Chapter 40
Objections!
Fenella
“Oh sweet Mother, that is divine.” Jessy takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He opens them wide again while his mouth keeps chewing my mother’s crab cakes.
“I’m glad you like them,” my mother says, beaming at the praise.
“I don’t just like them. I love, love, love them.”
Everyone around us laughs at Jessy’s confession. We all feel the same way because my mother makes a super delicious wedding reception spread. Our home is filled with guests. Even though we only invite a few people, our home has never been this lively.
The decorations in pink, white, and red flowers and balloons fill the entire room. The furniture is rearranged to create enough space for the guests to dance or chat. Soft music plays through the speakers set up in the corner of the room.
Guests step up to change the music, hold the microphone, and sing, and it always turns into a loud sing-along from everyone else.
Laird and I also steal some slow dance moments, something I’ll etch into my memories for a long, long time.
Even though it isn’t a lavish reception, the festive atmosphere in our home is just as lively.
Our home isn’t quiet for a second throughout the day. The party keeps going into the evening. When everyone’s stomachs are full, the beer runs out, and no one can sing anymore, they finally leave.
Jessy, Matthew, Golden, Lloyd, and Laird, my husband, wow, that sounds unreal, are the last men standing who still have the energy to help clean up the house. We rearrange the furniture, take out the trash, and wash the dishes.
“God, I’m exhausted.” Matthew flops onto the sofa.
Next to him, Jessy sits with his back against the sofa. Lloyd daydreams with a sleepy look beside him, while Golden helps my mother wash the dishes.
“So true. I’m never hosting a house party again.” Jessy shakes his head.
“You weren’t even the host,” Lloyd says with a frown.
“I never asked all of you to stay and help us clean the house, right?” Laird leans back on the sofa.
“Yeah, but we’re family. I don’t have the heart to leave this mess by yourselves,” Jessy says, furrowing his brow.
“Thank you so much, guys. I really appreciate this. If you ever need me, just remember I’m one call away,” I chuckle.
“The house across the street probably needs to call her. Their place is gloomy and the people who lived there moved here,” Matthew says, laughing out loud.
Hearing Matthew’s joke, all of us fall quiet. Especially Laird and me, remembering the reason we rush into this marriage. Even now, Mr. Evans hasn’t said congratulations or a single word to us. Not even to Lloyd, aside from demanding that he does better than his brother.
“Not funny,” Jessy says, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Oh. Do you two know where you want to go for your honeymoon?” he asks, switching the topic.
“I don’t know. Any ideas?” I ask him.
“How about Mexico City? Our vacation plans there fell through,” Laird suggests.
“I don’t know. Mexico reminds me of terrible moments,” I say.
“That’s a better reason to make beautiful new memories and erase the trauma of that place,” Lloyd says.
“You can’t go on your honeymoon until you finish testifying.” Golden walks toward us and sits on the empty sofa.
“And when is that?” Laird asks.
“Next week,” Golden says.
“Then the honeymoon is postponed until next week,” Laird murmurs, disappointment soft and obvious in his eyes. I let out a long sigh.
* * *
The day I testify as a witness brought in by the prosecutor finally comes.
After I’m sworn in with the Bible, I give my testimony through a Q&A session with Golden, exactly like I memorized from my witness statement copy.
When he finishes, he sits down and the defense attorney steps in to replace him.
I glance at Alan, Peter, and Amy behind the defendant’s table. They look drained, not a trace of makeup. Alan looks even more unkempt and thinner. We exchange nothing but distant glances, and I don’t dare look at him too long.
Mr. Hugo Evans stands and faces me in his luxurious three-piece suit. His hair is neatly combed and this invisible charismatic aura radiates off him. With him and Malcolm Golden in the same room, it’s like there are two suns burning at once, and the journalists in the back practically buzz.
“Mrs. Baxter. What motivated you to assist the feds in the investigation?”
“Like I said before, I needed to do the right thing.” Shit. My voice sounds hoarse and weak.
“The right thing, huh? And how did you know the defendants were doing the wrong thing?” Mr. Evans, my father-in-law, strolls across the courtroom like it’s a stage.
“My husband told me about the defendants’ actions and their family.”
“When?”
“On Christmas Eve.”
Mr. Evans blinks. There’s a pause before he clears his throat and keeps going. “Were you still under contract as a talent at the defendant’s agency?”
“Legally, yes. I had submitted my resignation, but the defendant was still persuading me to stay.” I clench my fist on my lap.
“You handed your resignation letter after the advertising scandal with the defendant. Is that true?”
