April, 2020
She was going to throw up. She should’ve asked the state prosecutor beforehand what the judge did when a witness threw up. Did they hold ‘em in contempt of court? Would she be thrown out of the courtroom? Would Rat Bastard roam the streets free because she couldn’t keep it down?
These suddenly seemed like Very Important Questions, and how had it not occurred to her to ask the prosecutor before now? It was so obvious that she should have.
She’d just kept believing that it wouldn’t actually go to trial. Surely, with all of the evidence and eyewitnesses, Rat Bastard couldn’t think he’d get a not-guilty verdict.
But he’d clung stubbornly to his chance in court, refusing the deal the state prosecutor had offered. Perhaps he thought that with his father being a judge, they’d call the case to order, realize who he was and their tragic mistake in prosecuting him, and let him go.
It was the only reasoning Cady could come up with. Blind, stupid cockiness born of a lifetime of never having had to suffer the consequences of his actions.
“The state would like to call its next witness, Cady Walcott, to the stand.”
Every eye in the courtroom swiveled to her. Staring at her. Drilling into her, and she realized that she’d been wrong.
So very, very wrong.
She wasn’t going to throw up.
She was going to pass out.
Stupid her.
Gage squeezed her hand, his bulk beside her, comforting her, protecting her from Rat Bastard. No one would touch her with him around. Gage had proven that the night of the attack.
Except they wouldn’t let him go up onto the stand with her. She’d asked. The prosecutor had given her a look that plainly said that he’d thought he’d heard it all but now he really had heard it all, and no, a 34-year-old woman could not take her boyfriend with her up to the stand.
Gage squeezed her hand again, a little more urgently this time, and Cady realized that the murmurs were breaking out in the courtroom, everyone wondering if she was actually going to move sometime this century.
A fission of fear ran up her spine but she forced herself to her feet, then scooted down the bench and out into the end aisle. Walking up to the front of the courtroom, it was like she was in a long tunnel, except even with the slow speed of her feet, the front still came all too quickly. The bailiff swore her in, and then she climbed the steps to the witness stand, legs shaking, knees knocking, no color in her face, and slid gratefully into the wooden chair. At least now she wasn’t expected to bear her own weight any longer.
“Ms. Walcott, I understand that you originally met Richard Schmidt last April, at Emma Dyer and Sugar Anderson’s dual birthday party. Is that correct?”
She nodded numbly.
“We need you to give your answers verbally,” the prosecutor prodded.
Shit. He’d told her that beforehand. She’d told him that would be no problem.
But that had been years ago. Maybe centuries. Surely no one could expect her to remember that far back.
“Yes,” she said, her voice cracking.
She found Gage’s face in the audience and clung to it, like a person adrift at sea clinging to a life raft. His supermodel good looks; his bodybuilder physique; but much more important than that, his thoughtfulness. His soul. The goodness inside of him.
It was hard to remember all those months ago when she’d wanted Gage fired just for offering cream puffs to her. That was a different Cady. A Cady who was scared of her own shadow.
She straightened her back. That wasn’t her anymore.
I’m doing this for all of the women that you’ve abused, Richard Schmidt. All of the pain that you’ve caused.
She turned her eyes back to the prosecutor.
“At this party, did you talk to Mr. Schmidt at all?” the prosecutor asked.
“No.”
“Were you introduced?”
“No.”
“How do you know that it was Mr. Schmidt that also attended that party, then?”
“The people around me. The other guests. They were saying his name. Also, I talked with Emma afterwards, and she told me who it was.”
“Why were you there?”
“I was a guest of Gage Dyer, Emma’s brother. He introduced me to Emma and Sugar at the party.”
“And why was Richard Schmidt there?”
Finally. We’re getting the heart of the matter.
“Because he got drunk and decided that crashing the party with a loaded gun would be a lot of fun,” she said sarcastically.
A ripple of laughter spread through the courtroom at the answer.
Cady clung to Gage’s face, though. Nothing else mattered. It was like she was telling him a story. Talking to just him.
“Did he threaten you at all with the gun?” the prosecutor went on, ignoring the laughter.
