Amanda came to the desk beside where I was restrained in my booth.
I gritted out her name, but she didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge me.
She shuffled through the papers on the desk, lip wrinkling in disgust. Unclasping her briefcase, which she must have deposited there when she first strode past the wooden gate, she pulled out a stack. Tapping them on the surface, she turned her attention to the line of questioning.
Her gaze was locked. Focused.
The state prosecutor steered the witness to make a grand speech, tailoring the questions to my character. He painted the vibrant picture of a criminal out on the warpath, ready to end a foreigner, visiting the country, because I was a cold blooded killer.
I swept a look at Amanda, daring to hiss at her again.
Oh, shit.Those fingers. Those beautiful, strong hands. There was the smallest shake in them.
Amanda was nervous.
I sat back in my seat. Pestering her was a mistake.
Please look at me, fiore.I wanted her to know whatever happened, it would be okay. She was here. That was enough.
Amanda didn’t even flick a look in my direction.
“If the state has no more questions, the witness is yours, Mrs. Messina.”
The smallest shiver raced down her spine. Amanda’s tongue darted out to wet her lips. I zeroed in on the movement, feeling my groin stir, but there was no room in the small slacks.
After studying the officer for a moment, Amanda asked in a pleasant, conversational voice, “Officer, you testified that dispatch labeled the incident as an attempted murder, correct?”
The response was a grunt. “Yes.”
Amanda took one poised step forward. “And in your career, how many attempted murder cases have you actually responded to?”
The cop glared at her.
“Answer the question,” the judge growled.
“None.” The cop shot a look into the courtroom, then pinned his hate-filled gaze on my wife.
I memorized his face. If there was a chance in hell, he was going to pay for looking at her like this.
But this was her scene. Amanda was in control here. The only way to help her was keep my expression neutral and my lips sealed.
Amanda took another step forward. “Let’s talk about the moment you arrived. My client, Mr. Messina, was he armed?”
“No,” came the strangled response.
“No firearm?” Amanda insisted.
“No.”
Amanda canted her head, studying him. The pause let the moment sink into the minds of the court. “No knife?”
The question was soft, forcing everyone to strain to catch it.
“No blunt object? No improvised weapon of any kind?”
Each question was raised with the volume of her voice. The effect was magnetic. The jurors shot each other glances, picturing the scene in their minds.
They might have just heard the deliberate rhetoric from the state, which painted me in the light of a bloodthirsty criminal.
