Page 80 of Double Standards
I point back to the photo. “This gun,” I say, “the recoil isn’t as smooth. It pinches.”
“Pinches?” Her eyebrows draw together, puzzled.
I nod, eyes steady. “Yeah. When it cocks back, it can pinch theskin. Sometimes it even cuts. That’s why I don’t use one like this.”
The room falls silent, and I see the jury lean in a little closer, caught between my words and the image in front of them.
“May I see your hands?”
I slide my calloused palms against hers. The static that sparks between us hits me like a jolt—something I don’t think I’ll ever get used to. Her touch is electric, and I can feel the raw, unfiltered pull between us.
She looks down at my hands. “Could the jury please note there are no wounds or scars on Mr. Bonanno’s hands? Any such injuries would be recorded in the reports as identifiable features.”
I meet her eyes, a silent thank you passing between us as she turns to Michaelson.
“Defense rests.”
The rest of the trial feels like a blur. I keep my cool while Daniels writhes, desperate to provoke me. When the court adjourns, Daniels sits across the room, looking far less confident than when he first walked in.
I almost feel sorry for him.
Until he winks at her.
I grit my teeth and look away.
She squeezes my hand beside me, and for the first time since this nightmare began, I see the nerves flicker in her eyes. But I know she’s confident we’ve got this. The only trick Daniels has left is bribing the jury, and only time will tell if he’s got the balls to go that far.
“What’s the matter? Afraid you’re going to lose?” Daniels sneers across the room.
I catch the edge in his voice and fire back, matching his tone. “I hardly call it winning when you’re falsifying evidence.”
He nods toward me like I’m some dangerous criminal. “That man needs to be behind bars.”
My fists clenching the arms of my chair, muscles coiling,ready to snap. I’m about to move on Daniels, but then I feel her hand on mine. A gentle shake, steadying me.
Not now.
“According to who?” she scoffs, “you?”
Daniels waves me off with a lazy hand, muttering, “Worry about your own back, Caruthers.”
No originality there.
We sit in tense silence, breath held tight, as Michaelson returns to the bench. The jury is already seated, faces shadowed with impatience and frustration. I grip the table, knuckles turning white, doing my best to keep the rage bottled.
She’s seen this before—countless times. I can tell. Still, even she’s wary that Daniels might have one last card up his sleeve. But when we all settle, I catch it; the same tight expression mirrored on Daniels’ face.
Michaelson's eyes flick between us, then he exhales and turns to the jury.
“Do we have a verdict, Foreperson?”
A woman stands at the front. Her brown hair brushes her shoulders, partially hiding her face, but the frown creasing her brow is clear. Her gaze meets his, steady but heavy.
With a shaky hand, she begins, “The jury finds the defendant…”
I draw in a breath sharp enough to cut through the silence, the entire courtroom holding its collective breath.
“…not guilty.”
