24. Guilty Until…
24
Guilty Until…
Beatriz Silva was a mousy, middle-aged woman I would have sworn I’d never seen before in my life. But, when she took her seat on the witness stand, she fixed me with a glare so cuttingly cold I didn’t doubt she knew me.
“Miss Silva,” Aster began, “can you tell the court about the events that happened in your home on October tenth, twelve years ago?”
Twelve years? Is this a trial or an archaeological dig?
Beatriz sniffled into an embroidered cloth kerchief. Her tears didn’t blur the malice in her dark eyes as she began to speak. “My husband was an investigator. Highly decorated. His career was his life. His passion. And his success made him a target. On the night of October tenth, we were attacked by those monsters.”
“Can you be more specific?” Aster asked.
“The Bloody Hex.” Beatriz snarled the words. “They broke into our house. Three men and the missing Farrow boy from the news.”
Aster nodded. “Is that boy—now man—in the room with us today?”
“He is. ”
“Can you indicate him, please?”
When Beatriz stabbed a shaky finger at me, gasps from the audience drove me to roll my eyes. Was anyone truly surprised?
“They tied us up, my husband and I, then started arguing amongst themselves,” Beatriz continued. “There was so much shouting…” She winced as if pained by the memory. “They carried on for some time. Oddly, they kept talking about our dinner?”
That rang a bell.
Twelve years earlier
The smell of food in the house was staggering. My stomach had claws that had been tearing at me for a week, and now I feared the beast of hunger would rip me in half. But how could I think of eating while the frightened couple sat at the table with their mouths gagged and their hands taped to the armrests of their dining chairs?
“Well?” Grimm looked at me. “Your brother is waiting in the car. He’s not doing too well, is he? Seven days is a long time without food, and he’s so very young.”
Donovan turned nine last week. Away from our home. Away from our family. His birthday had been spent locked in a motel room, living off vending machine snacks until they took those away, too.
This was my fault.
I’d made a promise, then failed to keep it. I told Grimm I would kill again without understanding how I’d done it in the first place. The memory of it haunted me, bright and bloody, crowded into my brain alongside the images of my parents’ broken bodies.
Vinton wandered over to the bound man’s plate, lifting a fork loaded with a cube of cut steak. My mouth watered.
“Kill them, and you can have all of this.” Grimm gestured to the spread. Not just steaks, but side dishes, too. Mashed potatoes, green beans, and warm rolls with butter.
The couple had been celebrating, made obvious by the cake on the pass-through counter with candles waiting to be lit. That was all ruined. When we left here, they would be dead whether I did the deed or not.
More than my stomach hurt now.
The house was warm and cozy. Lived in and a little messy. It was familiar. Like home.
I had felt what the frightened couple felt now. I had watched the end come to all good things in my life. I couldn’t bring that ruin on anyone else. I wouldn’t.
I took a step back.
“Oh no, you don’t.” Grimm grabbed the front of my shirt and gave me a rough shake. “Remember our deal? A life for a life? Don’t think I won’t let your pipsqueak brother waste away.” Another jostle rattled my teeth. “Don’t think I won’t make you watch.”
I swallowed, nauseous but knowing there was nothing to throw up. Just acid and bile burning a hole in my gut.
Standing aside, Avery picked at his nails. “Let’s keep the kids, he says,” he taunted. “It’ll be fun, he says.” He looked up, his expression suddenly serious as he said, “This isn’t fun.”
With a growl, Grimm dragged me close, his face inches from mine. “Kill that man, and you’re the hero. Save the day. Pack up a nice doggy bag for little Donnie.”
Vinton scooped a pile of mashed potatoes and stuffed it in his mouth. He chewed slowly, smirking.
The man and woman struggled in their seats, grunting unintelligibly. The woman caught me staring and froze. Fearful? Yes. Confused. And sad.
“I can’t…” I said.
Grimm shoved me back, and I fell. My tailbone cracked painfully against the wood floor.
“Avery!” he snapped. “Get Donovan out of the car.”
With a sigh, Avery pushed away from the wall and headed toward the home’s front door.
“No!” I yelped. “Don’t bring him in here. He’ll be scared.”
Grimm loomed over me, his chest heaving with angry breaths. “I’ll do as I damn well please with your brother. And, if you don’t start taking this seriously, I’ll let you starve till you’re so goddamn desperate you’ll thank me when I feed him to you.”
