IX

"You're nervous," Puckerman said as he caught up with me turning down the hallway leading back to the courtroom. Sylvester had given us a fifteen minute recess; I'd made like a locomotive and chain smoked my way through my cigarette case. The prospect of being questioned by Israel, who was now desperate to save his sinking ship of a case, was making my stomach do acrobatics that would have amazed PT Barnum. I didn't feel even a match short in the noodle department compared to Israel, it was more that I was Israel's last material witness and he'd be willing to send his granny downstream on a raft about now if he could save himself and the entire Metropolis Justice Department from disgrace. Ordinarily, I'd have bought tickets to a desperate DA tango, but my guilty knowledge of a certain songbird with a loaded roscoe in her purse, had me feeling like I had an excess of left feet.

"What?" I answered.

"You're nervous, Lopez."

"What makes you say that?" I said reaching for my cigarette case before remembering it was empty and cursing under my breath.

"Because you do that," Puckerman said, retrieving a cigarette from his own case, lighting it and handing it to me.

"Thanks. I do what?"

"That," Puckerman said pointing at me, as he sparked his lighter again to light one for himself. "That!"

"Noah, if you say 'that' one more..."

"Tuck your hair behind your ear. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen you nervous as a bull stuck in the milking shed, but every time, you do that," Puckerman said opening the outer courtroom door for me.

"Nice analogy, Puckerman," I said pausing in the wood paneled vestibule before we entered.

"I'm a seasoned journalist, we're expected to come up with witty stuff like that," Puckerman replied smiling his best Pepsodent grin.

"Seasoned with what?" I laughed, sitting down on one of the benches in the vestibule.

"Lopez!" Puckerman landing a tap squarely on my shoulder. "Shame it has to end. No offense to your client, but today's headline alone will only get me promoted to weekend editor. I had my eye on Specials Editor." Puckerman moved his hands horizontally as if uncovering a shiny nameplate with 'Noah Puckerman, Specials Editor' engraved on it.

"Still a long list of prosecution witnesses and Mike has his list, too. You really think it's over already?" I asked, running my tongue over my gums and realizing the one thing this courthouse really needed was a well stocked and tended bar. Justice may be blind, but she's not deaf and Truth tends to get mouthy with a few drinks in her.

"Honest? Yeah, finished. Nothing new is gonna pop up now, unless you're holdin' out on remembering something from that night," Puckerman hit me again with his elbow, I smiled weakly. "Israel hasn't got any ammo left, no pun intended. Sad part is, your girl still doesn't look innocent," Puckerman said shaking his head and putting a gleaming polished leather shoe up on the bench. He leaned forward with his elbow on his knee as he spoke. "Mike is doing a great job and all, but he can't take that knife out of her hand without someone else's hand to put it in."

"Innocent until proven guilty, Puckerman. He doesn't have to prove she didn't do it or even who did do it. The whodunit is the job of Hudsy, and you 'seasoned' reporters."

"Funny, Lopez. All that applies in a perfect world. This is Metropolis. Nobody we know had any reason to kill Blaine Anderson except his wife. The gossip rags, to which I admit my paper is a card-carrying member, really did a job on her. Every one of those jurors walked in here expecting her to be guilty. When Israel finishes up his parade of character witnesses, Blaine Anderson is going to be up for sainthood and Mrs. Anderson there, is going to be looking at the electric cure." Puckerman hooked a thumb at the round window looking into the courtroom where Mike and Britt Anderson had just returned and were talking. "Only a smoking gun is gonna change that," Puckerman said leaning back against the door to the courtroom.

"Exactly, Puckerman! A smoking gun. Not a bloody knife. He was killed with a gun," I answered a little louder than intended.

"Whoa, Lopez!" Puckerman replied, hands up in surrender. "Like it's hard to get a gun in Metropolis. They practically hand 'em out as a bubble gum prizes."

"So she has a gun now? The police didn't find a gun," I said, stubbing my cigarette out forcefully. I kept my eyes on the cigarette, avoiding his gaze while waiting for his answer. My hand moved to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, I stopped myself and hoped Puckerman didn't notice.

"I don't know. I'm just saying it's not out of left field that she might have one or know where to get one. Doesn't mean anything that they didn't find the gun the first time through, they didn't realize the man had been shot until he'd been pushing up daisies for months either," Puckerman said lighting both our new cigarettes.

"Did you check if either of them had a gun registered in Metropolis?" I smoothed my culottes out intently and glanced up at the clock, still avoiding Puckerman's eyes.

