Chapter Twenty-Eight
Matlock
I was getting addicted to waking up with Simon.
That was the thought that hit me as I stood in the courthouse hallway, watching the crowd filter back in after lunch. The last few days had been a blur of strategy sessions, witness prep, and late nights reviewing evidence. But the mornings... fuck, the mornings were something else entirely.
Waking up with Simon’s body pressed against mine, his breath warm on my neck, his hand curled against my chest. The way he’d stretch and groan when the alarm went off, the sleepy smile he’d give me before reality crashed back in and reminded us both what we were facing.
The sex had been fucking incredible. Desperate and raw and honest in a way we’d never quite managed before.
Like we were both trying to memorize each other, to hold on to something real before the trial could take it all away.
I’d gotten used to the ritual of it. Coffee in his kitchen.
Eggs that he’d burn because I’d distracted him with my mouth on his neck, his skin.
.. his cock. The way he’d lean against the counter and watch me with those eyes that saw too much, that made me want to confess things I had no business confessing.
But then we’d get in the SUV and drive to the courthouse, and the walls would go back up. Lawyer and client. Professional distance. The performance we both had to maintain.
The trial was exhausting. Three days of testimony, cross-examinations, objections, and legal maneuvering that left me drained by the time we got home each night.
The jury was still a question mark, some of them clearly sympathetic to Simon, but others looked at him with suspicion, with judgment, with the kind of small-town prejudice that made my blood boil.
The prosecution had rested yesterday afternoon.
Rosalind had built her case methodically, calling witness after witness to paint Simon as unhinged.
But she’d done something far more insidious than simply argue motive.
She’d weaponized his sexuality. She’d stood in front of that jury and connected Simon’s identity as a gay man to his alleged capacity for murder.
Rosalind suggested that his possessiveness over Sadie stemmed from his own sexual dysfunction, his own inability to accept himself.
She’d exploited every prejudice in that courtroom, every small-town assumption about what it meant to be gay, and she’d used that shit against my client. Against me.
But she’d failed.
Because she hadn’t done her homework. Simon wasn’t ashamed of who he was. He wasn’t like me. He grew up in a time when homosexuality was accepted, and in some families, even celebrated. Simon’s confidence, his pride in his family, his community and his lifestyle made my job easy.
I dismantled her witnesses one by one, exposing their bias.
But more than that, I’d dismantled her narrative.
The hateful, calculated narrative that framed Simon’s sexuality as a character flaw, as evidence of instability, as proof of his capacity for murder.
I’d made them admit that Simon had never threatened Alan, never tried to keep Sadie from seeing him, never done anything more than express concern for his sister’s well-being.
And I’d made them confront the prejudice they carried, the assumptions they’d made about a gay man in a small Nebraska town.
Now it was my turn.
I’d already called several witnesses who could speak to Simon’s character, his kindness, his reputation in the community. Rosalind had tried to tear them down on cross-examination, but she hadn’t landed any significant blows. The momentum was shifting, and I could feel it.
Today was about driving that momentum home.
I thought back to a conversation I’d had with Simon, back when we were still mapping out the defense strategy. He’d mentioned Beatrice Allen, the town gossip, someone who knew everyone in town and wasn’t afraid to speak her mind.
Simon was already in bed when I came into the bedroom that night, the sheets pulled up to his chest, his dark hair still damp from a shower.
He looked small against the pillows, vulnerable in a way he never allowed himself to be in public.
I undressed quickly and slid in beside him, and he immediately turned toward me, his head finding the hollow of my shoulder as if it belonged there.
“Beatrice Allen told me she wants to be a witness.” He pulled back slightly to look up at me, his expression thoughtful. “An expert witness, specifically.”
I stilled. “An expert on what?”
“The town.” Simon shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could see my face better. “She said, and I’m quoting here, ‘I know everything that goes on in this town. Everything.’ She was very dramatic about it.”
Despite everything, I felt the corner of my mouth twitch. “Beatrice Allen wants to testify as an expert witness on Diamond Creek gossip?”
“That’s what I thought.” Simon laughed, shaking his head. “I told her being the town gossip isn’t exactly a recognized expertise in a criminal trial.”
“It’s not,” I agreed, but something was nagging at the back of my mind. Something about the way he’d said it.
“Yeah, well, my mom had a different opinion.” Simon settled back against the pillows, pulling the sheets up higher.
“She brought up My Cousin Vinny,” Simon said, and now he was grinning.
“You know, the movie? Marisa Tomei’s character testifies as an expert on cars even though she’s just a mechanic’s daughter who grew up around them.
Mom said there’s an element of truth in every movie, and if anyone in Diamond Creek qualified as an expert on the people in this town, it’s Beatrice Allen. ”
I stared at him, my mind already working through the implications.
“I know,” Simon said, misreading my expression. “It’s ridiculous. I told her it was a movie, not real life, but—”
“No,” I interrupted, my mind already racing. “No, it’s not ridiculous.”
Simon blinked. “What?”
I got out of bed, the cool air hitting my skin as I threw off the sheets. I started pacing, my mind spinning through case law and precedent. “Beatrice Allen has lived in Diamond Creek for what, sixty years? Seventy?”
“Eighty,” Simon said, watching me from the bed with an amused expression.
“She knows everyone. She knows their histories, their relationships, their reputations.” I turned to face him. “She would have known Alan Sanders. She would have seen him around town with Sadie.”
Simon sat up straighter, the sheets falling away from his chest. “She did. She’s the one who first told me something was wrong. She noticed the bruises before I did.”
