— – Scarlett
—
SCARLETT
Jameson
I should be back in Manhattan tonight in time for your show.
Good luck. (Accept my rose delivery)
Thank you. (I already did.)
Rain pours over Pennsylvania’s capitol as I jump out of a cab and race toward the courthouse, splashing through every puddle along the way.
My umbrella gives up halfway across the street, and by the time I reach the courthouse steps, the bottom of my dress is soaked and my heels are making an embarrassing squeaking sound.
I can’t believe Jameson thought I would want to miss this moment with him.
I rush through security and follow the growing sound of reporters down the hall, where camera crews are stationed outside the courtroom and journalists are fighting for space near the doors.
A giant television screen above them flashes the same headline over and over.
JAMESON TATE SR. EXPECTED TO WALK FREE TODAY
I stop long enough to read it twice, my heart swelling at the thought of Jameson finally seeing those words after twenty-eight years of fighting for them.
I start toward the courtroom again, but Peter Hansel catches my attention.
He’s standing alone near the wall, running a hand through his hair, looking nothing like the bestselling author whose face was plastered across a dozen screens the night I met him.
There’s no long line of readers waiting for his autograph or assistants hovering nearby, and the reporters seem far more interested in getting inside the courtroom than talking to him.
“Good morning.” I smile.
“Is it?”
“Yes.” I glance at the headline above us. “An innocent man gets out of prison today.”
“Unfortunately, your boyfriend won’t be taking his place.”
“You should be grateful you’re not taking his place, Mr. Hansel.”
His eyes narrow, and he steps closer. “Do you have any idea what this does to my reputation? My book sales?”
“No, but I hope it’s far worse than anything I could ever imagine.”
His jaw clenches.
“Have a good morning.” I smile again and move past him before he can respond.
The courtroom is already packed when I step inside, with reporters filling every seat in the back rows and several people standing along the walls.
I barely manage to find an empty spot before the doors are locked behind me.
Jameson is sitting beside his father at the defense table, looking perfectly composed in one of his usual suits, but the second he looks over his shoulder and sees me, he arches a brow.
I wanted to come, I mouth.
His lips curve into a smile before he turns around.
“All rise for the Honorable Judge Harris!” the bailiff announces.
The cameramen in the room adjust their lenses, and the reporters lean in closer after the judge sits on the bench.
She flips open a file and looks straight at Jameson’s father, her eyes locked on his.
There’s an entire protocol that’s supposed to happen—statements, the case number reading, and a welcome to everyone here today. But with every second that passes, it’s becoming obvious that she won’t be following the script.
For several moments, she holds the room hostage with her silence—simply staring at Jameson’s father.
“Mr. Tate,” she says finally, “there is no ruling this court can issue today that will return the twenty-eight years that were wrongfully taken from you.”
“However, after reviewing newly discovered evidence, serious failures by your original counsel, and the circumstances surrounding your conviction, this court finds that your conviction cannot stand.”
Jameson reaches beneath the table and grips his father’s hand.
“On behalf of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, I offer you an apology that is decades overdue,” the judge says. “Your conviction is hereby vacated, Mr. Tate. You are free to go.”
For a few seconds, no one moves.
Then Jameson’s father lowers his head into his hands, and Jameson immediately wraps an arm around him as the courtroom erupts behind them.
Reporters rush toward the doors, cameras start flashing, and several people call Jameson’s name, but neither of them seems to notice.
Jameson pulls his father into his arms, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I see tears in his eyes.
I stay in my seat and let them have their moment, knowing that Jameson has spent almost his entire life waiting for this day.
Twenty-eight years, seven failed appeals, and one final verdict he refused to accept.
“Mr. Tate, over here!” A reporter calls out. “Come speak with us!”
Jameson and his father remain embraced, and they don’t let go for what feels like forever.
It’s not until security begins escorting people out of the courtroom that I realize those two won’t be following their original script either.
The rain has softened to a drizzle by the time I finally make it outside, and Jameson’s father is surrounded by reporters at the bottom of the courthouse steps.
Jameson and I are sharing an umbrella, watching him answer questions about what he plans to do with his first day of freedom.
“I told you that you didn’t have to come to this,” Jameson says. “I vividly remember saying I could handle this moment alone.”
“I didn’t think you actually meant that.”
“I did.”
“Well, you should know by now that I wouldn’t believe you.”
“Fair enough.” He lets out a low laugh and pulls me closer, but something about his laughter catches me off guard.
I’ve heard him laugh plenty of times before, but there’s something different about it today, something lighter than usual.
“I’m going to take some time off,” he says. “This was my last case.”
“What?” I stare at him. “Are you serious?”
“Very much so.”
“How much time?”
“Six months, maybe a year. Maybe even two.”
“Now I really don’t believe you.”
“I’m serious.” He slides an arm around my waist. “I want to spend as much time as I can with my father…and you.”
I nod, still not convinced.
“I’m planning to merge my firm with Hamilton & Associates,” he says. “That way, I can use the new partnership to take all the time I need.”
“They’re not going to like the type of clients you represent.”
“You must not have heard the latest news…” He trails a finger against my lips. “I won’t be representing the guilty anymore.”
“The allegedly guilty, you mean.”
“Exactly,” he says. “Unless I stumble across someone who intrigues me with their secrets and lies, and I want to give the case a chance.”
“I haven’t lied to you in a long time, Jameson.”
“What about secrets?” He narrows his eyes. “I have the feeling you’ve been hiding something from me.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Just me showing up here today.”
“You promise?”
“Maybe.”
“No, promise.” He kisses me, slow and deep enough that I almost forget we’re standing outside a courthouse surrounded by reporters.
Biting down on my bottom lip, he whispers against my mouth, “No more secrets. Promise me.”
“No more secrets,” I whisper.
After today…
I smile and rest my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat beneath his shirt as the rain continues falling around us.
There’s one last secret waiting for him on his living room table in New York.
A positive pregnancy test.
I found out this morning, and I almost called him immediately, but today belongs to his father and the twenty-eight years of freedom that were stolen from him.
Jameson has spent most of his life waiting for this verdict.
He can wait a few more hours for mine.
And something tells me he won’t be filing an appeal.
The End, Again