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Broken Silhouettes [[13]]
Romance
 Created on 1-7-08
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 Story Rating G
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SOOO I don’t know a lot about court cases…actually, I knew nothing until I researched them on the web, and we all know how accurate the Internet is…=]] So, if you know how they’re run, just bear with me. If you don’t…we have at least one thing in common. =]]
Deni sat, fidgeting, in her seat. Her father was seated up at the front with the prosecutor, and the man--that awful man who killed her mother--was seated across from him with the defense attorney. From the back, the defense attorney looked somewhat familiar, but she knew that she was just imagining things.
She stared around her at the pandemonium surrounding her. People were talking at the top of their lungs, pointing fingers, shedding tears--until the judge picked up the pallet and pounded it three concise times.
“Order!” he shouted, staring with disgust at the chaos surrounding him. “Order!”
Slowly the people drew apart, sat down, and stared with rapt attention towards the front of the room. Deni felt her nerves heighten. Taylor closed his hand around hers. “It’s going to be all right,” he whispered. “Okay? I promise.”
“Don’t promise,” she whispered, her voice giving out on her on the last syllable of the word “promise.” “Don’t promise things that you can’t know for sure.”
The judge set down his pallet and looked directly at the prosecutor, Mr. Lake. “Does the prosecution wish to present any evidence at this time?”
Mr. Lake stood up and cleared his throat. “The prosecution calls Denise Turner to the stand.”
She stiffened, her heart racing at a thousand miles a minute, as she slowly stood. The moment she let go of Taylor’s hand, she began to fall. Quickly he stood and caught her. “You’ll be fine,” he whispered in her ear. “You have to do this, you know that. For your mother.”
“For my mother,” she whispered. “I have to be strong.” Determination flooded through her as she straightened, took a long, shaky breath, and headed toward the front.
Standing before the judge, she raised her right hand.
“Do you solemnly swear under penalty of law that the testimony you are about to give in this case is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“I swear,” she answered solemnly. Taking her seat, she stared up at Mr. Lake. He offered a reassuring wink, and she felt herself loosen a little bit.
“Denise, you are the daughter of the late Marjorie Turner, correct?”
“Correct.”
“How would you describe your relationship with your mother?”
“Very close,” she said quietly. “She was my whole life before this past year.”
“Have you ever seen this man before?” he asked, turning and pointing to the murderer.
She shook her head. “No.”
“Would there be any reason, anything that your mother may have done, that would have prompted a murder?”
She closed her eyes against the wetness that suddenly pinpricked against them. “Never,” she whispered. “My mother was a wonderful person.”
“How well did you know your mother?”
“I told you, we were as close as any mother and daughter ever was,” she said strongly.
“So there was no reason, no possible reason at all, that this man could have had to do this to your mother?”
“No.” She shook her head violently, shaking away the concept. “My mother was the innocent one here. She was the victim.”
“And if there was no reason,” Mr. Lake continued, looking up at the judge with these words, “there is no other word to describe it than murder. No further questioning.”
He took his seat and Deni let out a rickety breath. Here came the part she had been most worried about.
“Does the defense wish to cross-examine the witness?”
The defense attorney stood, and it was then that Deni recognized him.
It was Michael.
Her Michael, her Michael, her Michael--trying to get a murderer off as innocent.
She stared at him in horror, her eyes widening, her heart beating a thousand miles a minute--
“Denise,” he began, showing no signs of recognition except a slight bite of his lip before continuing, “Denise, you were not present at the time of the accident, were you?”
She could hardly speak, could hardly talk to him--and when the words came out, her tone was dripping with disgust. “No, I was not.”
“Why, then, do you believe that this was a murder and not merely an accident?”
“Because he confessed to the murder,” she told him through gritted teeth. “As his lawyer, weren’t you supposed to know that?”
Quiet laughter rippled through the courtroom, and Michael’s face flushed. Deni glanced at her father and he shook his head in warning. She tried to breathe deeply. She had to control this temper.
“You say that your mother was your whole life…before this past year,” Michael said. “What happened during this year that changed that?”
“Objection!” Mr. Lake called. “This question is irrelevant to the case, Your Honor.”
“Overruled,” the judge replied. “Go ahead, Miss Turner.”