“My husband cut his own throat,” Beatriz sobbed. “With a steak knife. He just sawed back and forth, and blood was everywhere… He wanted to stop. I saw it in his eyes. But he was like a man possessed. That demon possessed my husband’s mind.” This time, her point at me stirred pain in my chest.
Aster tracked the gesture to where I sat, warring with my expression lest it betray me. “Thank you for your bravery in coming here today, Miss Silva,” Aster told Beatriz, then turned to Maximus. “I have no further questions. ”
Not off to a great start.
But Beatriz Silva was an outlier. The gang knew better than to leave survivors, lest they come back to cause trouble, even years later.
“You say your husband cut his own throat?” Talbot stood and edged past our table to approach the witness stand. “So, he committed suicide.”
Beatriz wiped her eyes. “He was forced. He would never have killed himself.”
“But he held the knife, did he not?” Talbot asked. “Put it to his own throat?”
“He was possessed , I said. Not of his own mind.”
Cue the smile. Nice to see the lawyer was feeling it, but I was still profoundly unsettled. “My client is telekinetic, Miss Silva. He cannot control other people’s minds. Or possess them.”
“He moved his body, then!” Beatriz’s voice became suddenly shrill. “The news talks about it. He made that poor man jump out a window just last week—”
“Miss Silva,” Maximus cut in. “Please limit your responses to the questions asked.”
Beatriz settled reluctantly, and regarded Talbot with a sour expression as he continued.
“Respectfully, ma’am. Mister Farrow is hardly the only telekinetic in our city. I believe the extent of those abilities is common knowledge. Chief Investigator Briggs could attest to the fact that moving body parts with one’s mind falls well outside the scope of that brand of magic.”
Briggs sat still as stone. His public persona was unyielding, like a military sergeant. In private, at the dinner parties he’d attended at my childhood home, he was much more relaxed. He was actually a pretty funny guy, not that anyone would guess.
The rest of Talbot’s cross-examination went about the same, giving me a good idea of his strategy for this whole thing. Namely, relying heavily on how unlikely it was that I could do what I did. At some point, his insistence on downplaying my abilities ruffled my feathers. I had a reputation to protect, after all. But, if my pride was the necessary sacrifice for my survival, so be it.
Several hours and as many testimonies later, my day in court had become the longest day of my life. My legs were numb from sitting, and I had grown bored with the name-calling, finger-pointing, and incidental education on the supposed limitations of my power.
When I asked if or when I would be called to testify, Talbot dismissed me with a chuckle. “Of course not. You have rights, after all.”
The shock collar currently digging into my neck suggested otherwise.
Finally, Aster announced the prosecution’s rest.
I checked the jury box, expecting dirty looks but getting none. Not one of them looked my way. Good news? Or very bad?
Unless Talbot had a hell of a rebuttal, I wasn’t feeling great about my chances. My name had been spoken with enough venom over the course of the day that even I was beginning to loathe the sound of it.
“You’re going to win.”
Grimm’s assurance circled back through my mind.
How had he been so sure?
I didn’t have to wonder long because Talbot wasted no time summoning his first witness.
“I would like to call Mister Jacoby Thatcher to the stand.”
Whispers rushed through the crowd.
I knew what they were thinking. Thatcher for the defense? What kind of Bizarro world was this ?
I also knew something they didn’t. Jacoby Thatcher died ten days ago, and his body had been ferried away by the Bloody Hex’s resident necromancer. In his place, the man who had promised me the success of this trial strode into the courtroom.
He didn’t move quite like Thatcher. He had more swagger, more gravitas. But Grimm was not a man suited to a small part. Jacoby Thatcher may have been Maximus Lyle’s underling, but he was equally synonymous with our government. A fixture in the public eye. A very credible witness. And he was on my side.
Grimm—Thatcher, whatever—took his place on the witness stand.
Volume in the gallery increased. Across the aisle, Holland Lyle leaned over the railing again, commanding Briggs’s attention. The pair delved into a hushed conversation, which I watched until Holland caught me staring.
“Mister Thatcher, thank you for taking the time to join us today,” Talbot said.
