24

Judge Franklin nods at me to begin.

"And away we go," Matt whispers beside me.

 I grab my legal pad and step up to the podium. "The State calls Alex Stone."

Alex walks calmly past me to the witness stand, takes his oath, and adjusts the microphone. 

I wait for him to look at me before I begin. "Please state your name and your relationship to the defendant."

He swivels the chair so his body faces the jury, and I have to bite my lip to stop from smiling. Nicely done. 

"Alex Stone, the defendant is my biological father."

"And do you have an adopted father?"

"Yes, Harold Stone. He and his wife, Francine, adopted my brother and sisters and I after our mother's death. Harold is my mother's brother." He glances in the front row behind me where his family is sitting, and then back at me.

I take a deep breath before plunging into the start of many difficult questions to come. "Can you walk us through the events of the night your mother died?"

"The defendant and my mother were in the living room, arguing."

"Do you recall what they were arguing about?" 

So far, he is maintaining his composure. But this is just the start.

"No, I never paid attention. It was usually some ridiculous issue my father would be upset about."

"Where were you when your father started to yell at your mother?"

"Objection," Hamilton states. "The witness never stated there was yelling."

"Sustained," Judge Franklin says, and glances at me. "Restate your question, Ms. Tate."

"Where were you at the start of their argument?" 

"I was in the bedroom with my younger brother and two sisters when I heard my father shouting at my mother."

I peer at the jury to assess the reaction to his answer. They seem engaged in the testimony, some taking notes. Most of the women are staring at Alex, with just a hint of a smile on their faces. Even in this vulnerable position, Alex has a commanding presence.

"Did you at some point leave your siblings and go to the living room?" I ask.

Alex shifts slightly in his seat and darts his gaze briefly over to mine before looking back to the jury. "Yes, when I heard something like glass breaking and my mother started crying."

 "What happened when you entered the living room?"

He takes a deep breath, gives me a knowing look, and faces the jury box. "He—the defendant—was hitting her. He knocked her down, and when she tried to get up, he punched her in the head. Finally, she just stayed down. She curled up in a fetal position with her arms covering her head—until he started kicking her in the stomach. When she moved her arms from her head, he sat on top of her, and slammed her head against the floor." 

The mental images are having a visceral effect on the jurors, some of them covering their mouths in shock, other's wrapping their arms around their midsections. It's perfect—the response we need, and the one I'm counting on. But the reality of what Ellen Wells endured is weighing heavy on me.

Don't do this, stay focused on the trial, not the emotional aftermath.

"I tried to tackle him," Alex continues, "to get him off of her. He put his arm out to block me, and I fell back. He stood up, grabbed me, and hauled me to my feet before he punched me in the stomach. I doubled over—I was having a hard time catching my breath. I think he called my name…or called me a name…I can't recall which, but I looked up and before I could figure out what was going on, he punched me in the jaw. I hit the floor, and he started yelling at me to get up and fight like a man. I managed to get to my feet, but I was dizzy, and my vision was blurry. I felt his fist hit the side of my head, right by my ear."

"And what was the result of that blow?" I ask, my eyes on my notes. My heart is racing, and it's all I can do to keep my breathing normal. I can't look at him right now. I'll start to unravel and fall apart, and that won't win this case.

"I was knocked unconscious."

"Do you know how long you were unconscious?" 

I glance at him, but mercifully, he's giving his answer to the jury. "No, but long enough for my mother to internally bleed to death."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hamilton rise from his seat. "Objection, assumes facts not in evidence."

"Sustained," Judge Franklin announces. "Mr. Stone, please limit your answers to the facts."

Alex nods, and peers over at me. The rise and fall of his chest are accelerating in anticipation of the next question. I would give anything if I could stop now, avoid this part of his testimony, because this is going to be as painful for him to retell as it was to experience.

"When you regained consciousness, what did you find?"

I look away from him, focus on the jury, and do whatever I can to ward off the rush of emotions on the verge of being exposed.

"My mom was lying on the floor. I tried to get up, but I couldn't stand—my head hurt, and it was affecting my equilibrium. I had to crawl over to her." He pauses to take a drink of water, the glass shaking in his hand as he carefully places it to his lips. He stares at me for a moment, his eyes beg me to end it here.

I want to tell him I'm sorry, let him know that if I could—I would testify for him and relieve him of this burden. But this is where we win the jury early—we break them emotionally, leave them raw, force them to witness Ellen's death through the eyes of her fifteen-year-old son. This is what will stay with the jury through the rest of the trial, what they likely will still feel as they deliberate, and that empathy will result in a guilty vote.

"Take your time," I tell him. I know the toll this will take on him, and I fear the aftermath of offering up his greatest pain to strangers. 

"Blood was coming out of her mouth and nose. There was a large puddle under her head." He pauses and takes a deep breath. "She couldn't breathe."

Hamilton rises again, inevitably to object. But I can't have him break Alex's flow. This is too important. I can't put Alex through all of this for nothing. "How could you tell?" I ask and catch Alex off guard. He turns his head to me, confusion flitting through his eyes.

"When she exhaled, there was a loud wheezing sound. I could see she was struggling to inhale…gulping for air…"

Alex lowers his head slightly, pinches the bridge of his nose, and then takes in a shaky breath. He clears his throat, and nods at me to proceed.

"What happened after that?"

"I told her I was going to call for help, but she told me to wait. I pleaded with her to let me go to the phone and call nine-one-one, but she begged me to stay with her. She held my hand…and said she wanted to spend whatever time she had with me…" His voice cracks, he lowers his head, and his shoulders tremble. I nearly weep when he lifts his eyes. I gaze into them, red with unshed tears.

"I know—" my voice falters. I close my eyes for a second and force all my emotions into the dark space in my mind. I have to detach, or I'll never make it through Alex's testimony. And I desperately need to get him off the stand. "I know this is difficult, and I'm truly sorry to put you through this, but I need you to explain to the jury what happened."

Alex turns away from me, and a part of me knows it's not just so he can talk straight to the jury. He's upset, hurt, and I'm the one causing all of his pain. 

"She struggled to talk to me—said she had things she needed to tell me." A single tear rolls down his face. "Then she was quiet. I remember watching her, waiting for her to say something else. She took a couple of slow breaths, and then there was a long exhale." He drops his gaze to his hands that rest in his lap. "And then she was…gone."

The courtroom is eerily quiet. Someone sniffles behind me. Alex is still and hasn't moved.

God, I want to run to him, wrap my arms around him, and make the rest of the world disappear so only we exist. 

"Ms. Tate?" Judge Franklin says, breaking the silence. I glance up at him, and remember where I am.

"Nothing further, Your Honor."