She bit her lip, her heart beginning to beat wildly. “What happened,” she said icily, “is that I went to fat camp.”
Michael smiled slightly, and she hated him for that. “You went to fat camp,” he repeated. “And this changed your relationship how?”
“I began spending more time out, rather than with her.”
“So you weren’t around her very much.”
“No,” Deni said slowly.
“Then how do you know,” he said, his voice growing ever louder until it filled the entire courtroom, “that during the times you were out, your mother didn’t do something that got her into trouble?”
“I--”
“Something,” he interrupted, “to this man.” Again he pointed to the murderer. Deni felt her heart begin to beat ever faster.
“I don’t,” she whispered. “I just don’t believe that my mother would have done anything to where she would have deserved this.”
Michael backed up, the pain in her face evidently affecting him, and said quietly, “No further questioning.”
As he took his seat, his eyes remained glued on hers. Finally she tore them away and stood to go back to her seat. As she sat down next to Taylor, he wrapped his hand around hers and kissed her gently on the cheek. “You were fine.”
“Fine,” she repeated, staring straight ahead, unable to shove away the sight of the pain in Michael’s eyes and the heat of his voice as he defended the man who killed her mother.
“Will defense please call its first witness?” the judge called out.
Michael stood up. “The defense calls Peter Carnegie to the stand.”
The entire courtroom broke into an uproar; Peter Carnegie was the murderer.
Slowly the killer stood up and approached the stand.
“Do you solemnly swear under penalty of law that the testimony you are about to give in this case is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“I swear,” he answered before taking his seat.
Michael paced in front of the stand. “Mr. Carnegie, you are the accused in this case, correct?”
“That is correct.”
“And you plead guilty to the murder?”
“In a sense,” Peter answered.
Michael stared at him. “In a sense?”
“There’s something that nobody knows,” he said, “except me and one other person.”
Michael was clearly staggered. This was evidently not the way it had been planned. “Yes?” he said finally.
“I was hired,” Peter said.
Silence washed over the courtroom.
“Hired,” Michael echoed. “Meaning, you were paid to kill Marjorie Turner.”
“Yes.”
There was a long pause. “By who?” he asked at length, as though dreading the answer but feeling compelled to ask the question.
Peter stared up at his lawyer. “Taylor Green.”
Deni sat, fidgeting, in her seat. Her father was seated up at the front with the prosecutor, and the man--that awful man who killed her mother--was seated across from him with the defense attorney. From the back, the defense attorney looked somewhat familiar, but she knew that she was just imagining things.
She stared around her at the pandemonium surrounding her. People were talking at the top of their lungs, pointing fingers, shedding tears--until the judge picked up the pallet and pounded it three concise times.
“Order!” he shouted, staring with disgust at the chaos surrounding him. “Order!”
Slowly the people drew apart, sat down, and stared with rapt attention towards the front of the room. Deni felt her nerves heighten. Taylor closed his hand around hers. “It’s going to be all right,” he whispered. “Okay? I promise.”
“Don’t promise,” she whispered, her voice giving out on her on the last syllable of the word “promise.” “Don’t promise things that you can’t know for sure.”
The judge set down his pallet and looked directly at the prosecutor, Mr. Lake. “Does the prosecution wish to present any evidence at this time?”
Mr. Lake stood up and cleared his throat. “The prosecution calls Denise Turner to the stand.”
She stiffened, her heart racing at a thousand miles a minute, as she slowly stood. The moment she let go of Taylor’s hand, she began to fall. Quickly he stood and caught her. “You’ll be fine,” he whispered in her ear. “You have to do this, you know that. For your mother.”
“For my mother,” she whispered. “I have to be strong.” Determination flooded through her as she straightened, took a long, shaky breath, and headed toward the front.
Standing before the judge, she raised her right hand.
“Do you solemnly swear under penalty of law that the testimony you are about to give in this case is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“I swear,” she answered solemnly. Taking her seat, she stared up at Mr. Lake. He offered a reassuring wink, and she felt herself loosen a little bit.
“Denise, you are the daughter of the late Marjorie Turner, correct?”
“Correct.”
“How would you describe your relationship with your mother?”
“Very close,” she said quietly. “She was my whole life before this past year.”
