Trial And Error | A Jeff The Killer Romance

Chapter 1

"Does the defense wish to make a closing argument?"

"I do, your honor, if you'll permit me."

"Go ahead, Attorney Reeves."

The grating of the chair's wooden legs against the polished brown tiles reverberated through the courtroom. A heavy silence hung over the gallery, far removed from its usual obligatory nature, instead fueled by sheer anticipation of how the defense would turn around the seemingly determined outcome.

James Hann, sitting cross-legged and stone-faced behind the prosecution's table, had brought before the court four very compelling pieces of evidence, as well as an argument so earnest that one of the jurors had all burst into tears at his heartfelt pleas on behalf of the wronged family. His softly spoken words coiled themselves around the hearts of every spectator, and skillfully, like a puppet master controlling his marionettes, he yanked and tugged at their sympathies, never failing to elicit gasps of horror, or solemn shakes of the head.

Even the defendant, Martes Rodriguez, had a hard time concealing the fear he felt. Throughout the prosecution's argument, he fidgeted in his chair, silently mourning the loss of his freedom, quietly lamenting not having brought his wallet that night. 

He had been unable to suppress the sudden enmity he felt towards the slender woman who sat beside him. Whenever it seemed that Prosecutor Hann had scored yet another point against him, Martes would direct his furious gaze at her unflattering profile, wondering how he could've ever considered this woman as beautiful, even for a second. 

The longer he sat beside her, the stronger the urge to strangle her became. It was a foolish and perhaps unfair notion, seeing as his attorney had fought up until now to give him a reasonable chance at a lesser sentence, but so grievous was the idea of wasting away in a filthy cell for the rest of his life, or being violated day-in and day-out by men far more powerful than him, that he couldn't help but hate her. He couldn't help but despise her bright orange hair, or her parrot-like nose, or the constellation of freckles that adorned her pale face. He wanted to rip those expensive pearls from around her neck, snatch the encrusted hair pin from her up-do and bury it deep in her thigh, smack the smug smile off her thin, rosy lips.

Yes, he couldn't help but hate Charlotte Reeves. He couldn't help but hate himself, too, for hiring her.

The excess of his hatred for Charlotte had unfortunately spilled onto her co-counsel, the thin, mousy boy who sat to his right. Elias Whitman was a walking antithesis of his lead counsel, yet everything from the way his eyes drank in her every movement, to his habit of leaning forward whenever she spoke, suggested that he worshiped the ground she walked on. Martes had consulted these two lawyers long enough to observe how content the Whitman boy was with withering away in the witch's shadow. He was completely captivated by some quality in her Martes couldn't see, and he felt a sort of underlying pity for Elias underneath his bubbling disgust.

Now, as Charlotte Reeves made her way to the lectern with an elegant and confident stride, the heels of her shiny black stilettos clicking continuously against the tiles, he marveled that he had placed his life in the hands of this snotty, orange monstrosity. The way she settled in front of the lectern, her posture a perfect balance of rigid and relaxed, proved she was fully confident in herself. But where this confidence came from, Martes could not fathom.

Surely she didn't think that she could talk her way out of this one. He, Martes Rodriguez, was completely and undoubtedly guilty. He had shot Marianne Rogers four times in the chest after eliciting her sexual services  in an alleyway. She had threatened to tell the authorities about his drug smuggling ring after he refused to pay her— though she was a criminal herself  — and in a fitful, drug-induced rage, he reduced the massive bosom he  had once loved to a bloody pulp.