Page 16 of Gonzo's Grudge
“Not fair?” My laugh was sharp as a knife. “You fucked him behind your husband’s back. You whispered secrets while Hampton sharpened the blade. You think this coffin ain’t on you? Think again.”
Her eyes widened, tears spilling. “I never wanted?—”
“Save it.” I leaned in so close she flinched from my breath. “Pop’s dead because you couldn’t keep your mouth or your legs shut. You might think tears wash blood clean. They don’t. Not with me.”
She sobbed, stumbling back, heels sinking into the grass. Whispers rippled through the crowd as she turned and fled.
I didn’t chase.
Didn’t need to.
I just called after her, my voice booming across the cemetery. “This is far from over. Let your man know I’m comin’ for him and I don’t give a fuck if you land in the crossfire.”
One Week Later
The courthouse reeked of bleach and fear. Too clean, too false. Like they were trying to scrub the corruption out with soap.
The brothers filled the benches behind me, a wall of cuts staring down the system. My ex-wife sat stiff as stone, rosary digging into her palms.
Devyn stood at the defense table, suit sharp, hair pulled back tight, steel in her eyes.
And then there was GJ.
My boy. Shackled at the wrists, orange jumpsuit drowning him. But his chin stayed up. His eyes found mine the second he walked in, and for a heartbeat, I didn’t see a prisoner. I saw my kid at ten years old, grinning up at me while he begged to ride on the back of my Harley. I saw him at six in his little league uniform, dust on his knees, beaming because I’d made it to the game despite the chaos of military life.
Now I saw him broken, crushed under the weight of lies.
The prosecution spun their tale smooth as bootcamp sheets on a rack. They painted him as a killer with motive, rage, and opportunity. Witnesses paraded in, eyes darting, voices rehearsed. Evidence laid out like a predator’s candy, shiny and poisoned.
Devyn tore into them. She ripped holes in their stories, exposed contradictions, shredded the timeline until it barely held. But none of it mattered.
Not with Judge Walsh smirking over his bench, overruling every damn motion Devyn made. Not with Hampton Stanley’s money greasing the whole system, he wasn’t being impartial and it was obvious.
Each time Devyn stood, Walsh cut her down. Each time the jury looked hesitant, Walsh steered them back with instructions dipped in poison.
I sat there, fists clenched, rage coiled tight in my chest. I wanted to tear the place apart. Wanted to wrap my hands around Walsh’s throat until the smirk drained from his face.
But I sat.
Because my boy needed me there.
The time passed by agonizingly slow and yet too fast. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I felt like I was stuck in a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.
I had been to war. I had watched men die. I had faced widows to give them their husband’s dog tags or letters. I had watched enemies use children as weapons strapping bombs to their little bodies and sending them in. I had seen the worst things a man should see. And nothing cut me deeper than seeing my son stand before a jury of twelve facing charges for a crime he did not commit.
The jury filed back, stone-faced, their eyes avoiding mine. Walsh leaned forward, smirk tugging at his lips like a wolf waiting to feast. He followed the protocols asking if they had reached a verdict and giving any of them a chance to reverse their decision before it was announced. The words were a blur until the crushing blow came in.
The foreman stood. “We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of murder in the first degree.”
The words detonated in my chest. I didn’t take in much of what was said next. I kept hearing the word over and over.
Guilty.
Guilty.
Guilty.
My breath came ragged, fists slamming against the wooden half wall in front of me. “No.” The word tore from me, drowned by Walsh’s gavel.