"Neither of them did, but doesn't mean anything," Puckerman shrugged. "They owned a nightclub, had to be a gun in the house somewhere. You're taking this personal, Lopez?" Puckerman asked taking a drag off his cigarette and looking back into the courtroom through the round window in the door before sitting down next to me.

"Grissom thinks she was framed. You don't?" I said ignoring his question. Of course I was wound up. I was the only person in the building that knew about the gun. Well, me and the woman whose husband got plugged to death. The woman accused of cold-blooded murder who was looking at me not to tell what I knew. The woman everyone but this lollipop believed was guilty.

"That's an egghead theory," Puckerman said, waving his hand dismissively. "The police don't think that. The jury probably doesn't buy it. Who would want to frame her? Why not just leave the gun in her hand, save time…"

"So she framed herself, Puckerman? That doesn't add up."

"Doesn't have to. You're the only one who wants to believe she's innocent. Look, it was a locked room. You were knocked out cold. She claims she was drugged and doesn't remember anything. If she doesn't testify and charm the pants off 'em it's even odds she's gets convicted." Puckerman looked at me and I returned his gaze. "I know you think she's innocent, Lopez, but if the jury doesn't believe it…" Puckerman put a hand on my shoulder and we both sat in silence for a few moments, the orange tipped crackle of our cigarettes as we inhaled the only sound.

"We better get in," I said, standing and looking at the clock above the door. "So what's promotion to weekend editor get you? A move from a small dark smelly office to a bigger dark smelly office?"

"You've seen the weekend editor's office, have you?" Puckerman chuckled as we made our way up the stairs to the balcony. I knew I'd be called next, but there'd be some business first, no need to seem too eager. We parted ways at the top of the step - him to his best view of the jury, me to my view of the defense table. She was still my client after all.

I exhaled a haze of smoke, watching through squinting eyes as the court reporter and bailiff exceeded the daily recommended amount of flirting. The prosecution and defense tables were busy shuffling papers, Mike with a hand on the back of Mrs. Anderson's chair. I turned sideways, putting my feet up on the bench, and pulled out my rolling papers and small sack of Bull Durham. I tapped a cylinder of ash and balanced my cigarette on the tray still next to the bench. Licking my fingers before pulling a sheet of paper from the box, I returned the lit cigarette to my lips. Pre-rolled cigarettes were cheap enough now that doing it myself was more a habit than a necessity. My fingers worked without my eyes or mind paying any attention at all.

Puckerman was right, even if the motto was innocent until proven guilty, no defense lawyer worth his dark blue suit relied on that. You prove to the jury that your client is innocent, you walk out with your client, not an execution date with the electric company. Proving anything is difficult, true or not. If Mike couldn't prove Britt Anderson innocent, he'd need to find who was guilty. That's where I should have come in, but up until now the trail had been cold. I'd asked Tina to check into Blaine and Sebastian's pullman past on the Super Chief. Pullman to prestidigitator to proprietor of a nightclub owner was one whizbang of a trick for even the best magicians and I wanted to know where Mr. Anderson had hidden the white bunny.

And the money…the money out of nowhere was still bothering me. Artie always said I saw the world through colorless eyes. Not true. It's just in my world there was green, cold hard cash, and red, blood red. Wherever you found one, you found the other. If someone had been threatening the Andersons it was good odds there was either blood or cash behind it. I'd have to remember to get Tina to see what she could find out from the Anderson's banker.

I was startled to feel something hit the side of my face. My hand went to my cheek as I looked down at the balled up notepaper that was sitting in my lap. I looked across the balcony at Puckerman who was laughing, arm cocked to throw another paperball. I opened my mouth to ask him what the hell that was for when I heard Shane, the bailiff calling in a very annoyed voice from below.

"Miss Santana Lopez? Santana Lopez?" Shane called loudly, as the entire courtroom strained their necks to look at me. I must have gotten lost in my cigarette rolling and missed his first summons. I squeezed one more newly rolled cigarette into the case, clicking it shut as I stood and waved at Shane, and walked quickly to the stairs.

X

"Santana Lopez, licensed private investigator number 137596." I was obligated in any dealings with the court or law enforcement to reveal that I was a licensed PI and to give my license number, although there was no doubt that Israel and company already had that information. Shane held out a worn black leather-covered Bible on which I placed my left hand as I raised my right. Again I mused that this courtroom needed a bar. Swearing me in over a bottle of single malt scotch was a much better way to get me to answer questions.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God?" Shane said solemnly, looking at me quite intently for the answer considering he must repeat this oath hundreds of times a month. A civil servant who took his job seriously, unicorns are less rare.