“No. He didn’t see me or interact with me in any way at that party. All he cared about was Sugar. He was angry with her for having Jaxson’s baby. He thought it should’ve been his.”
“Objection, Your Honor!” the defense attorney cried, shooting to his feet. “That’s speculation. Ms. Walcott could not possibly know what my client was thinking.”
“He was yelling what he was thinking at the top of his lungs,” Cady retorted, somehow forgetting to be scared for just a moment.
“If your client didn’t want anyone to know what he was thinking, perhaps he shouldn’t have shouted the thoughts out for the whole world to hear,” the judge said mildly. “You may continue,” he said to the prosecutor.
“How long had you lived in Sawyer by this point?” he asked her.
“Only three weeks or so.”
“So you were attending a party for two ladies who you’d never met in a town you’d just moved to, and although you witnessed and heard Mr. Schmidt making threats, you had no interaction with him yourself.”
“That is correct.”
“With all of that in mind, why is it, do you think, that Mr. Schmidt attacked you during the evening of the 25th of November?”
“Objection, Your Honor!” the defense attorney yelled again, jumping to his feet. “He is asking the witness to speculate on the motives of my client.”
“Let me rephrase,” the prosecutor said smoothly, before the judge could say anything. “Ms. Walcott, let’s leave motives aside for a moment and just focus on what happened. What time did you leave work that evening?”
“Somewhere between 6 and 7 p.m., I would guess. It was getting dark. I remember thinking that I’d been staying late at work for too many nights, because I didn’t need the flashlight app on my phone to lock the back door.”
“And then what happened?”
“Richard—” she’d been warned not to call him Rat Bastard in court, “—attacked me from behind. One arm around my waist, and one around my face. It took me a minute to understand what he was saying and what was going on. He called me a bitch and a whore.” There were gasps in the courtroom, but Cady plunged on, growing braver by the moment. Well, only so brave, really – her eyes were staying glued on Gage’s face. She could see Rat Bastard out of the corner of her eye, but she wouldn’t look at him. She might break down and—
“He asked me if I was staying late, with him.” She emphasized the word just like he had that night. “I didn’t know who he was talking about – what him? I don’t have any employees, male or female. I didn’t know at that point that he thought I was Sugar Anderson.”
“Objection, Your Hon—”
“Shut up!” the judge roared. The courtroom fell deadly silent. “The witness is free to recount her story the way it happened to her. Ms. Walcott, please continue.” The defense lawyer sank into his seat in defeat.
“Uhhh…” she stammered, every coherent thought completely gone. Her story. What had she been saying?
“You’d mentioned that Mr. Schmidt had said that you were staying late with a male,” the state prosecutor said smoothly. “Then what happened?”
“Oh. Right.” She picked up the thread of her story from there, Gage smiling reassuringly at her through it all. “Then he asked me how I could have Jaxson’s baby and still work for Gage. Told me that if I wasn’t going to learn my place in the world at the hands of my husband, then he’d have to teach me. This is when I figured out that he thought I was Sugar Anderson. Jaxson and Sugar got married before I even met them, but Richard has never forgiven her for divorcing him.”
“Can you describe Sugar Anderson to me, please,” the prosecutor said.
“Oh. Well, she’s very nice – lives up to her name, honestly. Makes everyone feel wel—”
“What she looks like,” the prosecutor interrupted to say.
Cady felt the tips of her ears go pink. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course he wants a physical description.
“Right. My height, my build, dark brown hair about the same length as mine, but hers is straight and mine is…well, not.” She gestured to her mass of curls on her head and everyone laughed. “In the dark, from behind, to a man who smelled like he’d taken a bath in alcohol before he could gather up the courage to accost me…I can only imagine how easy it would’ve been to mix us up. Plus, the exit from the bakery where she works is right next door to the exit from the smoothie shop that I own.”
“Was Sugar at work still?”
“No, the Muffin Man had closed. Sugar was at home with her husband at the time of the attack. Or,” she shot a look at the overly eager attorney for Rat Bastard, who seemed to enjoy objecting to virtually everything she said, “at least that’s what she told me later. She certainly didn’t come outside during the fight.”
