Chapter 34 The Witness
Thirty-Four
The Witness
It must be my ears. I must be hearing things.
But when I looked behind me, it was Dallas—my Dallas—walking through the door wearing nice pants and a jacket cut to emphasize his shoulders and tapered waist.
A woman with a badge hanging from her waist followed him in and stayed at the back of the room. He passed by and stood before the witness box facing the judge, his back to me.
My breath came short and fast. My heart pounded so hard my rib cage hurt.
“Please face the clerk and raise your right hand,” the judge said.
“Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” the clerk asked.
“I do.”
The sound of Dallas’s voice sent a sharp pain through my lungs.
“Thank you. You may be seated,” said the judge.
He went around the stand and sat in the chair.
The clerk continued. “Please say and spell your name for the record.”
He looked at her. “Dallas Reynolds. D-A-L-L-A-S R-E-Y-N-O-L-D-S.”
Sweat started dripping down my back. None of this made sense. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, my legs, my body.
Expression blank, Dallas looked first at the rows of jurors, then glanced at the district attorney, then the defense table where my dad and Gray were sitting. Finally, his gaze trailed behind them and onto me.
In that moment, time stopped. It seemed like every person in the courtroom froze and it was only Dallas who had not. His eyes—the same eyes that had looked at me with reverence the night before—held mine. At first his brows rose, but then they furrowed into a tight frown.
I died a little inside. Dallas was on the stand at my dad’s trial. It was disorienting, discombobulating. Had Mars crashed into Venus?
Still worse, he wasn’t testifying on behalf of my dad.
No. Dallas was here to help prove his guilt.
Send him to jail. I might choose to be a critic of my father, but I wasn’t that awful of a daughter.
I wasn’t that horrid. I still wanted him to put this part of his life behind him.
Rid himself of the lawyers, judges, and be free.
The district attorney stayed seated behind her table, a binder in front of her.
“Mr. Reynolds, do you play hockey?”
He said nothing. He was still looking at me, his face flushed, his eyes trying to read me. He shouldn’t have much difficulty. He’d known who I was. He knew that my father was on trial. But he’d failed to tell me anything about himself and why he was sitting on that stand.
Bastard.
“Mr. Reynolds?”
He inched closer to the microphone, his glossy brown eyes still glued to me. “Yes.”
“How long have you played?”
“Since I was five years old.”
“And what team did you last play for?”
Dallas looked away from me and at the district attorney. “A USHL team called the Storm.”
“Were you being recruited by any college teams during your time as a USHL player?”
“Yes.”
“Was there a particular coach that was recruiting you who is in this room?”
My heart thumped like a bass drum.
“Yes.”
“His name?”
“David Bianchini.”
“If you could, please point this person out to us.”
Dallas paled, almost as if he didn’t want to do it. Like if he did, it would mean more than just answering one of the prosecutor’s yes or no questions. It would be evidence of his betrayal. He glanced at the defendant’s table and, with hesitation, pointed at my dad.
I looked away. I couldn’t watch his condemning finger angled right at Dad. It physically hurt.
“Let the record show that Mr. Reynolds has indicated the defendant.” After a pause, the district attorney continued. “Mr. Reynolds, I would like for you to explain to us what happened to you and your family leading up to your dealings with Mr. David Bianchini, the defendant.”
Dallas looked directly at me again.
“Mr. Reynolds?”
He glanced away. “The year after I graduated from high school, my mom’s cancer returned. After six months, the medical bills were piling up. At the same time, I had multiple colleges pursuing me to play hockey. But then she passed away, and everything fell apart.”
My chest ached. Cancer. He’d never told me.
“Everything fell apart in what way?”
Dallas’s voice was clear and steady. “My dad got laid off from his job. We had to organize and pay for the funeral, figure out where we would get the money to cover her medical bills and end-of-life care. When you play in the USHL, you’re an amateur.
They don’t pay you. They only pay for your expenses. ”
A heaviness grew inside me.
“Did you figure out where the money would come from?” the district attorney asked.
I was having trouble breathing.
“Coach Bianchini set it up. He would give us enough money to pay for the funeral, the unpaid medical bills, and then some.”
“Do you remember the exact sum?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
Omigod. Omigod. Omigod.
“And how do you know that the two hundred thousand dollars was from Coach Bianchini?”
Dallas rearranged himself on the chair. Then he swallowed hard. “He told me that as soon as I signed my letter of intent, we would get it, how we would get it, and that we shouldn’t mention anything to the university.”
Blood rushed to my head. The pressure in my ears was like an emergency descent in an airplane.
“And then what happened?” the attorney asked.
Dallas fidgeted. It was as if he suddenly didn’t want to go on.
His voice lost all of its power. “I signed the letter. I took the money.”
I sucked in a breath and slowly let it out.
“Thank you, Mr. Reynolds. A couple more questions and then I’m done. Do you play college hockey now?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I am NCAA ineligible.”
“Because?”
“It is a violation of NCAA rules to accept money to sign with a specific school.”
“So your dreams were dashed.”
“I suppose they were. At least, the dreams I had in that moment.”
“Thank you, Mr. Reynolds.”
There was silence. Some paper shuffling. I gazed at the floor because I couldn’t—couldn’t—look at Dallas.
None of this had anything to do with me, but every muscle in my body quivered. My head was woozy. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t told me about his deal with my dad, about his ineligibility.
The judge nodded to Gray.
He got up from behind his table. “I have only a couple of follow-up questions, Mr. Reynolds.”
Dallas sat a little straighter.
“How can you say the money was from Coach Bianchini if you didn’t actually get it directly from him?”
“Because I gave him my dad’s bank account information.”
“But he didn’t actually hand you a check, is that correct?”
“No. It came as an electronic deposit.”
“Did you ever meet with representatives of Achilles Incorporated?”
Dallas paused, then leaned into microphone. “I spoke with them on the phone.”
“Did they talk about money with you?”
“They did.”
“And what did they say?”
“That they were working with Coach Bianchini to help me out financially because of my mother’s death.”
“So, did you think the money that you were going to get was going to come from Coach Bianchini or from Achilles Incorporated?”
“Well, it must have been Achilles because—”
“Thank you, Mr. Reynolds. I didn’t ask you to explain.”
“But I need to. I want to. It must have been Achilles money because my dad gave it back to them.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Reynolds.”
Gray walked to the stenographer. “For the record, the witness said he believed the money was coming from Achilles Incorporated.
“I have nothing further.” Gray walked back to his seat.
The prosecutor shot to her feet and moved around her table. “Mr. Reynolds, is the money that Achilles Incorporated discussed with you the same money that Coach Bianchini was referring to?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Coach Bianchini set up the conference call with Achilles. He was also there during the conversation.”
“That’s all I have, Your Honor.” The prosecutor sat right back down and started scribbling away.
I had to get out of here. I had to get out now.
“Mom,” I whispered, “I need a break.”
She nodded.
“Can I have your keys?”
She dug in her purse and handed them over.
I got up and walked as normally as I could down the center aisle. But after the door to the courtroom closed behind me, I ran.
I pushed the call button for the elevator over and over. It dinged. Inside, I pressed the button for the main floor then hit the door-close button. Just before the elevator shut, I saw Dallas, jogging straight at me.
“Ade,” he shouted. “Wait.”