"I do," I replied. I stole a look at Britt Anderson who was watching me, her kitty blues seemingly indifferent. If she was at all concerned about what I'd say, it didn't show. Maybe she was that sure of her influence over me. Maybe she wasn't wrong.

"Please be seated," Shane replied, still looking a little annoyed that he'd had to call me so many times. I flashed him a smile that landed in flames like the Hindenburg. Apparently you had to know how to work a steno machine to coax a smile from Shane. I glanced up at the skylight, this view of the wide open blue sky, streaked with uncharacteristically happy pillows of white, was breathtaking. I almost believed Superman would appear overhead and drop off that red wagon Santa never got around to delivering to me for Christmas.

Israel rose and walked slowly towards me in the witness box, looking gravely at the floor and not me as he did so. He clutched the lapels of his dark brown suit as if they might start flapping and fly away with him if he didn't hold tight. "Miss Santana Lopez, you are a licensed private detective, are you not?"

I raised my eyebrow. "Yes. Santana Lopez, licensed private investigator number 137596." I repeated slowly, enunciating each syllable.

"How long have you been a private...eye, as they like to call it?" Israel said, making a mocking face towards the jury as he did so.

"I've been a licensed private investigator for two years," I answered. If he was trying to get on my good side, he'd just hopped the wrong bus.

"Are you good at what you do, Miss Lopez?" Israel asked, walking back to the prosecution's table. As with every witness before, Israel was trying to make sure the jury saw me as credible, reliable, sensible and all that other 'ble. Anything Israel could get me to say would help his case that much more if the jury saw me as a beacon of Metropolis integrity. For the sake of time, I was regretting having left my halo at home. "Are you a good private investigator?"

"Since I'm under oath and have to tell the god's honest truth, I'm the absolute best." Puckerman's shoulders shook with laughter as he put his hand over his face and nodded, amused. A small murmur of amusement was quelled by the tap of Judge Sylvester's gavel, a twitch of a smile distorting her frown.

"Very good, Miss Lopez," Israel chuckled before continuing, "And before that?"

"Before that I was still pretty good," I shrugged. Puckerman scribbled away, chuckling. Artie would have loved this. He'd be shaking his head at me, but enjoying it despite himself.

"Thank you, Miss Lopez," Israel lips resisted dropping his smile for the jury, even thought his patience was wearing weaker than his chin. "I meant how were you employed before you became a private investigator two years ago?"

"I was part of the war effort," I replied. From the corner of my eye I saw Mike look down at his notepad.

"Very commendable, Miss Lopez." Israel paused to flip a few pages in his notepad before pointing at something written there. "You worked for the government?"

"Yes. I was unparalleled at shuffling papers."

"You did more than shuffle papers, though, Miss Lopez. It says here you earned a Distinguished Service Medal during the war," Israel read from his notepad. "For those of the jury who don't know, that's the highest non-combat honor given to a civilian by the military."

My face flamed crimson. Whether he intended to or not, Israel caught a lucky one right on my chin, knocking me back on my T-strap heels. Eyes were on me from the entire courtroom. Mrs. Anderson's cool blues seemed to thaw, appraising me as if I'd just walked into the room. Israel had to do more than your usual digging to find that treasure. Why he'd find it relevant I had no idea but I didn't intend to fuel anyone's curiosity on the matter.

"Miss Lopez?" Israel asked pausing his pacing to await my answer.

"I didn't hear a question," I replied, taking a note from the Grissom Rules of Testimony.

"Your Honor, for the record, Miss Lopez was indeed awarded the Distinguished Service Medal," Israel intoned as Judge Sylvester nodded and the court reporter clickety clacked the words into record. He really was looking to pin a halo on me. I shot a glance at Puckerman, who shook his head slowly, his smile gone. He understood that particular piece of information was not to be part of his play to win Specials Editor.

"Let's get down to it, shall we, Miss Lopez?" Israel asked, apparently deciding that sainthood was not in my future, and a change in course was required.

"I thought you'd never ask," I answered.

"What were you doing at the Soirées Noires the night of July 15?"

"Enjoying the stage show, the highballs, and the hurricane," I answered looking directly at Mrs. Anderson. She averted her eyes, choosing to pay inordinate attention to a paperclip on the table in front of her. Israel knew as well as I did that part of my job was making sure the private business of my clients remained so. Even my clients' names were privileged information that I couldn't and wouldn't give out unless my client expressly gave permission.

