I don’t say the wordvideoyet because I don’t have to. I can already see the curiosity shift in the box.
“This case is not about regret. It’s about consent. Under our law, consent must be knowing, voluntary, and given by someone with the capacity to make that decision.”
My gaze settles back on the jury.
“The evidence in this case will show that Ms. Westbrook, at the time in question, lacked the capacity to consent. And the State will present proof that the defendant was, at all relevant times, aware of her incapacity.”
I let that stand.
“At the close of this trial, you will see that all allegations are supported by admissible evidence. Thank you.”
I return to my seat without looking at Jon David.
He rises with unhurried grace, his presence drawing the room’s attention. His smile isn’t wide—but exact, measured, and composed.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. We all have moments in our past that, in the cold light of morning, look different from they did in the heat of the moment. That’s human nature.”
His eyes flick toward Evan, and he doesn’t introduce him as a defendant. He introduces him as one of us.
“My client is an outstanding student,” he continues, each word chosen like a chess move. “A devoted son. A loyal friend. The sort of young man you'd trust with responsibility. Whose character, until now, has never been in question.”
He paces far enough to meet each juror’s eyes, as if inviting them into a private conversation.
“Now,” he says, softening his tone almost to conspiratorial warmth, “we’ve all heard the termmisunderstanding. A word that doesn’t diminish harm but recognizes that interpretation and memory are slippery things. Especially when emotion is involved.”
He angles his head just enough to send a look my way. He used to do this when we were together, but the intention back then was entirely different.
“You’ll hear testimony about recollection. You’ll hear phrases likeunclear, unreliable, difficult to pinpoint.But context, timing, and intention matters.”
A beat passes. Just long enough to let the implication settle.
“And I can’t help but notice how quickly this case made headlines. Sometimes public interest can create pressure to prosecute, to push forward, to paint a narrative. But your job isn’t to follow a narrative. Your job is to follow the facts.”
It isn’t an accusation. It’s a seed. A poisonous one.
A few jurors glance in my direction for a heartbeat.
“That’s not justice. It’s performance. And performance should never be mistaken for truth.”
He returns to his seat with a final, slow exhale.
I keep my expression smooth as stone. Because you don’t win this fight in the opening. It’s won in the evidence.
The clerk calls the first witness, friend of the victim. She walks to the stand with careful steps, hands clasped in front of her.
The bailiff administers the oath. She raises her right hand, voice steady but soft.
I step forward.
“Please state your full name for the record.”
“Mikayla Ann Carter,” she says.
“Ms. Carter, were you present at the gathering on April fourteenth?”
“Yes.”
I nod, pacing with purpose. “Can you describe for the jury what you observed that evening, especially regarding Emily Westbrook’s condition?”
