The judge calls the first recess. Marshals step in close to shackle me again, irons rattling as I rise. The jury files out slow, staring, weighing me like meat on the block.
But all I can think, through the stink of sweat and cigars, through the clatter of boots and chains, is Alice is alive.
And soon, I’ll see her.
They bring the jury back right after lunch. Sunlight catches dust in the air. The judge sets his palms on the bench, and the US Attorney rises, buttoning his coat.
“The government calls Mrs. Alice Sherman.”
The room shifts, seats creak, jurors bend their necks. I hear the scuff of her skirts before I see her. Then she steps through the partition, slow, careful, a marshal’s hand hovering at her back.
God almighty.
She’s pale as milk, thinner than when I last held her, moving with a limp where the bullet tore her. But she’s upright. Breathing. My chest tightens until it near breaks.
Every head turns. Men on the benches nod to themselves, eyes soft with pity. To them, she’s the picture of virtue wronged, a lamb carried off by the predator now at the defense table. They don’t see the fire I know burns in her. How we burned for each other. Always will.
She fixes forward, jaw set, as the clerk swears her in. Her hand shakes a little as it rests on the Bible.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do.” Her voice carries, soft but steady, enough to fill every ear in the room. I drink the sound in like a man dying of thirst.
The prosecutor smiles. “Mrs. Sherman, thank you for your courage. Please, tell the jury who you are.”
“My name is Alice Sherman. I was the wife of Joseph Sherman.”
The prosecutor paces. “And can you tell us what happened the night your husband was killed?”
The jurors lean closer, eager for her words, for her pain.
And I sit shackled, heart hammering, waiting for her to speak—for her to damn me, or save herself, or both.
She lifts her eyes at last.
Across the gulf of oak and polished brass and fancy law books, her gaze finds mine. Everything else drops away. It’s just her.
Alive, whole enough to stand, her hair pulled back neat, though I can see the tremor in her lip. The sight of her hits me so hard I forget how to breathe.
And then it comes. Hot, uninvited, burning my eyes before I can stop ’em. Christ, I thought I was clean out of those. One slides down my cheek, and I don’t even bother to wipe it away. Let ’em see. Let ’em think it’s guilt or shame. They can call it what they want.
She sees it. I know she does. Her lips part, just barely, like she wants to speak. I inhale deep and slow, big enough for her to see, then exhale calm and easy. She does it too, and I nod my head. Just once.
It’s all right.
That’s what I want to tell her. It’s all right. You do what you have to. Say what they need you to say. Save yourself. I already got all I need.
The jury’s watching her, hungry for tragedy, but she keeps her eyes locked on me a heartbeat longer. Her chin trembles. She looks down quick, like she’s afraid the room will see too much.
The marshal beside me shifts his stance. The US Attorney clears his throat, starting in on another question, but I don’t hear a damn word.
Because that look—that one look—was enough.
She’s alive. She knows I ain’t angry. And if this is the last time she ever sees me breathing, she’ll know I died glad for it.
The government feeds her questions, but I ain’t listening to him. I’m watching her. My beautiful lamb.
Alice walks a tightrope, every word measured. Then?—