"You were there on official business, weren't you, Miss Lopez?"

"I drink a lot, but I wouldn't call it my official business. What makes you think it was business?"

"The fact that there are phone calls from you to your agency precisely one hour apart. That's called surveillance, is it not?" Israel asked.

"I'd suggest you lay off the pulp fiction magazines. Life magazine may be more suited to you Mr. Israel. Or Mr. Puckerman's specials section," I toed the line of evasion and perjury as carefully as I could. Short of brandishing a red cape, I don't think I was capable of distraction any less subtle.

Israel waved off my musing, with an audible huff. "Were you there in an official capacity, Miss Lopez?"

I knew Judge Sylvester would only allow so much and that she'd either hold me in contempt of court or ask Israel to move on. Ten to one I was spending the night in the pokey. I'd probably get a cell to myself and if it had a window some might argue it was better than my apartment. It was the liquid refreshments and non-communal powder rooms where my apartment edged out the Metropolis jail, by a nose. It was time to offer myself up in sacrifice and stop annoying the natives. "I can't answer that. I can't divulge any information regarding a client or services rendered to a client."

"Were you working for the Anderson's, Miss Lopez?" Israel's smile was now a fond memory.

"Keep up with me now, I said I can't answer that," I replied, looking Israel down directly.

What little control his hair tonic had offered him this morning began to give way and Israel's curly hair swayed with each emphatic word from his mouth. "Were you or were you not employed by a client, any client, on that night, Miss Lopez?"

Turing to face Judge Sylvester I quipped, "I see this poet only knows one poem. Your Honor, I don't want to waste the court's time, but I can't answer these questions."

Judge Sylvester leaned towards me. "Miss Lopez, you understand what it means if you don't answer Mr. Israel's questions? A contempt charge. Don't let the youthful looks fool you. I'm no meter maid. I don't write you a ticket. I get you an all expenses spared trip to a cell for the next week. You understand that?"

No client would ever hire me again if they had to worry about me rolling on them under the lightest pressure. My livelihood depended on my reputation. Cooling my heels in the pokey was worth my reputation. A week was a bit longer stay than I needed to catch up on a badly needed manicure, but I nodded that I understood. "Clear as glass, Your Honor."

"Mrs. Anderson," Judge Sylvester turned and addressed the defense table, where Mike paused his whisperings in Britt Anderson's ear, "Miss Lopez is showing some impressive character here, but it's not necessary. You can give her permission to disclose information that would save us all the embarrassment of sending a war hero to jail for upholding her honor. Mr. Chang, talk to your client." Judge Sylvester tapped her gavel twice and stood. "Five minute recess."

Judge Sylvester exited to her chambers and the room sat motionless, all eyes on Britt Anderson. After more whispers from Mike, she slowly raised her head to look at me, eyes brimming with tears. Mike looked at up at me and mouthed, 'It's okay'. I wondered how much he knew, if he was now sharing the burden of knowing about the gun, her gun. I wasn't usually one to enjoy company in my misery, but the thought of another seat beneath the sword brought some sense of relief just thinking about it. I sat back, watching the skylight slowly fill with light grey clouds, and waited.

Before I'd come up with a complete agenda of things I could do while locked away, including annotating War and Peace and constructing a matchstick replica of the White House, Judge Sylvester returned. "Mr. Chang, what say you?"

Mike rose, put one hand on Britt Anderson's shoulder and turned his warm brown eyes to me. "My client has nothing to hide. She waives her right to privilege in regards to her employment of Miss Lopez."

"Thank you, Mr. Chang, I'd derive no pleasure from locking Miss Lopez up. Thank you for sparing us that. Does everyone understand what that means? Mr. Chang, your client understands that Miss Lopez may reveal the nature of her employ with the Andersons as well as any information she acquired while in their employ?" Judge Sylvester said, owling Britt Anderson. Mike turned to look down at Britt Anderson. The barely perceptible movement of her blonde bangs the only indication she'd responded at all.

"She understands, Your Honor. She waives all right to privilege in regards to Miss Lopez and her agency," Mike responded.

He didn't know. He had no idea about the gun at all. If he'd known he'd want the information to be in his control, to be revealed when he chose, not under Israel's questioning. Mrs. Anderson met my gaze as Mike spoke. Not a whisper of fear. I'd give anything to be able to forecast the weather behind those eyes. Was she so sure she had the hook in or was she innocent, gun or no gun?

Judge Sylvester turned to me at her left side, steel blue eyes intently focused on me. "Miss Lopez, understand that you will answer these questions or face contempt of court. This time I won't hesitate."

