Lines of Defense

Ch. 23

AMELIA HART

Preliminary hearing

The courtroom is charged, crackling with a near-electric tension that pulses, ready to burst with the curiosity of what's unsaid. I take a steadying breath as I call my witness to the stand, watching the jury from the corner of my eye. They're already captivated, holding their collective breath in anticipation.

"I'd like to call Irene Lambert, sister of the victim, Stacie Freeman, to the stand."

A quiet murmur rustles through the room as Irene stands. She's dressed in somber grays, her hair pulled back, exposing her pale, drawn face. She's a picture of grief, carrying herself with a delicate frailty that seems to tug at the hearts of those watching. She settles into the witness chair, hands folded tightly in her lap. Her gaze drifts downward, as if summoning the courage to relive her sister's death in front of strangers and reporters.

I step forward, softening my voice. "Thank you for being here today, Ms. Lambert."

She nods, barely lifting her eyes. The jury is already absorbed; I can feel it. Irene's presence alone is a powerful testament to the bond she shared with Stacie.

"Can you tell us, in your own words, about your relationship with your sister?" I begin, making sure I sound neutral, inviting.

Irene takes a shuddering breath, the silence in the room so thick it nearly suffocates us all. "Stacie... she was... everything to me," she says, a tremble in her voice. "She was my best friend, my confidante. Losing her..." She breaks off, reaching for a tissue from her pocket, dabbing at the corner of her eyes with shaking hands. "Losing her has been... like losing a part of myself."

I allow a pause, letting her words resonate. "I'm very sorry for your loss," I say gently, stepping a little closer to the jury so they can read the genuine sympathy in my face. "I can't imagine the pain you must be feeling."

Irene swallows hard, nodding, and I press forward. "Ms. Lambert, did Stacie ever share any concerns about her husband, Mark Freeman?"

Her face contorts, as though the question itself is too painful to even consider. She bites her lip, her eyes fixed on her hands, folded tightly on her lap. "Yes... yes, she did," she says, "Stacie... she was terrified of him. She felt trapped, like... like there was no way out."

A hushed gasp breaks out in the jury, and I feel the weight of those twelve pairs of eyes on us, absorbing every word.

"Did she tell you why she was afraid?" I ask softly, careful to keep my tone sympathetic. "Or what he might have done to make her feel that way?"

Irene nods, looking up, her eyes haunted. "It was the land," she whispers, "Stacie told me he wanted that land at any cost, that he was... he was obsessed with it. She said he'd stop at nothing to get it, that he would make her life miserable if she didn't sign it over to him."

I allow a moment for her words to sink in, before I continue, careful to guide her but not lead. "Did she ever share specifics about how he tried to make her life miserable?"

"Yes," Irene replies, She casts a glance at Freeman, who sits stiffly at his table, his face a mask of cool indifference. "She said he... belittled her, called her crazy. Said she was mentally unstable. He... he told her that no one would believe her, that she was just... unwell."

A few jurors exchange glances, shifting uncomfortably. Freeman's expression hardens, and I can feel the tension radiate.

I can sense everyone leaning forward, hanging on Irene's every word, and I know I've just handed them a piece of the puzzle they've been craving. But there's more; they need to feel it, to see Freeman for who he is—at least, the version I need them to believe.