Chapter Twenty-Seven
Simon
I woke to sunlight filtering through the bedroom curtains and the weight of Tony’s arm across my chest. For a moment, I didn’t move.
I just lay there, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the solid warmth of him against my back.
The trial had exhausted me in ways I hadn’t anticipated.
Not just the emotional toll of sitting in that courtroom while Rosalind painted me as a jealous killer, but the mental strain of watching Tony work, of seeing him dissect her narrative piece by piece.
He’d been brilliant yesterday. Absolutely brilliant.
Tony stirred, his arm tightening around me before he seemed to fully wake. I felt him shift, his chin lifting from the top of my head.
“Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
“Morning,” I replied, turning slightly to look at him. His hair was disheveled, his jaw dark with stubble, and he looked exhausted. But his eyes were alert, already working through something in that brilliant mind of his.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, and I could hear the lawyer in him, assessing, evaluating.
“Tired,” I admitted. “But... I don’t know. After yesterday, I feel like maybe we have a shot.”
Tony’s expression shifted and became more serious.
He pulled back slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at me properly.
“Rosalind’s opening was designed to plant seeds of doubt about your character.
She wants the jury to see you as jealous, driven by shame about your sexuality. ”
“I know,” I said, my stomach tightening at the memory of her words. The way she’d twisted everything. My love for my sister, my sexuality, my protective instincts, turning them all into something dark and sinister. “But your opening... you reframed it. You made them see Alan as the real threat.”
“That’s the narrative we need to maintain,” Tony said, and I could see him shifting into full lawyer mode now, his mind already three steps ahead.
“Rosalind’s case relies on motive. She’s going to continue to push the narrative of you being jealous of Alan, of Sadie, of their relationship.
It’s compelling if the jury believes you had a personal reason to kill Alan because you’re a jealous man, consumed by rage that Alan had what you wanted.
That’s the narrative Rosalind is trying to paint.
We need the jury to see the real you. A brother concerned for his sister’s life. ”
I nodded, following his logic. “So we need to keep showing them that Alan was dangerous. That Sadie was in real danger.”
“Exactly.” Tony shifted higher against the pillows. “The prosecution’s witnesses today are going to be character witnesses. They’re building an emotional case. But we’re going to dismantle it piece by piece.”
“How?” I asked, sitting up beside him, the sheet falling away.
“Cross-examination,” Tony said, his eyes tracking over my bare chest before he forced them back to my face.
His hands moved expressively as he spoke, painting the strategy in the air between us.
“Rosalind’s going to call town residents, people from the diner, maybe some of your salon clients, anyone who can paint you as volatile or obsessive.
She wants the jury to see you as someone consumed with jealousy, someone who couldn’t handle his sister being with Alan. ”
I felt my chest tighten. “Who specifically?”
“Denise Robbins,” Tony said, his voice taking on that clinical edge he got when he was strategizing.
He leaned forward slightly, his intensity palpable even in the confined space of the bed.
“She’ll testify about the argument you had with Cletus, about your ‘temper.’ Rosalind will use that to suggest you’re hot-tempered, prone to violence when provoked.
She might call some of your salon clients.
People who saw you interact with Sadie, who might have witnessed tension between you and Alan. ”
“There wasn’t tension,” I protested. “I barely spoke to him.”
“Exactly,” Tony said, and something sharp flickered in his eyes.
He punctuated his words with a gesture, his hand pointing at my chest. “And that’s what I’m going to use.
She didn’t witness anything between you and Alan.
She saw you defend yourself against a bigot who sexually assaulted you.
On cross, I’ll make her admit that Cletus initiated the confrontation, that he made homophobic comments, that you were the victim in that scenario.
I’ll ask her if she’s ever seen you be violent toward anyone else. The answer will be no.”
I watched him as he spoke, his mind working through each angle like a chess player seeing ten moves ahead, his body tense with the energy of strategy even as he remained anchored beside me in bed.
“The salon clients,” Tony continued, pulling his knees up and crossing his arms over the top of them, “will testify that you were protective of Sadie. Rosalind will frame that as obsessive, controlling. But I’ll reframe it as concern.
What they’ll have to admit is that you were worried about your sister, that you noticed changes in her behavior, that you asked if she was okay. That’s not obsession; that’s love.”
“What about people who might say I was jealous?” I asked, my voice quiet.
Tony turned to face me more fully, his expression fierce.
“If Rosalind calls anyone who claims you were jealous of Alan, I’m going to destroy their credibility.
” He shook his head, the movement sharp and decisive.
“Most of these witnesses won’t have firsthand knowledge, Simon.
They’ll have gossip, assumptions, and speculation.
And I’m going to make that crystal clear to the jury. ”
I felt something loosen in my chest. “You think you can turn it around?”
“I know I can,” Tony said, and there was absolute certainty in his voice.
He reached out, his hand finding my thigh over the sheet, grounding himself even as his mind raced ahead.
“Because Rosalind is building her entire case on character assassination rooted in one thing... your sexuality. She’ll try to make the jury believe your shame about being gay and that your moral corruption twisted you into a murderer. ”
Tony pressed his lips together and looked at me.
“Simon, I need you to be prepared. Rosalind’s plan is to paint your love for your sister as an unnatural obsession.
Your protectiveness as sick possession, and she’s going to use coded language about perversion and depravity, implying that men like you, gay men, are inherently violent and consumed by twisted desires.
That’s her narrative, Simon. She is planning to use Midwestern religious values to prove you killed him because you’re fundamentally broken by your own deviance. ”
He leaned closer, his intensity radiating through the small space between us.
“Here’s what I’m going to do,” Tony said, his voice hard with purpose.