“Have you ever seen this man before?” he asked, turning and pointing to the murderer.
She shook her head. “No.”
“Would there be any reason, anything that your mother may have done, that would have prompted a murder?”
She closed her eyes against the wetness that suddenly pinpricked against them. “Never,” she whispered. “My mother was a wonderful person.”
“How well did you know your mother?”
“I told you, we were as close as any mother and daughter ever was,” she said strongly.
“So there was no reason, no possible reason at all, that this man could have had to do this to your mother?”
“No.” She shook her head violently, shaking away the concept. “My mother was the innocent one here. She was the victim.”
“And if there was no reason,” Mr. Lake continued, looking up at the judge with these words, “there is no other word to describe it than murder. No further questioning.”
He took his seat and Deni let out a rickety breath. Here came the part she had been most worried about.
“Does the defense wish to cross-examine the witness?”
The defense attorney stood, and it was then that Deni recognized him.
It was Michael.
Her Michael, her Michael, her Michael--trying to get a murderer off as innocent.
She stared at him in horror, her eyes widening, her heart beating a thousand miles a minute--
“Denise,” he began, showing no signs of recognition except a slight bite of his lip before continuing, “Denise, you were not present at the time of the accident, were you?”
She could hardly speak, could hardly talk to him--and when the words came out, her tone was dripping with disgust. “No, I was not.”
“Why, then, do you believe that this was a murder and not merely an accident?”
“Because he confessed to the murder,” she told him through gritted teeth. “As his lawyer, weren’t you supposed to know that?”
Quiet laughter rippled through the courtroom, and Michael’s face flushed. Deni glanced at her father and he shook his head in warning. She tried to breathe deeply. She had to control this temper.
“You say that your mother was your whole life…before this past year,” Michael said. “What happened during this year that changed that?”
“Objection!” Mr. Lake called. “This question is irrelevant to the case, Your Honor.”
“Overruled,” the judge replied. “Go ahead, Miss Turner.”
She bit her lip, her heart beginning to beat wildly. “What happened,” she said icily, “is that I went to fat camp.”
Michael smiled slightly, and she hated him for that. “You went to fat camp,” he repeated. “And this changed your relationship how?”
“I began spending more time out, rather than with her.”
“So you weren’t around her very much.”
“No,” Deni said slowly.
“Then how do you know,” he said, his voice growing ever louder until it filled the entire courtroom, “that during the times you were out, your mother didn’t do something that got her into trouble?”
“I--”
“Something,” he interrupted, “to this man.” Again he pointed to the murderer. Deni felt her heart begin to beat ever faster.
“I don’t,” she whispered. “I just don’t believe that my mother would have done anything to where she would have deserved this.”
Michael backed up, the pain in her face evidently affecting him, and said quietly, “No further questioning.”
As he took his seat, his eyes remained glued on hers. Finally she tore them away and stood to go back to her seat. As she sat down next to Taylor, he wrapped his hand around hers and kissed her gently on the cheek. “You were fine.”
“Fine,” she repeated, staring straight ahead, unable to shove away the sight of the pain in Michael’s eyes and the heat of his voice as he defended the man who killed her mother.
“Will defense please call its first witness?” the judge called out.
Michael stood up. “The defense calls Peter Carnegie to the stand.”
The entire courtroom broke into an uproar; Peter Carnegie was the murderer.
Slowly the killer stood up and approached the stand.
“Do you solemnly swear under penalty of law that the testimony you are about to give in this case is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“I swear,” he answered before taking his seat.
Michael paced in front of the stand. “Mr. Carnegie, you are the accused in this case, correct?”
“That is correct.”
“And you plead guilty to the murder?”
“In a sense,” Peter answered.
Michael stared at him. “In a sense?”
“There’s something that nobody knows,” he said, “except me and one other person.”
Michael was clearly staggered. This was evidently not the way it had been planned. “Yes?” he said finally.
“I was hired,” Peter said.
Silence washed over the courtroom.
“Hired,” Michael echoed. “Meaning, you were paid to kill Marjorie Turner.”
“Yes.”
There was a long pause. “By who?” he asked at length, as though dreading the answer but feeling compelled to ask the question.
Peter stared up at his lawyer. “Taylor Green.”
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