“No, it was weeks before that.” My lips shake more with each question.
“So, this is about settling a score? You wanted to get revenge and drag him down, is that it?”
“Objection, Your Honor. Irrelevant to the case,” Golden calls out.
“I’m digging into the true intentions of the case, Your Honor,” Mr. Evans says.
“Overruled. Witness, please answer the question,” the judge orders.
I go quiet for a long moment. My breath turns shaky. My eyes flick toward Laird. He watches me with worry etched deep in his brow. “I just wanted him to acknowledge his wrongdoings and pay for all his mistakes.”
“His mistakes towards you? Isn’t that a selfish personal vendetta?”
“Objection, Your Honor. This is irrelevant,” Golden says, barely containing his frustration.
“Sustained. We know the reason. Next question, Mr. Evans,” the judge says with an eye roll. Mr. Evans pouts before turning back to me.
“Tell me, Mrs. Baxter. What did you do after you learned the defendant was involved in criminal activities?”
“I helped clarify some information they already had. That’s it.” I’m holding my breath until the words leave my mouth.
“What did you clarify?”
“Their confession of the crimes committed,” I say, my heart pounding uncontrollably. Did I say that right? Did I mess up?
“So, you never saw concrete evidence with your own eyes? Was there any entrapment with the evidence obtained illegally?”
“Objection. The attorney is leading the witness. Our coordination is part of a legitimate investigation under the jurisdiction of the federal attorney and the FBI,” Golden argues sharply.
“Not if the evidence you gathered also came from illegal actions,” Mr. Evans fires back.
“The investigation was authorized. Any details beyond that are classified.” Golden strikes back.
“You mean involving civilians who weren’t officially working for the government? Espionage done illegally is a criminal act. Tampering with privacy.” Evans talks in rush.
“It’s called a covert operation!” Golden’s voice is thundering on the courtroom.
Evans cuts back in, his hand slicing the air sharply toward Golden. “You trapped them! Who knows if the proof is legitimate or planted by her revenge motive?”
“Enough, both of you.” The judge bangs the gavel over and over. The courtroom erupts with murmurs from spectators and journalists. “The court is adjourned for ten minutes.”
* * *
This time, I watch Laird from the spectator seats. It’s strange to see a father and son in the same courtroom as opponents. It should be unethical, but nobody has a clue how Hugo Evans gets away with it.
“Mr. Evans, did you share confidential client agreements with the federal prosecutor and the FBI?” Mr. Evans asks, his voice hoarse but loud.
“I did,” Laird answers, calm but cold.
“Do you realize you risk your license for that? It’s highly unusual and could be considered unethical.” Mr. Evans tilts his head, one hand in his pocket.
“Because I saw wrongdoing and greed,” Laird says in a low, measured voice.
The Shark clasps a hand to his chest and paces. “So, you’re a hero? Not because of personal feelings toward the defendants, your high school classmates who bullied your girlfriend?”
“Objection. That’s out of context,” Golden interrupts.
“Sustained,” the judge says. Mr. Evans puckers his mouth but moves on.
“What made you confident the defendant was involved in criminal activities?” Mr. Evans presses, stepping closer.
“I reviewed the contracts and noticed irregularities,” Laird says evenly.
“Specify,” Mr. Evans leans forward.
“The shareholders of several companies are foreign investment firms. Some contractual arrangements show similar patterns between companies that claim to be independent,” Laird explains, his voice controlled and precise. Something I could never pull off.
“And what did you do with that information?”
“I investigated further, traced the financial links, and then reported my findings to the prosecutor. Everything I did was coordinated with the authorities and done under their guidance,” Laird replies, glancing briefly at Alan.
“You’re a lawyer, not an FBI agent. Why bypass usual channels if not motivated by personal animosity?” Mr. Evans asks, hands clasped behind his back, his challenge clear.
“Because the law obliges someone who has evidence of serious wrongdoing to act. I made sure all steps were coordinated with the prosecutor and the FBI. I wasn’t motivated by personal feelings—I acted on evidence and duty,” Laird says firmly, his eyes unwavering.
“But you should care. It’s your reputation and your career at stake,” Mr. Evans snaps.
“No. Doing nothing would have been worse. I can accept any consequence, because what matters is justice, not personal safety,” Laird says, piercing and precise.
“Objection. This is getting personal and argumentative,” Golden interjects.
“Sustained. Mr. Evans, you agreed to represent the defendant professionally. Questions must remain relevant and respectful. If you cannot maintain that, I may have to appoint new counsel. Court is adjourned for five minutes.”