"Yes, Your Honor," I answered. My manicure and Tolstoy would have to wait.

"Thank you," Israel replied to no one in particular and rose, coming to stand before me in the witness box. "Let's get down to business then, Miss Lopez." I wondered if this was the part where I should have a handkerchief to twist. "On the night of July 15th, were you in the employ of either of the Anderson's?"

"Yes, my agency was working for Mrs. Anderson," I answered.

"Thank you," Israel replied as if he somehow felt vindicated by my answer. "Could you explain why you were hired?"

I took a deep breath and launched into explaining that Mrs. Anderson was a damsel in distress looking for someone to slay her dragons, real or imaginary. The fairytale turned Grimm when Mr. Anderson bought the farm and it wasn't so clear whether Mrs. Anderson was the fairy princess or the wicked witch. Israel asked about the none too exciting surveillance leading up to the night in question and the threatening letters. I shared openly that we didn't have even the scent of the sinister Shakespeare penning the letters after two days on the case. A wise man once said a lie would have no sense unless the truth were to seem dangerous. There was no need not to be honest on these points.

"Miss Lopez, I know it must be difficult to think about, but could you please walk us through your memories of the night starting with arriving at Mrs. Anderson's dressing room?" Israel leaned against the witness box, a look of almost sincere concern on his face.

"I'd hate to disappoint you, mine was only a brief supporting role. I didn't even win a speaking part" I replied.

"Please just tell us what you remember, Miss Lopez."

There wasn't much to tell that Hudson hadn't gone over in his timeline. There wasn't much Israel didn't already know from reading my statement. And there wasn't much I remembered clearly enough to bother mentioning. There wasn't much. I quickly arrived at, "…and then I accidentally got my head in the way of a lead crystal ashtray on its way to the floor. The room went black."

"You remember absolutely nothing after walking into the room?"

"Something akin to the Wizard of Oz, but I'll spare you the Technicolor details of my tia riding a bicycle in a tornado," I answered. "The next thing I remember is waking up to Police Chief Hudson's beautiful mug."

"You heard nothing? You saw nothing?" Israel asked, leaning towards the witness box. The sun ducked behind now dark grey clouds causing the skylight to darken above us. Shadows of clouds raced across the courtroom floor in front of me and it began to rain.

"Lemme try this again, it's a trick I do at parties, I get sacked on the head and I pass out. I don't remember anything."

"Somehow Blaine Anderson was shot to death in a locked room. The choices are you or his wife. Do you carry a gun, Miss Lopez?"

"You think I shot him? You need an anatomy lesson if you think I could have smuggled a gun in and out of there unnoticed, especially under your esteemed colleague Police Chief Hudson's watch." I held my breath waiting for the next question. Although I knew what the answer was, I didn't know which answer I'd give.

"No, I don't think you shot him, I'm just ruling out the possibilities." Israel paused.

"To the best of your knowledge, did Mrs. Anderson own or have access to a gun?"

I glanced down at my hands, for how long I didn't know. The smart thing to do would be to let the court know about Mrs. Anderson's gun and let them sort things out. That would be the smart thing. When I looked up I found Israel's eyes and tried my level best to speak slowly and distinctly to him. "Mrs. Anderson never showed me any gun in her possession."

It was done. I could rationalize the wording when I was accused of perjury, but I knew I'd just bought my ticket and I'd have to weather the ride ahead. I saw Britt Anderson's eyes close and her lips move soundlessly. Whether it was heaven or hell that heard her prayers, I couldn't tell.

Israel continued, "Miss Lopez, you'll remember that you are both a material witness and an expert witness in this case. I'm going to ask for your expert opinion, here."

"Bombs away," I answered, thankful for the lack of follow-up on his previous question.

Israel walked slowly towards the jury box and then turned slowly back towards me before asking, "Who killed Blaine Anderson?"

"Someone with a knife? Wait, no, a gun. Someone with a gun." The jury laughed. Judge Sylvester tapped her gavel and gave me a warning look.

"Do you have a theory about who killed Blaine Anderson?"

"A guess?"

"Yes, you're a professional investigator. Surely you have a guess as excellent if not better than anyone else."

"My guess may be excellent or it may be crummy, but Sra Lopez didn't raise any children loopy enough to make guesses in front of a DA and a stenographer."*

"Do you think Brittany Anderson killed Blaine Anderson?"

"I do not," I answered. This I could say with great conviction. This I could say without fear of perjury. The one thing I felt for sure. The one thing I had no way of proving or ever knowing for sure.