Why isn’t Sugar here today? I know she doesn’t testify until tomorrow, but still. I could’ve just had her stand up and everyone could’ve looked at her. It isn’t hard to see how the mistake was made.
Sugar had stayed behind, though, keeping the Muffin Man open for business while Gage had come to Boise with Cady.
“Let’s discuss that fight for a moment,” the prosecutor said, and then led Cady through it, step by step. The nasty rag in her mouth. Gage showing up. Cream Puffs jumping out of the bed of the truck and attacking Richard. Gage tackling them, and her arm breaking. Calling 911 and talking to the dispatcher. Officer Miller and Officer Morland showing up.
Finally, the state was done with her, and Cady wanted to dissolve into a puddle of joy. She could not wait to get off the stand, but she couldn’t. Not yet. It was the defense attorney’s turn to try to tear her to pieces.
Except, his heart didn’t seem to be in it. Whatever the strategy had been before the case went to trial, it seemed to have died a painful death, leaving the attorney to grasp at straws. He began a rambling monologue about this being some sort of conspiracy between Gage and herself to frame his client, shuffling back and forth in front of the witness stand but not looking at Cady once, until the judge interrupted him.
“This is your chance to cross-examine Ms. Walcott, not give your closing statement. Either ask Ms. Walcott questions, or sit down.” The judge was pissed; the air in the courtroom crackling.
Cady could see Rat Bastard out of the corner of her eye, growing more agitated with every passing moment. She refused to look at him. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t give him that power over her that she instinctively knew he’d have if their eyes met.
“Are you and Gage Dyer dating?” asked the attorney, his face beet red from anger and embarrassment from being verbally reprimanded by the judge.
“Yes.”
“How long have you been dating?”
“It’ll be a year next month.”
“And Sugar Anderson is an employee of Gage Dyer’s?”
“Yes.”
“Is Sugar Anderson a good friend of yours?”
“Yes.”
“That is all,” the attorney said, sinking into his seat behind the defendant’s table.
What
The
Hell
What was that supposed to prove? Did he change his mind halfway through? Did he give up? Has he realized that he doesn’t have a snowflake’s chance in hell of getting his client out of this one?
But almost as soon as the attorney’s ass hit the seat, Rat Bastard shot to his feet.
“Do you know who I am?” he shouted at the judge, and this time, Cady couldn’t help herself. She looked at him – his pummeled face, broken and distorted in ways that even the best plastic surgeons money could buy were unable to fix. After the attack, Sugar had showed Cady a picture of him back when they’d dated while in high school. Cady could objectively tell that he’d been a fairly cute guy at the time, although she’d honestly had a hard time seeing it. She just couldn’t look past what she knew he’d become.
But now…finally, his face matched his soul. Blotchy, twisted, veins broken; a mask of hatred and anger. His attorney was tugging on his hand, but Rat Bastard yanked it free. “If you won’t defend me, I’ll do it myself!” he yelled, turning to face the judge, shoulders heaving. “I am Richard Schmidt, Jr., son of the judge for Long Valley County, Richard Schmidt, Sr. You cannot treat me like this! My father will—”
“Your father will do nothing at all,” the judge said, his voice ice cold. “Your father has been using the power of his seat to protect you for far too long. He has kept you from feeling the consequences of your actions, turning you into a spoiled, nasty human being.”
“I have done no such thing!” a man yelled from the audience directly behind the defendant’s table, also jumping to his feet. Cady just stared in disbelief. Did this sort of thing happen all the time in courtrooms and she just didn’t know it? She’d always thought of trials as being placid affairs – staid and straightforward and full of motions to do things that she couldn’t begin to understand.
Not this shouting affair.
“Judge Schmidt, you will be quiet or I will have you removed from the courtroom!” the judge thundered, banging his gavel. “You are treading on thin ice – based on the situations I am finding in this case, I have already recommended a thorough review of your record to the state judicial board. I would not count on being a judge too much longer. And you, sir,” he said, turning back to Rat Bastard whose chest was heaving with anger, his face almost purple from rage, “you will sit down and you will not interrupt these proceedings again. This is not your father’s courtroom and I will not have you disrespect it.” He banged his gavel again, as if to emphasize what he’d just said, and then turned to his bailiff, as if trying to regain his footing.
