THEN
Amber Kunik’s testimony went on for four days. The state’s attorney kept the pretty brunette on the stand, where, in her relaxed, measured voice, she told the court every vile act that she and Shane Nelson had performed on Courtney. Amber’s candid descriptions of the abuses heaped on DJ’s sister—the beatings, the sodomy, the degradation—made him want to vomit. His mother wept softly. His father sat silent and stoic, but he was withering, like Amber’s words were a cancer, eating him alive.
At regular intervals, Neil Givens would ask Amber, “Why did you do that to her?”
“Shane made me do it.”
“I was afraid Shane would beat me.”
“I had to make Shane happy.”
Occasionally, Martin Bannerman would object to something the prosecutor said, but mostly he just listened. Shane Nelson continually leaned in to whisper in his attorney’s ear and scribbled copious notes for his pained representative. DJ wanted to know what they said. He strained his ears and eyes, but the defendant was too far away.
On the fifth day, DJ and his parents woke at 7 a.m., got dressed, and prepared to go to court as usual. They were eating cereal when the phone rang. His mother answered. After a few moments, she hung up.
“That was Detective Williams,” she said, her pale features twisted with concern. “She and Neil are coming over. They’ve got something to tell us.”
“Aren’t we going to the trial?” DJ asked.
“Recessed today.”
His parents exchanged a look: worry, dread. DJ wasn’t sure why. The worst had already happened.
Or had it?