"Thank you very much for your time, Miss Lopez. Your witness," Israel smiled a genuine albeit weak smile and returned to his seat.

Mike Chang rose. "I have no questions for this witness, Your Honor."

"And with that, Miss Lopez," Judge Sylvester nodded her head towards Shane, who opened the hip high gate leading out of the witness box, "you are dismissed. Please do not leave town until the trial is over."

With another tap of her gavel, Judge Sylvester recessed court for the day and the courtroom quickly emptied. Puckerman ran to the nearest phone booth to relay his story before having to share with the other press. Mike Chang talked quietly to Ben Israel as Shane led the jury out of the courtroom. Judge Sylvester spoke a few words to the stenographer and she, too, disappeared.

For some reason, I sat still, not moving a muscle. The once golden sunlight dappled courtroom had been cast in the full shadow of thick clouds that bombarded the courtroom's skylight with fistfuls of barbed raindrops anxious to break their way in. Their insistent drumming sounding like the prelude to a horse cavalry. A flash of lightning jolted me back into focus and my eyes came to rest upon Britt Anderson. We sat staring at each other, casting flickering shadows as the lightning flashed overhead. Neither of us tried to make our thoughts known, perhaps even to ourselves. We sat this way until she was escorted away, back to her cell, and I was left sitting alone.

*Modified from The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett

XI

The skies were dark, the heavens were sobbing, and the winds were howling, a day custom-built to match my mood. It seemed to have rained non-stop for the last two weeks since my testimony; Metropolis was on the verge of becoming Atlantis. I had mixed feelings about whether that was a bad thing. Nonetheless, I pulled my fedora down low, buckled the belt of my trenchcoat, and pulled up the collar as I pushed my way out onto the courthouse landing. After half-finishing a smoke, I tossed a kid the remainder of the store-bought cigarettes I'd given in to buying, despite intentionally leaving my case at home. I'd smoked more cigarettes in the last two weeks than the entire Pacific fleet and I didn't care what any doctor said, it was making it harder to climb the stairs to the office every night.

I found my way back inside after the bell tolled announcing the jury's verdict. Puckerman's light grey suit made him easy to spot in the crowd and I pushed my way forward to stand next to him. We exchanged a few words and Puckerman turned to continue to chatter away beside me. His fellow press agents had been let in to hear the verdict for themselves. I heard snippets of conversation, mostly grousing that the verdict would come out too late to make the evening paper. My mind turned over the events of the last two weeks.

Puckerman had been right, after my testimony Israel had nearly a dozen witnesses come forward to testify for the canonization of Blaine Anderson. Half again as many testified to the lack of matrimonial bliss in the Anderson household, including Blaine's mother who made a tearful apology to God for not stopping her beloved Blaine from marrying "that woman."

With each character witness for the dearly departed Blaine Anderson, Mike Chang skillfully needled an admission that no one had any reason to believe that Mrs. Anderson wanted to or was capable of murdering Mr. Anderson. Each time Mike directly asked if the witnesses if they believed Britt Anderson killed her husband, and each time they answered no. When Israel's witness list was exhausted, Mike Chang stood and simply stated, "The defense rests, Your Honor."

I looked up as the jury was ushered in and a deadly hush fell on the courtroom.

"Have you reached a verdict?" Judge Sylvester intoned, looking sternly over the top of her glasses. The head juror stuttered affirmation. Shane extended a hand to the juror who passed him the bright yellow folded piece of paper, which he then handed to Judge Sylvester.

My thoughts and my eyes drifted to Britt Anderson. She sat directly opposite the jury, dressed in a simple blue checked dress. Her head tumbled carefully coiled golden curls onto her shoulders as she looked at Judge Sylvester, across the faces of the jury and then the crowd in the courtroom, searching. When her baby blues found mine, she stopped. Her lips curved in a small smile. I bore no ill-will towards Britt Anderson. My actions were my own. I'd say to the end that I believed she was innocent. I smiled back at her.

Judge Sylvester's face was set to its customary frown as the slip of paper was passed back to the head juror, who wiped his shaking hands on his plaid suit and began to read.

"We, the jury, in the case of the People of the State of New York versus Brittany Anderson AKA Britt Noir, find the defendant… not guilty on the sole count of murder in the first degree."

A/N: There's more! There's more! Soon!

Thank you Snixx and Nayshen.

Thank you storymakers and uber betas- NEMO and Blueashke.

Thank you Foss for everything.