Chapter Twenty-Three
Matlock
She was good.
I’d give her that.
Rosalind had just delivered a masterclass in narrative manipulation by twisting facts into a story designed to appeal to the jury’s worst instincts.
Fear and prejudice.
The comfort of simple explanations for complicated truths.
She’d painted Simon as a jealous, unstable man driven by shame and obsession.
She’d weaponized his sexuality.
She’d made his love for his sister sound like a taboo fascination.
And she’d done it all with the kind of calm, measured delivery that made it sound reasonable.
Logical... inevitable.
I could see it working on some of the jurors.
Walter Hayes in the back row, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Elaine Miller in the second row who wouldn’t meet Simon’s eyes.
Cole Tyler in the front who kept glancing at Simon like he was trying to reconcile the man sitting beside me with the monster Rosalind had just described.
My hand was still on Simon’s arm, and I could feel the tension radiating through him.
He was holding himself together by sheer force of will, but I knew him well enough to recognize the signs.
The way his breathing had gone shallow. The way his hands were clenched in his lap.
The way he was staring at the table like he could disappear into it if he just focused hard enough.
Rosalind had hurt him.
And that made me want to tear her apart.
But I couldn’t do that.
Not here.
Not now.
What I could do was what I did best.
I could tell a better story.
“Mr. Gallagher.” Judge Markham’s voice cut through the silence. “Your opening statement.”
I turned to look at Simon.
His eyes were still fixed on the table, his jaw tight, his body rigid with the effort of holding himself together.
I leaned in close, my mouth near his ear, my voice low enough that only he could hear.
“I’ve got you, mo leannán,” I whispered. “I promise. I’ve got you.”
His breath hitched.
His eyes lifted to mine. Every emotion he felt shone in his eyes.
Fear.
Hope.
Trust.
And love.
I held his gaze for a moment longer, letting him see the truth in mine.
Then I stood.
I buttoned my jacket with deliberate precision, taking my time, letting the silence stretch. Letting the jury’s attention shift from Rosalind’s narrative to mine.
I walked to the jury box, my steps measured, confident.
I’d done this a thousand times before.
But this time was different.
This time, it mattered more than anything I’d ever done.
Because this time it was for Simon.
I stopped in front of the jury and let my gaze move across their faces. Meeting their eyes. Letting them see me. Letting them see that I wasn’t afraid of what Rosalind had just said.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I began, my voice calm, steady. “Ms. Winthrop just told you a story. A compelling story. A story designed to make you believe that my client, Simon Nelson, is a murderer.”
I paused, letting that sink in.
“But here’s the thing about stories,” I continued. “They’re only as good as the truth they’re built on. And the story Ms. Winthrop just told you? It’s built on stereotypes. On insinuations. On a narrative that fits her case, but not the facts.”
I turned slightly, gesturing toward Simon without looking at him.
“Simon Nelson is not a murderer. He’s a brother. A son. A respected business owner. A man who has lived his entire life in this community, openly and honestly, without shame or apology. A man who, when his sister was being attacked, did what any of us would do—he defended her.”
I let that hang in the air for a moment.
“The prosecution wants you to believe that Simon killed Alan Sanders out of jealousy. Out of some twisted obsession. Out of shame about his own sexuality.” I shook my head slowly. “But that’s not what happened. And over the course of this trial, the evidence will show you the truth.”
I moved closer to the jury box, my voice dropping slightly, becoming more intimate.
“The truth is this: Simon Nelson did kill Alan Sanders. But he was legally justified in doing so. Because at that moment Simon acted, Alan Sanders was attacking his sister. Sadie Nelson was in imminent danger of serious bodily harm. Or worse, death. And Simon had the legal right to use necessary force to protect her.”
I could see some of the jurors leaning forward now, their attention shifting.
“This is a case about self-defense. Not Simon’s self-defense, but defense of another person. Under the law, when someone you love is being unlawfully attacked, you have the right to intervene. You have the right to use reasonable force to stop the attack. And that’s exactly what Simon did.”
My voice hardened.
“Alan Sanders was a predator. A man who targeted vulnerable women, isolated them, controlled them, and hurt them. He had a pattern of escalating violence. He was a dangerous man who knew exactly how to manipulate and destroy the women he claimed to love.”
I turned to look at Simon now, letting the jury see him. Letting them see the man Rosalind had tried to paint as a monster.
“Mercedes Nelson, Sadie, was Alan’s latest victim. For over a year, she endured his abuse. His isolation, his control, his verbal degradation. And his physical violence. She hid it from her family because that’s what abuse victims do. They hide. They protect their abusers. They blame themselves.”
I turned back to the jury.
“But on the night Alan Sanders died, the violence escalated. Alan attacked Sadie. And when Simon arrived, he found his sister in mortal danger. He found Alan Sanders actively assaulting her. She was fighting for her life. And Simon did what the law allows, what the law expects. He intervened to stop the attack.”
I could see it now, the shift in some of their faces. The doubt creeping in. The realization that maybe, just maybe, there was more to this story than Rosalind had told them.
