Our first recess starts at noon, and I tell my client to enjoy his lunch. I gather up my things. If I hurry, I might beat the rush to the hand-pulled noodle place a couple of blocks away for some of my favorite potstickers.
“Glad to see you can rein it in when the judge is on your ass,” Mark says, leaning against my table as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
I frown and “accidentally” move my briefcase so the corner catches his hip, stifling a laugh at his wince. “You’re the one who got us yelled at in the first place, but sure, you can blame me if it makes you feel better about being chastised. Male egos and all that,” I say, rubbing my temple with my middle finger.
“What’s the matter, Ms. Kendrick? Not feeling up to your normal antics today? Does the viper need a nap?”
I glare at him. “If anything, it’s dealing with your childish nonsense and inept police force that’s giving me a damn headache. Honestly, it’s no fun when you just keep handing them to me. Now get out of my way so I can go get some lunch.”
“Yes, I’d hate to see you hangry,” he says with a laugh before walking out ahead of me, whistling as he goes.
I try—and fail—to not watch the way the muscles in his ass and thighs bunch underneath the fabric of his tight slacks as he walks away. Alone in the courtroom, I allow myself the small indulgence of a frustrated whine. God, that man infuriates me.
I find my spot at the little noodle shop, tucked at a corner table with a plate of steaming dumplings and my case file spread out in front of me. The server doesn’t even blink anymore, she’s seen me do this too often.
I pop the dumpling in my mouth with my chopsticks, keeping a mental tally as I chew. Six dumplings on the plate; I’ll allow myself four. Around four hundred calories, give or take, plus the noodles I’ll pick at later. Add that to the banana and the energy drink this morning, and I can still comfortably have dinner with something green to round out my macros while staying under the number I allow for myself.
It’s better now than it used to be. At least I eat within a mostly healthy range and try to focus on getting plenty of proteins and veggies, even if the caloric amount is lower than my brother Jack would like. I’ve struggled with an eating disorder since I was a teenager, and watching me go through all of it—thedieticians, the personal chefs, the hellscape that is inpatient therapy food—inspired to become a registered dietician. Jack is a big, dumb golden retriever about ninety-nine percent of the time, but not when it comes to food. That, he takes seriously, and he’s helped me more than anyone. I’d be lost without him.
So I mostly follow his plan, keep up on my therapy, and I’m at a healthy weight. Counting is a habit I haven’t been able to shake, try as I might. Like a little ghost that lingers, despite all the attempts to exorcise it.
Balancing a dumpling in one hand, I scan the evidence log in front of me again, trying to think of any other angles I can take. I know there isn’t one, but it never hurts to be sure.
The courtroom hums with low chatter as everyone filters back in after recess. Mark strolls in last, which gives me pause. He’s normally in before everyone else. His tie is looser, not enough to make him look unprofessional, but I notice it. What was he doing on his lunch break, and why do I care?
I force myself to turn back to the bench as the bailiff calls us to order and Judge Reynolds returns. “Ms. Kendrick, are we ready to resume?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” I say smoothly.
The detective shifts in his seat as I return to cross-examination. Perfect. He already looks like he’d ratherswallow glass than face me for another round, which is exactly how I like a witness for the prosecution.
“Detective Stephens,” I begin, “earlier you testified you collected the evidence yourself, logged it into the system, and delivered it to the lab. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“So, can you explain this decidedly elegant signature on the sign-in sheet? It doesn’t match your signature on the original report.” I push a button on my laptop and cast a picture comparing the two in split screen on the large monitor facing the jury.
Stephens freezes, and I watch the color drain from his face.
“Objection,” Mark snaps, already on his feet. “Assumes facts not in evidence.”
I tilt my head. “The lab’s report and sign-in sheet are in evidence. Pages forty-three and ninety-two.”
The judge waves a hand, impatient. “Overruled. Answer the question.”
Stephens hesitates, fumbling for an answer, and I wait him out, calm as a cat watching a cornered mouse. “I, uh, my partner ran it down to evidence for me.”
“Reasonable enough. However, why did she sign your name? And why did you testifyyoutook it?”
Stephens looks to Mark as if he could save him. I glance over my shoulder at my opponent to see if he has anything to add. Mark’s face is blank and his body language is relaxed, but he’stapping his pen against his paper—a tell I’ve become familiar with. I grin triumphantly, catching his eyes with mine. His hand freezes, his eyes narrowing.
“Actually, Your Honor, I don’t need that question answered. I’m finished with this witness,” I say, turning back to the bench.
“Mr. Taylor, I’m assuming you would like a chance to redirect the witness?” Judge Reynolds asks.
“Yes, Your Honor, though the prosecution requests a chance to review the evidence for the redirect and reconvene at a later date.”
“Agreed. We will resume tomorrow morning at nine.” Reynolds bangs his gavel, and we are all dismissed.
