Page 117 of The Wrong Side of the Law

“What do you mean?” I know exactly what’s going on, of course. I’m just curious as to how much of it she’s figured out.

“I’ve watched enough of these things, these trials, that I have a pretty good idea of how they work.” She squints over at me, eyes hard and suspicious. “And that pretty man, there? I’ve seen him in court enough, too. He’s not pushing. He’s letting that public defender get away with any damn thing he wants. The fix is in on this, and I don’t know why.”

Maybe the news stations ought to have Maureen as their analyst instead of some polished talking head? I open my mouth to say something, but Maureen shushes me, pointing to the front of the room where Gabriel now stands.

“The prosecution calls Francis Wilson, Junior.”

My brother takes his seat on the witness stand, and the bailiff swears him in. He looks so young up there, so afraid. But he’s calm, he’s not letting the fear rule him. He’s grown so much through this. He’s not the same frightened little rabbit that wanted to leave the country to escape this trial, anymore.

“Mister Wilson,” Gabriel begins, “where did the MDMA tablets in your guitar case come from?”

“I don’t know, sir.” Frank’s voice cracks at first but steadies out quickly.

“You mean to tell me, Mister Wilson, that there were athousandtablets hidden in your guitar case, and you truly don’t know where they came from?”

“Objection!” Mark glares at the prosecution. “Asked and answered!”

“Withdrawn.” Gabriel waves away the question before the judge can rule on it. “Is there anything else in your guitar case that you don’t know about?”

“Again, objection! Calls for speculation!”

The judge sustains the objection, giving Gabriel a warning glare.

It’s gotten easier and easier to look at him over the course of the day. It hurts, still, that he doesn’t seem to see me even in the room, but at the same time I almost welcome the pain. After all, in a way, don’t I deserve it? I’m the one that did the betraying, after all.

Oh, Gabriel. You asked me why I couldn’t just trust you, and this is it. This is why. You said you’d figure something out, and yet… here we still are. Mark’s doing his best to build reasonable doubt, and you’re doing your best to stay out of his way and let it happen, but here we still are. This is why I had to do what I did, and this is why in just a couple hours we’re going to be opening that can of worms when we cross-examine your lab expert.

Gabriel’s getting frustrated as he questions Frank. My brother’s story is consistent, and he’s not wavering on any details. And Mark is doing a great job keeping Gabriel off balance with objections, preventing him from asking into a lot of the things that he wants.

After a few more minutes of questioning, Gabriel still hasn’t gotten anywhere.

“Your witness,” he says, turning my brother over to the defense counsel and dropping heavily into his chair.

“Thank you, Mister Cooper.” Mark nods graciously as he stands, facing my brother in the witness stand. “Now, Mister Wilson, you testified that you had no knowledge that there were drugs concealed in your guitar case, is that correct?”

“Yes sir. That is correct.”

“Thank you.” Mark pauses, glancing over at the jury. “At any time did you see someone tampering with your case?”

“No sir. I always kept my guitar case locked, and it was hardly ever out of my sight.” Frank smiles sadly at the defense counsel. “It was the nicest instrument I’ve ever played, and it meant a lot to me, so I, y’know, took care of it. I didn’t exactly just leave it laying around.”

“How long have you had that guitar and case?” Mark tilts his head to the side, creating a rehearsed image of interest.

“I’ve had it since… well, Mister Ferry gave it to me at the beginning of the tour, actually.”

A murmur runs through the reporters filling the gallery. This is the part that they’re here to see: a celebrity being accused of framing a young man for drug trafficking.

“How didRobert Ferryhappen to give you this gift?” Mark emphasizes the name with subtle scorn.

“Well, during some of the rehearsals back in the beginning, he said-”

“And byhe,” Mark interrupts, “you mean Robert Ferry?”

“Yessir, sorry. Mister Ferry said that the guitar I was playing wasn’t good enough for me. He said that I deserved a nicer instrument than the one that I had, something that would sound as good as I could play, and so he ordered this one for me.” My brother’s voice is clear and confident, and so is his posture. Shoulders back, head held high, and it’s going to play well on television.

“Mister Wilson, where did Ferry get the guitar from?” Mark asks.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know that.”

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