“For every witness Rosalind calls to paint you as obsessive or jealous, I’m going to expose the homophobia underneath their testimony.
Because that’s what this is, Simon. She’s not just attacking your character; she’s weaponizing bigotry. ”
I felt my breath catch. He was naming it. All of it.
“Denise Robbins?” Tony continued. “She’s a gossip who thrives on drama, and I’ll make the jury see that.
But more than that, I’ll ask her directly: ‘Do you believe gay men are more prone to jealousy than straight men? Do you believe Simon’s sexuality makes him violent?
’ I’ll force her to either admit her bias or back down from her testimony. ”
“And if someone claims I hated Alan?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Then I’ll ask them why,” Tony said. “Did you hate him because you were jealous? Or did you hate him because you suspected he was hurting your sister? And then I’ll ask them point-blank: ‘Would you have the same suspicions about a straight man who was protective of his sister?’ I’ll make them confront their own prejudice, Simon.
I’ll make them see that the only reason they’re interpreting your actions as deviant is because you’re gay. ”
I absorbed his words, feeling the weight of them settle over me.
“The physical evidence is circumstantial,” Tony continued, his eyes locked on mine.
“But character evidence? That’s what sways juries.
Rosalind knows that. She’s betting that if she can make the jury believe you’re immoral simply because you love men, then they’ll fill in the gaps themselves.
They’ll assume you killed Alan because that’s what perverted, broken, deviant men do. That’s the narrative she’s selling.”
“But you’re going to show them I’m not that person,” I said slowly.
“I’m going to show them exactly who you are,” Tony corrected, his voice fierce.
“A man who loves his sister. A man who noticed she was in danger and tried to help. A man who, when faced with the worst possible situation, took responsibility to protect the person he loved most. And I’m going to make the jury see that the only reason Rosalind is twisting that into something ugly is because she’s relying on their homophobia to convict you. ”
He paused, his jaw tight. “I’m going to force them to confront it, Simon.
Every time she uses words like ‘shame’ or ‘obsession’ or ‘unnatural,’ I’m going to ask her witnesses: ‘Are you saying this because of what Simon did, or because of who Simon is?’ I’m going to make them choose between their prejudice and the truth. ”
I felt my throat tighten. “You really believe that will work.”
“I know it will,” Tony said, and the conviction in his voice was absolute.
“I’ve built my career on cases like this, Simon, because most people don’t want to see themselves as bigots.
When I make them look at their own bias in the mirror, when I force them to admit that their testimony is rooted in homophobia and not fact, they’ll back down.
And the jury will see it. They’ll see that Rosalind’s entire case is built on coded hatred, not evidence. ”
He moved toward me, and I thought he was going to kiss me, but instead he just cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing across my cheekbones.
“You’re going to get through this, Simon.
I promise you. And when this is over, that jury is going to see exactly who you are—not the monster Rosalind is trying to paint, but a man who loves his sister enough to sacrifice everything for her. ”
I wanted to ask him what happened after the trial, after I was acquitted, after all of this was over.
I wanted to ask him if he meant what he’d said last night, if he really wasn’t going anywhere.
But I didn’t. Because I knew the answer, and I wasn’t ready to hear it spoken aloud in the harsh light of morning.
Instead, I just nodded and said, “Okay. Let’s go win a trial.”
The courthouse hallway was already crowded when we arrived.
My parents were there, sitting on a bench near the entrance.
Sadie stood with them, her hand tucked into our father’s arm as if she needed the anchor of his presence.
Goliath was there too, along with several other Silver Shadows.
They nodded at Tony as we passed, a show of solidarity that made my chest tight.
Tony’s hand found the small of my back as we walked, a gesture so brief and subtle that no one else would notice. But I felt it like a brand, a reminder that he was there, that he had my back.
The courtroom was filling up. Uncle Alex was already on the bench, reviewing documents. Rosalind sat at the prosecution table, her expression serene, her files organized with military precision. She looked like a woman who was winning, and the sight of her made my skin crawl.
“Sit,” Tony murmured, guiding me to the defense table. He pulled out my chair, and I sat, trying to project a calm I didn’t feel.
Tony took his seat beside me, and I watched as he opened his briefcase and withdrew his notes. His movements were economical and precise. He was a man who knew exactly what he was doing, and I clung to that confidence like a drowning man clings to driftwood.
The bailiff called the court to order. Judge Markham looked up from his documents and nodded to Rosalind.
“The prosecution may call its next witness,” he said.
Rosalind stood, smoothing her skirt. “The prosecution calls Denise Robbins.”
As the bailiff went to fetch the witness, I felt something click into place.
Denise Robbins. A client. Someone who’d been in our salon, made small talk, listened to me flirt with every man who sat in my chair.
Someone who could be coached to remember every tense moment, every jealous comment, every time I mentioned Alan.
Tony had known this was coming. Denise Robbin’s name had been on Rosalind’s witness list since discovery. He’d reviewed it with me, pointing out exactly who would testify and why. A salon client. Someone the jury could relate to. Someone who would claim to have observed my “instability” firsthand.
I felt Tony’s hand brush against mine under the table. It was just for a moment, just long enough for me to feel the warmth of his skin, the reassurance of his presence.
Then he pulled away, and we were back to being lawyer and client, back to the performance that had to happen in this room.
But I carried that touch with me as Denise took the stand, as Rosalind began her questioning, as the trial moved forward exactly the way Tony said it would. Methodically, strategically, with witness after witness who would eviscerate my character the way Tony anticipated.
The prosecution was playing their hand, and Tony had seen every card before they’d even been dealt. He’d said we could win this. And sitting there in that courtroom, watching him work, I believed him.
I had to believe him.
Because the alternative was unthinkable.