versus Easton Ryder Diggs,” the clerk reads.
And just like that, I’m not Easton anymore. Not Harley’s fiancé. Not a man about to be a father. Just another case file. Another number.
The prosecutor stands first. A woman with sharp cheekbones, her suit pressed so stiff it looks like it might crack if she bends the wrong way. She shuffles her papers deliberately, like she wants to stretch out the silence and make me sweat.
“Your Honor, the State is prepared to establish probable cause that the defendant committed felony assault resulting in bodily injury at the SunWave Music Festival.”
Her words slide like knives. I can almost feel Harley flinch in the gallery.
She goes on, her voice clipped and cold.
“The victim sustained a concussion and multiple contusions as a direct result of the defendant’s unprovoked violence.
Furthermore, the defendant is a repeat offender with a prior criminal history.
His pattern of behavior shows he is both volatile and dangerous, unfit for release, and a threat to public safety. ”
My jaw tightens. Unprovoked violence. She wasn’t there. She didn’t see the shove, the hand sneaking toward Kennedy’s drink, the way adrenaline lit up my veins like fire.
The prosecutor calls the arresting officer. He walks to the stand, polished and practiced. He recites the events like they’re scripted.
“We arrived on scene at SunWave Festival at approximately 9:42 p.m. Witnesses state the defendant struck the victim with enough force to knock him unconscious. The Victim was then transported to the county hospital with head trauma. The Defendant was taken into custody without incident.”
It all sounds so neat. So clean. Like a line of text on a report instead of the chaos it had really been that day. Music thundering. Lights flashing. The shove. His swing. My fist connecting before I even had time to think.
The prosecutor presses on. “Officer, in your professional opinion, did the defendant appear remorseful at the time of arrest?”
“No,” the officer says flatly.
Lies. I felt sick as soon as it happened.
Rick’s pen taps once against his legal pad. A signal. Don’t react. Don’t take the bait.
The prosecutor smiles faintly, like she’s already won. “No further questions.”
Rick rises slowly and buttons his jacket. His voice is steady, calm. “Officer, did you personally witness the altercation?”
“No, sir. We arrived after the fact.”
“So, your knowledge comes from secondhand accounts?”
“Yes.”
“Accounts given in the chaos of a crowded festival. Loud music, flashing lights, intoxicated individuals everywhere?”
The officer shifts. “Yes.”
Rick nods. “No further questions.”
The prosecutor calls the so-called victim next. He walks in with a bandage still faintly visible under his hairline, milking the limp he most certainly doesn’t need. My fists clench, chains rattling. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Harley’s hand fly to her mouth.
He swears in, sits down, and paints me as a monster. “He came at me out of nowhere. I don’t even know him! Next thing I know, I’m on the ground, bleeding.”
Rick rises again. “Did you have any interaction with Mr. Diggs prior to this incident?”
The victim hesitates. “He, uh, he accused me of something. Said I was messing with a drink. Which wasn’t true.”
Rick tilts his head. “Not true? So, you weren’t anywhere near Ms. Starr’s drink?”
The victim’s eyes flick toward Kennedy in the gallery. She sits straighter, her glare like a laser beam. He shifts uncomfortably. “I might’ve brushed the table. But I didn’t do anything. I don’t know her either.”
Rick lets the silence hang. The judge scribbles something in his notes.
“No further questions at this time.”
The prosecutor smirks, thinking she’s dodged the bullet.
But then Rick stands again. “Your Honor, the defense would like to call a witness.”
My heart lurches. Who would be willing to testify for me?
Kennedy walks to the stand, chin high, blue eyes blazing.
She swears in and sits down. Her voice is sharper than I’ve ever heard it before.
“I saw him. He put something in my drink. Easton noticed it before I did and reacted immediately. I was on the dance floor with my best friend and thought my boyfriend would take care of it, but he didn’t.
Before I could do anything, he shoved Easton. And Easton defended himself.”
The prosecutor snaps, “Ms. Starr, you were drinking that evening, were you not?”
“Yes. But I know what I saw.”
“And your friendship with the defendant’s fiancée doesn’t color your memory?”
Kennedy’s lip curls. “No. What colors my memory is almost being drugged at a music festival.”
The courtroom stirs. The judge bangs the gavel once for silence.
Rick’s questions are short, deliberate. “Did Easton strike the first blow?”
“No,” Kennedy says firmly. “He was shoved first.”
Rick nods. “Thank you.”
When Kennedy steps down, Harley catches her hand briefly, squeezing, whispering something I can’t hear. My chest aches watching them. There’s my Little Bird, clinging to her best friend while I sit in chains.
The prosecutor tries to recover, arguing the testimony was biased, unreliable. Rick counters with calm precision, pointing out the inconsistencies in the victim’s story, the lack of direct evidence, the officer’s admission he hadn’t seen the fight.
Finally, the judge leans forward, eyes scanning both attorneys. The silence stretches until it’s unbearable.
“Probable cause is established,” he says flatly. “This matter will proceed to trial.”
The gavel cracks. Harley gasps. My stomach plummets.
Rick stands. “Your Honor, given the testimony today we renew our request for bail.”
The judge shakes his head once. “Denied. Defendant will remain in custody pending trial.”
The words hollow me out. Harley’s shoulders sag in the gallery, tears spilling, despite her trying to hold them back. Kennedy wraps an arm around her, pulling her close.
The deputy yanks me to my feet. The chains rattle violently. As I’m led out, I look back one last time. Harley’s eyes find mine, wide and wet and broken. I mouth the only thing I can manage through the wreckage of everything collapsing again.
I’m sorry.
And then the doors close behind me.