“Of course,” Thatcher replied, settling in his seat. “I am ever ready to aid in the pursuit of truth and justice.”
I frowned.
Coming on a bit strong, aren’t we?
“Mister Thatcher, would you please tell the court about your experience last Tuesday night?”
“It was very late,” Thatcher began. “Near midnight, I believe. I was getting ready for bed when those felonious brutes, the Bloody Hex, entered my home with the intent to kill.”
I dared another over-the-shoulder glance at the audience. Were they buying this? Was the jury? Grimm’s portrayal of the typically meek and soft- spoken Jacoby Thatcher was a bit too high school drama class for my comfort.
Talbot gave an encouraging nod. “Go on.”
“They tied me up. Tortured me…” Thatcher cupped his hand over his eyes, cringing. “It was horrible.”
Sympathetic noises cycled through the crowd. They were buying it, all right.
Talbot turned aside, opening his posture in my direction. “Is there anyone in the courtroom today who was with the Bloody Hex that night?”
“There.” Thatcher gestured to me. “Mister Farrow was with them.”
“I see.” Talbot walked forward then back. Light glinted off his shimmering suit. “Did my client harm you that night? Did he, perhaps, attempt to control your mind or body?”
Thatcher shook his head. “No, he did not.”
“And did my client menace you in any way? Even with verbal threats?”
“No, he did not.”
“What was his involvement in the situation?”
Thatcher sat back and bridged his hands. He pondered the question for a long moment before speaking. “I believe it’s common knowledge how Mister Farrow came into the custody of the Bloody Hex. A very sad situation. One of the Capitol’s greatest failings, I’ll be the first to admit. There are countless theories about the reasoning behind his abduction, but one stands out to me as most likely. I believe the Bloody Hex needed a scapegoat.”
They must have rehearsed this. Lawyers did that, right? Grimm and Talbot must have talked before the incognito prison visit. So, it was drama class. A practiced speech. A dramatic monologue. And Grimm had center stage.
“Would you mind expanding on that?” Talbot prompted.
“Mister Farrow’s incarceration, and this trial, provides an opportunity for the Capitol to make a statement about our position on crime and domestic terrorism,” Thatcher explained. “His execution would pacify the masses and would be considered a victory for the cause of peaceful existence in our fair city.”
I grimaced.
Jesus, Grimm, slow down. You’re on my side, remember?
“But…”
This had better be good.
“I believe the Bloody Hex saw a similar opportunity all those years ago. I think they saw Fitch Farrow as a lamb they were willing to send to slaughter as penance for their sins. Why else house, clothe, and feed an investigator’s son? A young man born of and raised by their enemy? Who better to hang the whole of their blame on, and let the scales of justice weigh out his punishment?”
The crowd grumbled, jury members scribbled on notepads, and doubt crept into my mind. The best lies were based in truth. Wasn’t that the saying? Thoughts flooded in. Ripley Vaughn’s claims about Grimm’s cruelty and the “same dirty tricks as always.” Grimm himself saying he didn’t need trust when he had leverage. Plus bits of memory still clinging from that night at the Silva house.
Aster stood. “Mister Thatcher, this is all conjecture. And I fail to see what it has to do with the attack on your home.”
“When the Bloody Hex assailed me last week, they were forced to flee due to a rapid response from our investigative team,” Thatcher replied. “But they left Mister Farrow behind. I believe intentionally. They orchestrated his demise, as I think they’ve been doing for years.”
Thatcher turned to address the jury while holding an open hand in reference to me. “Does it not seem incredible that one man could be responsible for the slew of crimes and murders with which Mister Farrow is charged? One man who, as Mister Collier has repeatedly pointed out, does not possess magic that lends itself to mind or body control?
“Similarly,” he continued, “Thorngate prison was sieged just last night. By the Bloody Hex.”
Judging by the sudden rush of whispers from the gallery, that news hadn’t been made public yet.
“Many of you would jump to the conclusion they broke into the prison to rescue Mister Farrow before he could stand trial,” Thatcher said. “Instead, they liberated scores of other inmates and left the defendant shackled to a bed in the infirmary.” Chatter from the crowd grew in volume, and Thatcher raised his voice to be heard over them. “Fitch Farrow is a victim of the Bloody Hex. A victim when he was orphaned and abducted. A victim today. And I believe he is innocent.”