“Where were we…” he asked rhetorically.
“I do believe you were about to dismiss Ms. Walcott from the stand,” the bailiff said, a twinkle in his eye.
“Right you are!” the judge said with a chuckle. “Ms. Walcott, you can step down now.”
With a shuddering sigh of relief, Cady walked down the handful of steps to the main floor of the courtroom, her knees weak. She was just wondering if she was going to lose all capability to walk and simply collapse on the floor in a mess of jelly and nerves – wouldn’t that be embarrassing – when the judge called for a recess, to “let everyone regroup.” Gage was almost instantly beside her, his arm around her waist, and she felt herself melt into his side.
Again. He was there for her again – through thick and thin. Through the good times and the bad.
How had she gotten so lucky?
Feeling a bit like a swooning-prone actress from the 1940s, she looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. “I did it,” she mumbled, her steps faltering. If she didn’t know any better, she would guess she was drunk.
Drunk on relief – was that a thing?
“You did,” Gage said, pulling her to his side and squeezing her tight. “I asked the state prosecutor and he says that you’re done. I still have to testify, but not until next week. You ready to go home?” They were already heading outside, into the weak spring sunshine.
Home. Such a gorgeous word. She rolled it around and around in her mind, pushing it, poking at it. It’d just been a year ago when she’d not known what “home” really meant. She’d been alone – no family, hardly any friends to speak of, and a broken-down building in desperate need of repairs.
And now…she did have a home. With Gage. After Rat Bastard attacked her five months previously, Gage had moved her in with him and she’d never left. She still had a lease on her basement apartment; was still paying the rent, but she’d decided to ignore all of that until after the trial was done. She could make decisions then.
But she realized that her heart had been making decisions when she wasn’t looking, because when Gage had said “home,” she hadn’t thought of her apartment. She’d thought of the two-story Craftsman where they’d laughed and loved each other over the past five months.
“Yes, please,” she said finally. “I would love to go home.”
“Good. Because I have a surprise for you.”
“Oh! What’s the surprise?” she asked, climbing up into the passenger side of the truck with the help of Gage. At least her arm wasn’t in a cast any longer. The day she’d been able to get that off…that’d been a glorious day.
He hurried around to his side and slid into place. “You suck at surprises, you know that?” he said mildly, starting the engine and backing out of the crowded parking lot. The small, tight parking lot was not large-truck friendly. They should’ve driven her Jeep, but getting ready to leave for Boise that morning, Cady had known that there was just no way she could drive, either there (from nerves) or back (from relief that it was finally over).
“The whole point of a surprise,” Gage said, finally maneuvering his truck out onto an even more crowded one-way street, “is that you don’t know what the surprise is beforehand.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, and then unbuckled her seat belt and slid over to the middle seat. Crowded and uncomfortable as it was sitting over the hump that ran down the middle of the truck, it was still better because then she could sit right next to Gage. She pulled on her lap belt and then snuggled her head down onto his wide, muscular shoulder.
“I’ve almost forgiven you, you know,” she said mildly, the nerves and adrenaline fading away, leaving her feeling like a wrung-out dishrag.
“Yeah?” he said with a chuckle. “For what?”
“For being so damn muscular. I used to want to only date guys my size—”
“—So you were hitting up the 12 year olds in junior high?”
“—Buuutttt,” she said, a little louder, drowning out his teasing laugh, “I’ve decided that you being strong has some advantages after all. Like beating up assholes in dark parking lots.”
“I’m glad you could see your way to appreciating my muscles,” Gage said dryly.
“Plus, I’ve spent my whole life not eating pickles because I couldn’t get the lids off the jars! I’ve been missing them…”
“I’d offer to stop at the grocery store on the way home to buy some just so I can demonstrate my amazing pickle-jar-opening skills, but there’s a surprise waiting for you and I want to see your face first. Then I’ll buy 12 jars of pickles from the Stop ‘N Go and wow you with jar after jar of the stuff.”
“Very kind of you,” Cady said dryly, burying her head down further, feeling her eyes fluttering shut. “I can’t wait.”
And then she was gone, drifting in the land of slumber, feeling at peace with the world with Gage by her side.