My pulse quickened. “She noticed the bruises?”
“Yeah. She pulled me aside one day and said Sadie was covering something up, that she’d seen marks on her arms.” Simon’s voice softened. “That’s when I started paying closer attention.”
“So Beatrice Allen observed the abuse firsthand,” I said slowly, the pieces clicking into place.
I climbed back into bed, unable to stay away from him, and he immediately shifted to make room.
“She saw the physical evidence. She can testify to Sadie’s behavior changes, to Alan’s controlling nature, to the pattern of isolation. ”
“But she’s not a psychologist or a social worker,” Simon protested. “She’s just—”
“An expert on this community,” I finished, reaching over to grab my phone from the nightstand.
“On the people in it, their behaviors, their patterns. Federal Rule of Evidence 702 allows expert testimony if the witness has specialized knowledge that will help the jury understand the evidence. Beatrice Allen’s ‘specialized knowledge’ is eighty-plus years of observing human behavior in Diamond Creek. ”
Simon was staring at me now, his eyes wide in the dim light of the bedroom. “You’re serious.”
“Your mother’s right.” I pulled up my notes app, my fingers flying across the screen. “There’s precedent for this. Kumho Tire Co. v. Carmichael expanded the definition of expert testimony beyond scientific knowledge. Experience-based expertise is admissible if it’s reliable and relevant.”
“So you’re going to call her?”
“I’m going to call her,” I confirmed, already thinking through the strategy.
I set the phone down and turned to face him fully, my excitement barely contained.
“Rosalind will object, obviously. But if I can establish Beatrice’s qualifications.
Her years in the community and her observations of Sadie and Alan, along with her knowledge of local dynamics.
Judge Markham might allow it. But at the very least, she’s an eyewitness to what Sadie experienced. ”
Simon reached over and pulled me back down to the bed, his fingers threading through my hair. “You’re brilliant, you know that?”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I buried my face in his neck, breathing him in, letting myself have this moment of connection before the trial consumed us again.
“All rise.”
The bailiff’s voice pulled me back to the courtroom as Judge Markham entered, and we all stood.
I glanced at Simon, who stood beside me with his hands clasped together in front of him, his expression carefully neutral.
I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched.
Seeing the carefully hidden homophobia in the town he felt comfortable in had hurt him.
I wanted to reach out to him. To touch him, to reassure him.
But I couldn’t. Not here.
“Be seated,” Judge Markham said. “Mr. Gallagher, you may call your next witness.”
I stood, buttoning my jacket. “The defense calls David Nelson to the stand.”
Simon’s father rose from the gallery, his expression calm but serious. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, with the same dark hair as Simon, though streaked with gray. He walked to the witness stand with quiet dignity and took his seat after being sworn in.
I approached slowly, giving the jury time to take him in. A father. A man who’d raised his children with love and care. Someone they could relate to.
“Mr. Nelson, can you please state your relationship to the defendant?”
“Simon is my son,” David said with a proud smile.
“Can you tell the jury a little about Simon’s upbringing?”
David nodded. “We raised Simon and his sister here in Diamond Creek. My wife, Susan, and I did our best to give them a stable, loving home. We taught them to be kind and honest. To treat people with respect.”
“Did Simon ever exhibit violent behavior as a child or teenager?”
“No,” David said firmly. “Simon was always gentle. He was protective of his sister, yes, but never violent. He got into a few scuffles at school. What kid doesn’t? But nothing serious. He was a good kid.”
“What about as an adult? Have you ever witnessed Simon being violent or aggressive toward anyone?”
“Never,” David said. “Simon’s not that kind of person. He’s caring and thoughtful. He’d rather talk things out than fight.”
I nodded. “Mr. Nelson, were you aware of your daughter Sadie’s relationship with Alan Sanders?”
David’s expression darkened slightly. “Yes. We don’t live in Diamond Creek anymore; we retired to Florida. But we talk to both of our kids regularly. Sadie told us she was dating Alan.”
“When did you find out about your daughter’s abuse?”
“When we arrived in town. Simon told us everything,” David said.
“Objection,” Rosalind barked, standing. “Hearsay.”
“Sustained,” Judge Markham said, though it was clear he didn’t like it.
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
Rosalind stood, her expression sharp. She approached David with the confidence of a prosecutor who thought she could break him.
“Mr. Nelson, you mentioned that Simon got into ‘a few scuffles’ in school. Can you elaborate on that?”
David shrugged. “Normal kid stuff. Some kid was giving him grief, and they threw a few punches. A disagreement with another boy on the basketball team. Nothing that resulted in serious injury or disciplinary action.”
“But he did fight,” Rosalind pressed. “He did use physical violence to resolve conflicts.”
“When he was sixteen, yes,” David said dryly. “Most boys do.”
A few people in the gallery chuckled, and Rosalind’s jaw tightened.
“Mr. Nelson, you testified that Simon was ‘protective’ of his sister. Given your son’s... lifestyle choices, would you say his relationship with Sadie has always been entirely appropriate?”
David’s expression hardened. “I’m not sure what you’re implying, Ms. Winthrop.”
“I’m simply asking whether Simon’s protectiveness might stem from something other than brotherly concern. Perhaps an inability to accept that his sister was in a normal, healthy relationship with a man?”
“Objection,” I said, standing. “Counsel is making unfounded insinuations.”
“Your Honor, I’m exploring the defendant’s state of mind and his relationship with the victim,” Rosalind said smoothly.
Judge Markham’s jaw tightened. “Overruled. But tread carefully, Ms. Winthrop.”