A/N: Nicholas is Lyle Menendez in this and you are his attorney.
The courtroom was silent, save for the faint rustle of papers and the occasional cough from the gallery. Your heart pounded in your chest as you shuffled through your notes, glancing up at the man seated beside you at the defense table. Lyle Menendez.
His expression was unreadable, his jaw set as he stared straight ahead. He was good at that—masking his emotions, burying them deep where no one could find them. But you'd spent enough time with him to recognize the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly against the table. He was nervous.
You leaned over, lowering your voice so only he could hear. "It's going to be okay," you said, hoping the reassurance in your tone would calm him.
He glanced at you, his dark eyes softening for a brief moment before the stoicism returned. "You don't have to lie to me," he said quietly.
"I'm not lying," you replied firmly. "We've got a strong case, Lyle. You just have to trust me."
He didn't respond, but the slight dip of his head told you he was trying.
The judge called the courtroom to order, and the prosecution began their opening arguments. You sat stiffly, your pen poised over your legal pad as you jotted down key points to counter. The prosecutor painted a damning picture, one that you'd heard countless times before: greed, entitlement, calculated murder.
It made your blood boil.
When it was your turn to speak, you rose from your seat, your heels clicking against the polished floor as you approached the jury. You could feel Lyle's eyes on you, but you didn't look back. Not yet.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," you began, your voice steady and commanding, "what you've just heard is a story. A story crafted to villainize a young man who was, in reality, a victim of unimaginable abuse and fear. This case is not about greed or entitlement. It's about survival."
You paused, letting your words sink in before continuing.
"Over the course of this trial, you will hear evidence that paints a very different picture of Lyle Menendez. You will hear about the years of physical and psychological abuse he endured at the hands of his parents, the fear that drove him and his brother to take the actions they did. And I ask that you approach this case not with judgment, but with empathy. Because no one—not even the prosecution—can truly understand what it's like to live in that kind of fear."
When you returned to your seat, you felt a faint brush of Lyle's knee against yours. It wasn't much, but it was enough to tell you he'd heard you.
Later, after a grueling day in court, you sat across from Lyle in a private conference room at the detention center. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above, and the worn wooden table between you was littered with legal documents.
He was quieter than usual, his gaze fixed on his hands as he traced the edges of his cuffed wrists.
"You did great today," you said, breaking the silence.
He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "You mean you did great. I just sat there."
"You did what you needed to do," you countered. "You trusted me. That's enough."
He looked up at you then, his dark eyes searching yours. "Do you really think we have a chance?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
You hesitated, not because you doubted yourself, but because you understood the weight of what he was asking. "I think we have a strong case," you said finally. "And I'm going to fight like hell to make sure the jury sees the truth. But you need to hold on, Lyle. I need you to keep believing in yourself."
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. "It's hard," he admitted. "Sometimes it feels like it doesn't matter what we say or do. People already made up their minds about me a long time ago."
"That's not true," you said firmly. "The jury hasn't made up their minds yet. And even if the world sees you one way, that doesn't mean it's the truth. I know who you are, Lyle. And I know you're not the monster they want you to be."
His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep his emotions in check. "Why do you care so much?" he asked after a moment.
You frowned, taken aback by the question. "Because you deserve someone in your corner," you said. "You deserve a chance to tell your story, to be seen for who you really are. And I'm not giving up on you."
He stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he nodded. "Thank you," he said quietly.
You reached across the table, resting your hand over his. It wasn't much, but it was a promise—one you intended to keep.
"No matter what happens," you said, your voice steady, "you're not alone in this. I'm with you, Lyle. Every step of the way."
He didn't say anything, but the way his fingers tightened slightly around yours told you everything you needed to know.