“The prosecution will present evidence,” I continued. “They’ll show you the knife. The blood. Simon’s confession. We aren’t disputing any of that. Simon confessed.”
I shook my head.
“The prosecution will have you focused on means. The knife. We aren’t disputing that Simon stabbed Alan Sanders. There is no question Simon Nelson used force proportional to the threat, force allowed by the law in the state of Nebraska to protect someone he loved from imminent harm.”
I paused, letting that sink in.
“Ms. Winthrop talked a lot about motive. About Simon’s supposed jealousy.
About his sexuality. His relationship with his sister.
” My voice took on an edge. “She wants you to believe that being gay makes Simon unstable. That his sexuality makes him a deviant who is promiscuous and incapable of genuine love. That loving his sister makes him possessive and perverted. She’s asking you to accept the stereotype that gay men are inherently predators obsessed with control.
That their relationships, whether romantic or familial, are twisted and sick. ”
I let the silence stretch for a beat, letting the weight of those words settle.
“The prosecution is relying on you to believe that loving someone of the same sex makes you inherently dangerous. But ask yourself, what would you do? If you arrived to find your sister being attacked by a man who had spent over a year systematically destroying her? A man who was, at that very moment, threatening her life? What would you do?”
I could see some of the jurors nodding slightly now.
“Would you stand by and watch? Would you call the police and hope they arrived in time? Or would you do what Simon did? Intervene immediately, use the force necessary and legally allowed to stop the attack and save your sister’s life?”
I moved back toward the center of the courtroom, my voice rising slightly.
“The prosecution has the burden of proof in this case. They must prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Simon Nelson was not acting in lawful defense of his sister. Not that he killed Alan Sanders—he’s already confessed that he did.
But that his actions were not justified.
That he was not protecting Sadie from an unlawful attack.
That he used excessive force. That he acted from jealousy or rage rather than necessity. ”
I turned to look at Rosalind, then back at the jury.
“They can’t do that. Because it didn’t happen that way.
And over the course of this trial, you will see the evidence that proves it.
You will hear testimony about Alan Sanders’ history of abuse.
You will hear about the attack that night.
You will hear about the imminent danger Sadie faced.
You will hear about Simon’s actions—actions born out of necessity and the fundamental human duty to protect those we love from harm. ”
I walked slowly back toward the jury box, my voice dropping again, becoming quieter, more personal.
“This case is about more than just the facts. It’s about justice.
It’s about the right to defend the innocent.
It’s about recognizing that sometimes, violence is necessary to stop violence.
And it’s about understanding that when someone acts to protect another person from imminent harm, that action is not murder; its justifiable homicide. ”
I met the eyes of Roxanne Davis in the second row, the one who’d looked away from Simon earlier. She was looking at me now.
“Simon Nelson is not a murderer. He’s a man who saved his sister’s life. A man who intervened when she was being attacked. A man who used the force necessary, and no more, to stop a dangerous predator from killing someone he loved.”
I paused.
“Don’t let the prosecution’s prejudicial narrative blind you to the truth.
Don’t let assumptions about who Simon is, about his sexuality, his relationship with his sister, cloud your judgment.
Look at the evidence. Listen to the testimony.
And ask yourself, has the prosecution proven, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Simon Nelson was not acting in lawful defense of his sister? ”
I shook my head slowly.
“They haven’t. And they won’t. Because Simon Nelson acted to save a life. And under the law, that makes him innocent.”
I let that final word hang in the air for a long moment.
Then I turned and walked back to my seat.
The courtroom was silent.
I could feel the weight of every eye in the room on me as I sat down beside Simon.
His hand found mine under the table, his fingers threading through mine, squeezing tight.
I squeezed back.
When I glanced at him, his eyes were shining, his expression a mixture of awe and something deeper. Something that looked like hope.
Across the aisle, I caught sight of Sadie sitting between David and Susan. Her face was pale, her eyes wide, but there was something in her expression that hadn’t been there before.
Recognition.
Understanding.
The realization that I wasn’t just fighting for Simon.
I was fighting for her, too.
Judge Markham cleared his throat.
“Thank you, Mr. Gallagher,” he said. “We’ll take a fifteen-minute recess before the prosecution calls its first witness.”
The gavel came down.
The courtroom erupted into quiet murmurs as people stood, stretched, and began moving toward the doors.
But I didn’t move.
Neither did Simon.
His hand was still in mine, hidden beneath the table, his grip tight enough to hurt.
“Tony,” he whispered, his voice rough.
I turned to look at him.
“You were...” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. “You were incredible.”
I wanted to kiss him.
I wanted to pull him into my arms and tell him that everything was going to be okay.
But I couldn’t.
Not here.
Not now.
So instead, I squeezed his hand again and said, “I told you. I’ve got you.”
And I meant it.
No matter what happened next, no matter what Rosalind threw at us, no matter how hard this fight got... I had him.
And I wasn’t letting go.