Page 113 of The Wrong Side of the Law

Chapter Thirty-Six

Gabriel

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I say, pausing to try and make eye contact with each and every single one of them. “The prosecution will show, beyond any reasonable doubt, that Francis Wilsonwasin possession of this MDMA, or Ecstasy if you prefer the street name, and that itwasin an amount which violated Florida Statute 893.135.”

Again, a pause for eye contact. I’ve got the jury in the palm of my hand, while I give the weakest opening statement of my entire career. If Anderson can’t capitalize on the groundwork that I’ve laid for him, then he needs to get into a new line of work. Time to wrap this up and hand over a nicely warmed-up audience.

“You, the jury, will be responsible for making a decision here. When all is said and done, when all the witnesses have testified, and when all the evidence is presented, you will make a decision. You’ll have to decide whether or not I’ve proven beyond a reasonable doubt that Francis Wilson knowingly possessed those illegal drugs. You’ll be responsible for deciding whether or not this young man spends the next fifteen years of his life in prison, and I urge you to take that responsibility seriously.”

Jesus. What a load of crap.

At the defense table, Mark Anderson looks at me with stunned surprise, like I’d just out of the blue handed him the winning lottery ticket. Even the judge raises an eyebrow at my opening statement: Merryweather has seen me in his courtroom often enough, and he can tell that something’s off here.

The judge has no idea how right he is.

Above and beyond the simple fact that I don’t want to win this case, there’s something wrong. I don’t feel that adrenaline rush, the excitement. I’d thought for sure that the minute I stood up in front of the jury and the spectators, I’d feel the thrill of the chase again—even if my prey is not the man on trial today—but… I don’t.

I’m numb. The magic is just gone.

The public defender stands as I reach the prosecution table and shakes my hand.

“You all right, Cooper?” he asks,sotto voce. “Is this opposite day or something? I thoughtIwas supposed to be making the case for the defense.”

Beyond him, sitting in the front row behind the defense table, I see Emily with a pen in her hand busily scratching away in a notepad on her lap. Her head is bowed, and her hair obscures her face. I can’t tell if she’s writing or if it’s just a way to avoid looking at me.

“Don’t worry about what I’m doing.” I pat Anderson on the shoulder, my eyes still focused on the lovely redhead on the other side of him. “You just present your case.”

I sit down as the defense counsel takes center stage with an unusual spring in his step, and I’m surprised to realize that’s not the only thing out of the ordinary for him. His shirt is blindingly white and freshly pressed, and he’s wearing a brand-new suit that looks like it was tailored to fit. Emily’s doing, no doubt.

I glance around the room, taking in the small crowd. There’s a police-beat reporter in the fourth row, bored and doing something with her phone. The usual group of retirees fills in a few more of the seats: older folks, bored with daytime television and looking for cheap entertainment wherever they can find it. In the front row, Margaret Wilson looks frightened. I could almost find pity for her if Emily hadn’t given me the inside scoop on her.

And next to Margaret sits Emily herself.

Emily’s left a gap between herself and the wicked stepmother, her purse on the bench as a barrier between them. She re-caps her pen and stacks it and the pad on top of her purse, making her wall just that much higher.

Her body language radiates confidence and poise as she leans forward to touch her half-brother’s arm and whisper something in his ear. He nods, tentatively at first, but Emily’s insistence is working. She squeezes his shoulder and withdraws her hand only after Frank sits up straighter.

When she leans back, our eyes meet, and that self-possessed strength is undercut by an instant blush and a painful haunted shadow in her eyes. Appearance is the name of the game; fake it until you make it, I guess.

Emily looks away first, blinking rapidly.

Could she read me as easily? A lurching, uneasy ache in my chest, somehow more than bone deep, shows me that I’m not quite as numb as I’d believed. Could she see the echoed pain and emptiness in my eyes, or am I a good enough actor to keep that hidden?

Enough woolgathering. I’ve already missed the first few sentences of Anderson’s opening statement.

“… that the prosecution wants you to believe! But that isnotthe true Frank Wilson.” Anderson pounds one fist into his other hand’s open palm, projecting outrage at my vileness.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Frank Wilson is only the latest in a long string of young men and women, unwittingly caught up in events beyond their control; circumstances of which they had no knowledge. All of them share certain traits in common!”

It’s more than just a new suit and a haircut; Mark Anderson is on his game today. I’ve never seen him so energetic, so charged up.

“Each of these young people had a skill, a marketable skill. Something useful, to a certain kind of person. Michael Griffin, a photographer. Stephen Chamberlain, a sound engineer. Julia Yee, a singer. And Frank Wilson, a talented guitarist.”

Judge Merryweather glances over at me again, the unspoken question plain in his eyes:seriously, dude, are you gonna object to this or what?I shrug in answer, a tiny movement, almost imperceptible, and the judge just shakes his head as if to sayalright, it’s your funeral.

“These four young men and women came from different backgrounds, from different places, but each of them had very limited financial means. Each of these four young people was granted a once in a lifetime opportunity to put their skills on display in front of a worldwide audience!”

Anderson brings it to a crescendo, playing the crowd like a well-tuned violin, and when he cuts off the room is plunged into silence. The jury hangs on his every word, and even the previously-bored reporter has set her phone aside.

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