THEN
After his mother left, DJ returned to the trial with his father. Not because his dad needed moral support, but because the boy preferred sitting in court to sitting in school. The process could be slow and laborious, but it was still more interesting than learning fractions or analyzing short stories. And without his mom around, no one cared if DJ passed or failed. He didn’t want to repeat seventh grade, but he was sure his teacher would take pity on him. What could they expect, after all he’d been through? First his sister and now his mother . . .
DJ was thrilled when the defense called Amber Kunik to the stand for cross-examination. His fascination with her was undiminished by distance and time, untouched by the things he had learned about her, the acts of which she was accused. He despised her, as was appropriate, but he was drawn to her at the same time. Not in a sexual way. He was simply in awe of her composure, her placid demeanor, her incredible knack for self-preservation. Watching her charm and manipulate the men and women in the courtroom was mesmerizing. And contemplating the evil that lurked inside such a pretty package was even more so.
Shane Nelson’s bulldog of a lawyer was well equipped to take on the attractive witness. Martin Bannerman had the air of a warrior or a gladiator. He looked capable of decimating a biker gang, an army even. He would not coax and cajole, would not treat Amber with kid gloves. That day, he handed the witness, demure in her skirt and cardigan, hair pulled neatly back, a mauve envelope.
“Can you tell the court what that is, Ms. Kunik?” His voice, like his physicality, was distinctly masculine.
Amber kept her eyes on the pale purple rectangle in her grasp. “It’s a letter I wrote to Shane. When we were together.”
“Would you please read it aloud?”
Something flashed in her eyes—anger? irritation?—but then it was gone. Obediently, she opened the envelope and withdrew the missive. She began to read, her voice sweet and high.
“Dear Shane . . . I’m at work right now, but I can’t concentrate. All I can think about is you and how happy you’ve made me. Every time I think about you, I feel like my heart will explode, and”—she paused, blushing prettily before she continued—“I get so wet.”
A murmur rippled through the spectators thrilled by the salacious content. Amber continued.
“You’ve made me the happiest girl in the world. The day we met is the best day of my life and the only day that will compare is the day we get married. You are so sexy and smart and wonderful in every way. I’m the luckiest girl alive. I will love you always and forever. . . . Amber.”
She set the letter in her lap and looked the attorney in the eye. Not once did she glance at the object of her devotion, sitting rigid in his navy suit before her.
“You sound like you were very much in love,” Martin Bannerman said.
“I was.”
“Those don’t sound like the words of a woman who was abused, who was mentally and physically tortured.”
DJ leaned forward, eager to watch the witness’s unraveling.
“I don’t think it’s uncommon for victims of abuse to be in love with their abusers,” Amber stated, a hard glint in her eye. “Abusive men can be very manipulative . . . very charming.”
She sounded educated, authoritative on the subject. She had done her research.
The lawyer now had the envelope in his big hand, and he waved it before the spectators. “How often did you write love letters to Mr. Nelson?”
“Every day.”
“Wow . . . You were so in love that you wrote Mr. Nelson a love letter every single day?”
“Shane made me do it. If I didn’t give him a letter every day, he’d hit me.”
The lawyer didn’t respond, didn’t react, but a vein in his neck bulged ominously. Martin Bannerman strode across the room to retrieve another envelope, a white one this time. He returned to the witness.
“Do you recognize this missive, Ms. Kunik?”
Amber examined it for a moment. “It’s a letter I wrote to my friend Beth. She moved to Tucson after high school.”
“Would you read it for the court please.”
She complied, repressing her earlier spark of indignation. The letter began with polite inquiries about Beth’s new life in the nearby city, but soon segued into Amber and Shane’s romantic relationship.
“. . . I can’t wait until Shane and I get married. My whole life has been leading to this moment. I never liked kids, but I want to have his babies (four at least). I will even try to love his other son. . . .” She trailed off here, her eyes darting to the jury, to the lawyer, to Shane.
The judge stepped in. “Finish reading the letter, Ms. Kunik.”
She cleared her throat. “I will even try to love his other son, even though his mom is a drunken whore and he’s probably brain damaged or something.”
The courtroom erupted in gasps and muttered outrage. Shane Nelson shook his head, disgusted. His lawyer barely suppressed a triumphant smile. DJ knew that people sometimes said harsh, ugly things. Since taking up his steady diet of whiskey, his father said them daily. But in the context of the horrendous crimes she was accused of, Amber’s words, directed at an innocent little boy, seemed exceedingly cruel. Finally, the court would see how evil Amber was.
When the judge had restored order, Bannerman said, “Please continue, Ms. Kunik.”
The witness resumed reading her letter to Beth. “I am writing to ask you to be my maid of honor. You’re my best friend and Shane likes you. I want you to stand beside me when I become his wife. We can pick out our dresses together. My dad will pay for everything. It’s the least the pervert could do. . . . Love you lots and lots, Amber.”
She looked up, met the lawyer’s gaze. She was ready for him.
“Had my client, Mr. Nelson, actually proposed to you?”
“Not officially. But he told me we’d get married. We talked about it all the time.”
“Really?” the lawyer asked, strolling around the room, hands clasped behind his back. “Did you talk about it while he was beating you?”
There was that flash of annoyance again. “No. Of course not.”
“You said the abuse was frequent, practically constant. And yet, you still found time to talk about a wedding, and children. . . .”
“We talked about it after he beat me.” Her eyes pooled with tears, and her voice became small and broken, a victim’s. “It was Shane’s way of saying sorry, of getting me to forgive him. I thought that once we were actually married, the abuse would stop.” She looked directly at the jury then. “I know I was stupid to think that.”
The vein in the lawyer’s neck bulged. Amber was winning. Bannerman knew it; everyone knew it. And DJ could see through the girl’s tears. Amber was enjoying herself. She relished facing off against this powerful attorney. She reveled in the jury’s sympathy. The girl had made her deal; she was safe.
Shane Nelson’s trial for the murder of Courtney Carey was just a game to her.