“Or perhaps,” Rosalind continued, “it was shame. Shame about his own identity. Shame that manifested as rage. Rage that he took out on Alan Sanders.”
“Objection,” Tony said, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Counsel is speculating.”
“Sustained,” Uncle Alex said, though his tone was reluctant. “Ms. Winthrop, stick to the facts.”
Rosalind nodded, but the damage was done.
I could see it in the jury’s faces.
Some of them looked confused.
Others looked... convinced.
“The prosecution will prove,” Rosalind said, turning back to the jury, “that Simon Nelson had motive. He had opportunity. And he had the means. We will show you the evidence. The knife. The blood. The confession. And we will show you that Simon Nelson is guilty of murder.”
She walked back to her table and sat down, her expression calm.
The courtroom was silent.
I stared at the table in front of me, my vision blurring.
She’d just destroyed me.
In front of everyone.
In front of the jury.
In front of my parents.
She’d taken everything I was, everything I’d ever been, and twisted it into something ugly. Something shameful.Something monstrous.
And the worst part?
Some of them believed her.
I could feel it.
Tony’s hand was still on my arm, his grip grounding me, keeping me from falling apart.
But it wasn’t enough.
Because I’d just watched my life get torn apart in front of a room full of people I knew. People I thought knew me.
And I didn’t know if Tony could put it back together.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Matlock
She was good.
I’d give her that.
Rosalind had just delivered a masterclass in narrative manipulation by twisting facts into a story designed to appeal to the jury’s worst instincts.
Fear and prejudice.
The comfort of simple explanations for complicated truths.
