Chapter 9
MADISON
“Iobject!” I shouted, pounding the table for emphasis like they did in the movies.
The judge’s nostrils flared as he let out a frustrated sigh. “For the last time, Miss Hastings, you are not permitted to object. Mr. Finkle, please control the defendant.”
“Sorry, Your Honor.”
My useless attorney snatched my upper arm and dragged me back down to my seat.
Bent close, the onion bagel he had scarfed down in the side room before court was still strong on his breath as he whispered, “Miss Hastings, you have to stop objecting.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Fine. I’ll stop objecting when you start.”
He swiped his sleeve under his nose before responding. “I’ve already told you there is nothing we can do about the video evidence. It’s solid.”
“And I’ve told you that not only was I not driving that night, but countless people could tell you that Jameson never let anyone drive his precious sports car. He wouldn’t even let the valets park it. They always had to keep it up front.”
A sharp rap of the gavel cut Finkle’s reply off. “Mr. Finkle, if the Court may proceed.”
Startled, my attorney’s arm jerked across the table, scattering several papers and files onto the floor. He dropped to his knees and gathered them up. “Yes, Your Honor.”
Looking over my shoulder, I caught Hailey’s gaze.
She mouthed, “Twatwaffle,” and rolled her eyes.
Rylee was sitting next to her and gave me an encouraging two thumbs-up.
It would have been more encouraging if her eyes weren’t red-rimmed and swollen.
I glanced over at the jury. One man kept twisting his finger in his ear.
Another wouldn’t stop licking his lips every time he looked at me.
Three had been doodling on their notepads the entire time, and one woman had actually fallen asleep.
Since the day this trial started, the one thing they all had in common was they all looked bored as hell and not the least bit concerned I was on trial for my life.
I slumped in my chair and covered my eyes.
The commonwealth’s attorney cleared his throat before continuing.
“As I was saying, you can clearly see it was the defendant, Miss Hastings, behind the wheel, as captured in this traffic camera footage, not the poor victim Jameson Worthington, moments before the tragic accident which took his life.”
I peeked through my fingers.
The video was playing on a large flat-screen TV just to the side of the judge’s bench, in full view of the jury.
The CA had momentarily stopped the video.
The footage was gray and grainy, but I was clearly behind the wheel.
What looked odd was while Jameson was on the passenger side, his head was turned to the right, and his mouth was open as if he were in the middle of yelling at the closed window instead of at me.
But what I remembered from that night was he’d screamed at me from the moment we got into the car until the accident. I sat up straighter and stared at the frozen image.
There was something wrong with the video.
Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. All those Sherlock Holmes books I’d shelved and sold and read twice. Observe without judgment.
The CA pressed play again, and I had to stop myself from asking him to pause it again.
It was right there, practically on the tip of my tongue.
The seat belt!
Oh, my god! The fucking seat belt!
It was angled the wrong way.
If Jameson had been in the passenger seat as everyone claimed then the strap should have gone from his right shoulder down to his left hip but in the video the seat belt crossed his torso from his left shoulder to his right hip, exactly as it would if he were in the driver’s seat.
Extending my arm, I clutched at Mr. Finkle’s cheap suit. “It’s wrong! The video is a fake.”
He dislodged my grasp. “We have been over this—”
“Look at the seat belt! The seat belt proves it’s a fake.”
Finkle bent closer and squinted at the screen. He shook his head. “I see nothing wrong.”
I explained how it was slanted across Jameson’s chest at the wrong angle.
Blotchy patches of red bloomed on Finkle’s cheeks and down his throat, disappearing into his grimy shirt collar.
He caught the CA’s gaze.
From the way the prosecutor was staring at me, it was obvious he had overheard our conversation. He pivoted and shut off the television.
I hissed through clenched teeth, “Say something!”
Finkle’s brow wrinkled. “What do you want me to say?”
“Object! Tell them the video is a fake.”
He shook his head. “The judge has already ruled it admissible. There is nothing I can do.”
I sat back and stared at him.
He blushed an even deeper shade of red. I’d had my suspicions about Finkle. No one could be that bad of an attorney. But until now, I hadn’t been totally convinced.
“He got to you,” I accused.
“Who?”
“Pierce Worthington, he got to you.”
Finkle shifted in his seat. “I...I...don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How much?”
“Please, Miss Hastings,” he said, casting a fearful glance between the judge and the CA. “Lower your voice.”
Uncaring, I asked again. “How much? How much was my life worth, you slimy piece of shit?”
The judge lowered his glasses onto the tip of his nose and glared down at us both. “Is there a problem, Mr. Finkle?”
“No,” he answered.
“Yes,” I responded.
The judge’s jowls trembled. “What is it this time?”
I stood. “I want a new attorney, Your Honor.”
“Denied.”
“But Your Honor!”
“I said, denied. Now sit down before I hold you in contempt.”
“But the video is fake and my attorney knows it!”
“Not another word!” roared the judge, his outburst causing his glasses to fly off his head and crack against the marble floor.
There was a collective gasp across the courtroom.
The gavel came down hard enough to crack wood. The jury was ordered out. Court was in recess. He then pointed to the two attorneys and ordered them into his chambers.
A bailiff appeared at my elbow before I could get any more words out, ready to drag me back to a small holding room just off the courtroom.
I turned and called out to Hailey and Rylee, “The seat belt in the video! Look at the angle!”
Hailey and Rylee rose in unison. “What should we do? Who should we tell?”
The bailiff yanked on my arm, forcing me through a pair of swinging double doors before I could respond.
She pulled me across the narrow hallway, past the crowded benches filled with handcuffed criminals in orange jumpsuits and shoved me over the threshold of the holding room.
The door slammed in my face and locked the moment I turned to plead with her.
Alone in the tiny room, I paced around the small rectangular table. Its wooden surface was scarred with countless scratches and etched curse words, except in one corner.
Faintly, in thin, spidery handwriting, someone had scrawled the words “help me.”
My knees buckled.
Leaning my forehead against the edge of the table, I crouched low, trying to force air into my lungs. For the first time in my life, I prayed.
Oh God, please, please help me.
Just then, the latch clicked.
I rose, expecting to see the sourpuss face of the bailiff coming to fetch me back to the travesty otherwise known as my trial.
Instead, the arrogantly handsome face of Pierce Worthington appeared.
His presence filled the sparse room.
Gone were the musty odors of dust and neglect, replaced by the clean sandalwood scent of his cologne. He unbuttoned his expensive-looking suit jacket as he stepped into the room, gesturing for the court officer to once again close and lock it behind him.
I had prayed to God, but it was the Devil who answered.
His voice was laced with venom. “Hello, Madison.”