Lindsay
“During the course of this trial, a lot of things will become clear,” I begin, my heels clacking against the tile floors as I walk up to the jury.
They’re quiet, attentive as their jobs require. And now it’s time for me to do my job.
I stop speaking for a moment, allowing those words to meet their mark and taking note of the reaction of the jury to my statements. The judge also pays attention from his seat, scribbling at intervals on a piece of paper.
“The prosecution will be presenting two videos as evidence during this trial. The first clearly showing the defendant making his purchase at the gun shop. And the second from outside the victim’s apartment building on the night of the murder.
There you clearly see both the defendant and the victim having a scuffle, after which the defendant draws out his gun and unloads three bullets into the chest of Carl Brown, husband and father.
“We will also present three witnesses. One who heard the defendant say to the victim, ‘You are going to die for this,’ prior to opening fire. And two others who ran into the defendant in his haste to escape the crime scene. Like I said earlier, by the time this trial comes to an end, there will be no doubt in the mind of anyone here that the defendant shot and killed Carl Brown in a brutal fashion. We may not know the reason he did it, but we know that he did.”
With those words, I return to my seat. The defense counsel rises to her feet. She’s dressed sharply in a cream suit that contrasts nicely with her dark skin. Her hair is in a sleek bun. She’s calm, confident, and collected. I pay rapt attention as she makes the defense for her client.
She begins with an admission, which we had been anticipating. The video evidence makes it pretty clear that the defendant committed murder. I’d been expecting a guilty plea and a quick, seamless trial. What I hadn’t been expecting was a plea of self-defense.
My eyebrow arches as the counsel goes on a tangent about the victim’s abuse in the workplace and the frustration and fear it caused to most of his employees.
She mentions witnesses who are ready to step forward to speak on the defendant’s behalf.
She brings up the defendant’s pitiful home life, his struggle to raise a five-year-old daughter all on his own.
The defendant, for his part, looks contrite and regretful from his seat. He’s wearing a ratty T-shirt and jeans, dark brown hair shorn at the sides. He looks more like a victim than the perpetrator. I can tell the jury’s eating this shit up. My grip on the pen in my hand tightens.
There goes my simple, breezy trial. The court rises once the defense finishes their opening statement after adjourning till a date three weeks later.
I don’t waste any time sitting around. I get to my feet, walking out of the courtroom, Rachel is at my side in a flash.
The courthouse doors swing open behind us, the noise of the courtroom spilling out before the heavy wood shuts it back in.
“Get Detective Lee in my office as soon as possible,” I say, walking as fast as I can toward the parking lot.
Rachel keeps up beside me, heels clicking in quick succession.
“I already called him and he’s on his way,” my paralegal assures me.
She’s always been very capable and despite the fact that I hired her fresh out of college two years ago, she has yet to make me regret that choice. The afternoon sun is too bright, too warm for the irritation sitting just beneath my skin.
I should have seen that coming.
We get to the lot and I press the button to unlock my Lexus ES 350.
My work car. The one I drive in an official capacity because it doesn’t demand attention, and I don’t need it to.
It’s quiet, reliable and precise. It gets me where I need to go without turning it into a spectacle. Unlike most things in my life.
I undo the button of the black suit jacket I’ve got on, turning back to Rachel.
“Why was there no mention of possible abuse by the victim?” I ask, my brain going over every aspect of the trial.
“The angle wasn’t considered because of the severity of the violence. Three bullet wounds is a clear sign of a murder,” Rachel answers. “They also didn’t disclose anything. Not in anything we reviewed. Not in discovery, not in—”
“I know,” I cut in sharper than intended, before letting out a soft sigh. “The defense will want to amend the charge. They’ll be gunning for manslaughter.”
Rachel’s brown eyes widen, “But it’s clearly premeditated.”
“Well, the burden of proof isn’t on them, it’s on us,” I state, pressing the file in my hand to her chest and opening the driver’s seat “I need information on every single person that worked in the victim’s company. We have to get ahead of whatever the defense is planning.”
“Right away, Ms. Beaumont.”
We both settle in the car, ready to head back to the office. I put on my seatbelt, chewing the inside of my cheek. I hate being caught off guard, especially at work. I should have seen this coming.
“I’m sure it’ll be okay,” Rachel says, always a positive voice of reason.
