-1The Trial

Until coming to live with the Cohens, Ryan had never owned a suit. Now, he feels like the goddamn things make up his entire wardrobe. It started out alright - suits for a bunch of social functions he didn't fit in at, itchy and uncomfortable and always, always a too-tight tie, but still, it wasn't so bad, seeing how the other half lived.

Now, like everything else in his life, it's snowballing out of control. A suit for his pseudo-grandfather's wedding to a gold-digger, a suit for his funeral soon after, then Trey's service, and now there is Marissa's trial. There is always a good impression to be made, always an air of collected and poised to put on.

He gives his tie one final tug and turns his back on his reflection.

"Lookin' sharp, kiddo," Sandy compliments, tugging at his own tie in silent commiseration. He may have spent most of his adult life dressing the part, but deep down, he'd be more comfortable in almost anything else - including, but not limited to, a wetsuit, a clown suit, or his birthday suit. "You ready for this?"

He considers lying, but decides against it. Sandy doesn't deserve dishonesty and Ryan really doesn't have it in him to fake anything. "No."

Sandy looks surprised by the admission, but shrugs it off quickly. "Yeah, well, how could you be, right? Don't worry about it. You won't even be testifying today. Probably not for a few weeks. These things take a lot of time."

"Good thing I have a lot of that on my hands these days," he says in a self-deprecating fashion that mimics Seth's particular brand of sarcasm.

"Things will settle down," Sandy assures him, laying a hand on his shoulder. With his free hand, he offers Ryan a freshly cut bagel. "Eat up. There's never anything to do in court but think about how hungry you are."

XXX

It turns out Sandy is right. Ryan's stomach begins to grumble midway through the opening arguments and by the time the judge sees fit to take a fifteen minute recess, he thinks he might actually be capable of eating a horse.

Unfortunately, the vending machine has no sympathy for the intensity of his hunger pains. There is an odd clanking noise as his selection bucks in its slot, making no promising forward motion. "No, no, no," Ryan murmurs, as if his life depends on it. It doesn't, of course. Worse case scenario, he can hurry to the deli across the street, but it is suddenly of the utmost importance that he gets this bag of Cheetos.

"You have to kick it, Chino," Summer advises from behind him.

Her voice is calm and sure and completely unexpected. He thinks that's fitting of her whole personality. Summer challenges every preconception people have about her and she does it every day, just by being herself, all confidence and sincerity and nothing anyone expects.

"Wh - what?" he stutters, caught off guard.

With a sigh, she pushes him gently aside and gives the vending machine an impressive kick. The Cheetos waver back and forth for a moment before falling. Summer bends, retrieves the bag, and dangles it in his face. "See?"

Grateful, he tears into the bag and chows down. "Pretty nice legs you got there," he comments, then backtracks when he realizes how that probably sounded. "Uh. Your kick, I mean. It was - it's a - uh, a strong kick."

She cuts in, letting him off the hook with a smile. "Cardio kickboxing three times a week since I was twelve." He nods. There is a silence, probably their first that hasn't been interrupted. "So. How're you holding up?"

"Well. For starters, I don't even eat junk food and yet, here I am." He shakes the bag for emphasis. "My ... Marissa, I don't know what she is to me anymore, is on trial for the murder of my brother. Kirsten's in rehab. I don't know ... I don't know why I'm still talking. You know all this already."

"I didn't know about the junk food thing." Summer laughs lightly at the blush that works its way up from his collarbone. "Relax, Ryan. It's just me."

"Right. Sorry." He gives her a quick grin and gestures to the door of the courtroom. "We should get back inside."

"You know," she says conversationally as they head towards the entrance, "We're all supposed to be on the beach right now, drinking Mai-Tais and loving life. This is gonna be one long-ass summer."

XXX

It turns out Summer is right, too. The first few weeks of June stagger by in an endless series of 'court in session, court adjourned' and gavels banging. The sound gives Ryan a permanent headache.

Marissa takes the stand on the twelfth and it's the first time any of them have seen her in weeks. Her hair falls halfway down her back stick-straight and a lighter, luminous shade of blond. She's dressed professionally in a crisp buttoned Oxford and pinstripe pants, no trendy club shirts or boho chic for her now. She looks like an A-plus student on the way to an Ivy League interview; the wholesome girl next door Ryan once mistook her for.

"Good approach," Summer whispers approvingly to Seth. "She looks killer in that outfit, jurors five and seven already want to keep her around."

Marissa swears to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth and proceeds to go through five days worth of questioning, cross-examining, and counter-examining. By the time he finally has to testify, Ryan has heard the story retold so many times that it's almost like fiction.

He makes the same promise Marissa had to and settles in to the witness stand. He doesn't know why whoever designed courtrooms confined witnesses to such a small space. He feels trapped before the questioning has even begun.

"Could you describe your relationship with the deceased?" The district attorney resembles a shark, teeth bared and a nose for blood.

Ryan hesitates. "It was ... complicated."

The D.A. shoots a meaningful look to the jury stand, as if he's communicating, See? There it is. Guilty. "Care to elaborate, Mr. Atwood?"

"We were brothers." Ryan shrugs. "We disagreed, we fought, but we loved each other."

"And you were certainly fighting on the night in question. The record states that the deceased had you pinned to the ground and was choking you. Can you confirm this?"

He still wakes up gasping, convinced that Trey is draining the life from him with a viselike grip and no mercy. "Yes."

"For what reason?"

Ryan's eyes cut to Marissa. She's watching him closely, squeezed between her mother and her lawyer like bodyguards, and she looks smaller than he's ever seen her. "He was - he had hurt Marissa, a few weeks before. I confronted him and - and he got the upper hand."

The D.A. doesn't look too impressed. "Is that how you usually solve your problems?"

Summer's snicker reaches his ears. "Uh ... yes."

"But this night was different? You believed your life was in danger?"

"Yes." 'Over' would be a better word, Ryan thinks. He thought his life was over. A part of it is, he knows that.

"Why?"

"He ... he wasn't joking around. It wasn't like we threw a couple punches and called it a day. He was choking me. He wasn't stopping. He would've ... if Marissa hadn't done what she did ... he would've killed me."

"So it was necessary for her to shoot him?" The D.A. pauses for dramatic effect. "In the back?"

Ryan hesitates. Trey may be dead, but this is still a betrayal. He is telling the truth to save Marissa's life and, at the same time, selling his older brother out. Trey Atwood will go down in the books as a criminal, a would-be murderer. But Marissa will be free and he owes her that, at least.

"Yes." His own voice is weak, so he nods to reinforce his words. "I believe so."

The D.A.'s lips purse. "No further questions."