Salem looks like he wants to sit on his hands to keep them still. “You don’t have to do this,” he says to me.
“I want to. Let me help.”
We rehearse once. He tells me not to get clever and not to argue with the prosecutor if they ask leading questions. “If you don’t know, say you don’t know. We’re not here to win Twitter. We’re here to get everyone back to work.”
Quincy keeps flipping his phone over and setting it face down again. “This is a nightmare,” he mutters. “I just got the hotel off DEFCON two about Troy and now this.”
“It’s not a nightmare. It’s just a day.”
He stares like I said something unsafe, then exhales and nods. “Right.”
At eleven, we go to court. No entourage, no cameras inside, just a small room with a bored bailiff and a judge who reads fast. Halligan sits at the other table in a dark jacket and a shirt too tight at the neck. He looks deeply uncomfortable, like he didn’t think any of this through and just wanted revenge.
The judge runs through the docket like a checklist. She calls our case. Counsel gives our names. The prosecutor gives the city’s name. Halligan’s lawyer announces himself with a flourish. Salem answers the judge with “yes, ma’am” and “no, ma’am” and keeps his eyes on the bench.
The prosecutor starts with the clip. Grainy phone video from the hallway, shouting you can’t make out, the blur of a bad swing, Salem stepping in and slapping him back, security in frame fast. No one looks good in those thirty seconds.
No one looks like a cartoon villain either.
The prosecutor is measured. She recommends community service for both. Halligan’s lawyer objects, paints my boyfriendas a repeat offender who can’t control himself, and requests a restraining order and fines for Salem only.
Our counsel stands, steady voice. “Security reports and witness statements indicate Mr. Halligan initiated physical contact. You’ve seen the video. We have those statements. We have the security guard present, and we have the venue manager available by phone. Mr. Turner accepts responsibility for stepping out of bounds in a public space. He also deserves the factual record to reflect who started the conflict.”
When the time for questioning happens, Halligan’s lawyer tries to muddy it. “Isn’t it true you only looked up when you heard noise?”
“Objection, leading,” our counsel says.
It’s a lot of back and forth that I tune out until our counsel calls me. I sit in the witness chair, and the clerk swears me in. The seat is hard. I keep my hands in my lap.
“Ms. Navarro, how long have you known Mr. Turner?”
“Not long. We met through work.”
“Have you observed his conduct in the last week?”
“Through texts and Facetiming.”
“Describe any self-management rules he adopted.”
“He set rules. No hotel bars. No after-parties. In bed by one. He followed them in Phoenix and San Diego, according to the crew and the texts he sent me. Photos of the clock, stuff like that.”
“How do you know the crew is honest with you?”
I smile. “Because they lost the bet they had with him about it, and they’re sore about that. Bruised male pride is hard to fake.”
“Based on your experience with him, does he seek out fights?”
“No. He avoids them. He has walked away from fans and paparazzi who try to bait him. He defers to security. He’s not the same guy he used to be in his twenties.”
Halligan’s lawyer stands. “Ms. Navarro, are you in a romantic relationship with Mr. Turner?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re biased.”
“I’m here under oath. I’m saying what I saw and what I know.”
“Did you witness the Seattle altercation?”