I shoot her a small smile. “Of course it will be. We just have a couple late nights on the horizon for us. Let’s go. We can grab coffee on the way.”
Silence settles for a moment as I start the car and drive, the hum of the road filling the air. By the time we pull into the office, the irritation has settled into something sharper. Cleaner.
Useful.
Inside the office building, the air is cooler and quieter. We barely make it past reception before someone calls my name.
“Ms. Beaumont.”
I turn. It’s one of the assistants from upstairs.
“The DA wants to see you.”
I resist rolling my eyes. Of course he does.
Rachel glances at me. “That was fast.”
“Oh, you know our dear district attorney. Always on top of the mistakes I make,” I say, my tone light despite the frown on my face.
She winces slightly.
“Get to work, Rachel. I’ll be there in a sec.”
She nods once and I turn, heading for the elevator.
The doors slide open on the DA’s floor, and I step out without hesitation. His office door is already open. I step inside and he doesn’t waste any time before laying into me.
“What was that, Beaumont?” he questions. “You looked like a fish out of water in that courtroom.”
My first thought is to ask how he knows what I looked like if he wasn’t there.
My second is to tell him to lay off and let me get to work.
I don’t say either of those things. I simply take a seat on one of the armchairs while he stands beside his desk with his frown and light glare behind bespectacled eyes.
The DA, Grant Scott, doesn’t like me for several reasons.
The most prominent of which is that I’m young and thus in his eyes thoroughly unqualified for my position as the assistant district attorney.
He completely ignores the fact that since I started my career I’ve won about ninety percent of my cases. I’m more than capable of the job.
Like most people, he thinks I only have this position due to my father’s influence. There’s nothing I can do about his poor judgement. I show up and I do my work. The rest is his problem.
“I’m handling it,” I reply simply, practically counting down the seconds until I can leave.
“Will you handle it by amending the charge?”
“Not likely.”
His gaze lingers on me for a moment, assessing. His eyes are dark, and being the object of their intense focus nearly throws me into a memory of similar dark eyes. My fists clench, my nails practically digging into my palm. The memory disappears.
The last thing I need is to think about that.
“Walk me through your plan,” my boss states, taking a seat and leaning back in his chair.
I do, explaining exactly how I plan to dismantle the defense. By the time I’m done, it’s clear he agrees with me and may be a little impressed. Of course, he doesn’t let that show.
“Alright then. Make sure it goes well, Beaumont. There’s media coverage on the case. The victim was rich and influential.”
And apparently abusive, I think. But regardless of his faults, he didn’t deserve to die.
“Is that all?” I ask, ready to get to my feet.
“Not so fast,” Richard stops me.
I arch an eyebrow in question.
“The FBI is asking for assistance on a case. I said I’d send the prosecutor most equipped to handle it.”
Confused, I ask, “What case?”
“You’ll hear all about it tomorrow morning. You’ll be meeting with the SAC.”
“Alright.”
I get to my feet, not too worried about whatever it is that’s going on with the FBI. My mind is fixed on the problem at hand and I’m intent on not allowing anything to derail my progress.
Whenever things go wrong in my life, I throw myself into work. It’s what I do best.
And right now, the last thing I need is to be lost in my thoughts. Because that would mean Matteo Vitale’s won something. And I’ll be damned if I let him.
The walls of my bedroom are pink. I’ve always hated pink. And yet, I’ve stared at those pink walls for as long as I can remember because my mom painted this room. Nearly every inch of this room contains memories of her.
There’s a huge bookshelf on the side that holds all the books she read to me growing up.
Reading was her favorite thing to do in the world, from Shakespeare to Emily Bronte to Charles Dickens.
She was a huge fan of the Harry Potter series and it drove her completely mad that I preferred Percy Jackson.
When I step into my childhood bedroom for the first time in weeks, the first thing I pack are my books.
Because being without them felt like I’ve had to live without my mother.
And the reason I’ve been able to survive without her for so long is because I’ve always had her books with me, filling a hole in my heart.
I don’t take all of the books, just the really special ones.
I hold up a copy of Great Expectations, remembering her favorite quote from the book.
Gently, I take a seat on my canopy bed, it’s so soft and so comfortable, a part of me just wants to lie there and forget about the rest of the world. But I don’t.