One to go! Enjoy :))
Quinn knew this was a high profile case after Dexter's briefing, but the breath still catches in her chest as she follows Brittany through the heavy court room door and into the measured stares of hundreds in seats around her. More than she had expected. As she moves to the first row behind the Prosecutor's desk, the looks become questions, rumbling like quiet thunder.
Who are these girls... How could they possibly be involved with Vincent Maroney...
"My God you'd think they'd never seen a couple of homos before."
Quinn can't help the snort that shoots out as Santana folds her legs one over the other beside her, raising an eyebrow at the faces peering down from the balcony above. The court room is large and impressive, a simple meeting of ornately carved stone, rich maroon walls, and high ceilings. If it wasn't used for law it would make a beautiful library.
And what horrible stories this beautiful room could probably share.
Tugging briefly at the collar of her shirt... well, Rachel's shirt... she swallows the lump in her throat and tries not to feel like an object on display.
"Do you think they'll give us peanuts?"
Chuckling, Santana reaches behind Quinn and tugs at a piece of Brittany's hair.
"I don't think so, babe."
The prosecutor pushes through the back door with his aides flurrying around him, a tall and clean cut man with a quick smile and the first peppering of gray around his temples. To the greater public of New York, George Newell was an authentic knight of justice, known for his success on the floor against even the toughest of crooks, driven by a cool drive and a brilliant confidence born in knowing he's on the right side of the law. Running a hand down the front of his blue checked tie, George sets his briefcase on the prosecutor's desk and gives each girl a firm handshake.
"Good morning ladies."
His hand barely leaves Brittany's before the back door is swinging open again and Maroney is walking in, his lawyer and six of his men crowded around him. His eyes seem to find Quinn immediately, a small smirk playing quietly on his lips.
Bastard.
"Hey."
Santana's face fills her vision as she slips her fingers into Quinn's closed fist, rubbing them slowly against the four crescent shapes indentations in the palm.
"We'll get him on the stand, Q. Don't let him get in your head already."
Flaring her nostrils, Quinn releases the breath she hadn't known she was holding and nods.
That's exactly what they'll do.
The chair behind the defense table scrapes quietly against the floor as Maroney moves to sit, his lawyer setting his briefcase down. He pulls a stack of files from it and lays them neatly on top the dark wood, straightens the knot of the tie in his collar, and smooths down the front of his sweater, clearing his throat.
If George Newell is the city's white knight of justice, Charles Burton is the dark, and no, not like Batman. Born and raised in the deep south, Burton is an aristocrat turned defense lawyer, known for getting his way come hell or high water. From a long string of wealthy accused of murdering their spouses to New York's toughest, Burton's clients come running when their necks are on the line, knowing the tenacious man would use his sweet southern charm and every tooth and nail he's got to fight for the innocence of a client until the very end. If George had a court nemesis, Burton was it. Some called him a legend, others called him a shark, but, no matter what, you could bet that, when accused of a serious crime, those with a few spare million would call Burton every time.
"Good mornin' to ya, George." He drawls, reaching in the space between the counsels' desks to shake his hand.
"Morning Charles. Nice to see you as always."
"Reckon so."
As they turn to face front a final person slips in the court room, sending Quinn grabbing at Santana's wrist as she growls deep in her throat.
Nicole moves quietly through the space, her hair pulled into a tight bun and her shoulders back, but her eyes studying the granite tile. Quinn feels the little ball of rage behind her eyes start to simmer as she catches the woman and Maroney exchange a quiet smile. Smoothing out her dress, she sits a row behind the girls on the defense side, never once looking their direction.
"All rise."
The quiet murmurings in the courtroom cease as the judge enters from his quarters, flanked on either side by a uniformed guard.
"Be seated."
The judge folds his hands on the bench before him and smiles.
"My goodness what a full house we have! Now," shifting quietly in his chair he pulls a paper from his desk and adjusts his glasses, his voice booming through the cavernous room. "Today we will be hearing the case of the State versus Vincent Maroney. Counsel, welcome." He nods, setting the paper back down. "A few rules before we begin..."
Quinn sits a little straighter as the judge takes in the bystanders.
"In this room, I am God. Actually this is probably the only room where I get to be God, ask my wife, so, I take it very seriously. Mr. Maroney is of great interest to the public of New York, I think we can all agree, but, as far as I'm concerned, the facts will flow as they do and only at the very end of this day will we know how this case will fall. I expect you to treat each other with respect. This is not a zoo and I will remove anyone who interrupts these proceedings immediately." Raising his line of sight, he points to a group of protestors in the balcony, various defamations of Maroney's face printed on their t-shirts. "Speaking of, all of you need to cover those shirts or leave my court room."
Quinn doesn't turn her head, but she hears the quiet shuffling as coats are shifted and seats squeak. This guy means business.
"Wonderful. Let's have a good day everyone."
As the judge pulls a stack of papers in front of him, George stands, unbuttoning his suit jacket
"This is case number CB-0813. In the name and by the authority of the State of New York, presented to the Grand Jury and Your Honor on this day, that in New York City, Vincent Maroney, hereafter called the defendant, on or about the eighteenth of August, did then and there intentionally and knowingly cause the death of Melanie Michaels, hereinafter called the complainant, by setting the complainant on fire. For this act, the defendant is charged with First Degree Murder."
"Defendant," the judge says, turning towards Maroney. "How do you plead?"
"Not guilty, Your Honor."
"Very well. Let the prosecution begin it's opening statement."
Quinn knew this would be hard, but every time a new witness takes the stand, her stomach ties itself in another knot. They'd examined and cross examined again and again, detectives in the case, relatives, character vouchers for both sides. At one point one of Maroney's men took the stand and called him out, backing the prosecution. Quinn could almost hear the grinding of Maroney's teeth on that one. But all in all, she couldn't tell if the Grand Jury was swaying either way. She knew that, though it had been four hours already, there was still a lot of daylight left and, as George says, they always save the best for last. So she held on to hope and to Santana and Brittany's hands, because, really, what else did she have?
As the detective stepped down from the stand, George stood up and Brittany squeezed her fingers tight.
"I'd like to call Quinn Fabray to the stand."
And just like that, her time had come.
Standing, Quinn approaches the bench focused entirely on keeping her feet from shaking right out of her shoes.
"Do you, Quinn Fabray swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God?"
Taking a deep breath, Quinn nods, the soft leather of the Bible beneath her palm. "I do."
She is granted a few minutes on the stand to compose herself, taking a quick sip of water. She looks up and all eyes are upon her. George gives her a gentle smile as he moves towards her.
"Quinn. Tell me, did you ever come in contact with the complainant, Miss Melanie Michaels?"
"I did not."
She catches Burton's eyebrows furrow as he scans over the prosecution's witness sheet.
"I see. And how exactly did you come to be at Vincent Maroney's house on the night of January sixth?"
"He kidnapped me."
"Objection, Your Honor," Burton says, standing. "Vincent Maroney was clearly eating out that evening. I have restaurant footage to cover it."
"Sustained," the judge says, looking over the evidence log. "Get to your point, George."
"Was it Maroney who kidnapped you, Quinn?"
"No," Quinn shakes her head, kicking herself for sounding like a liar already. "It was Maroney's men. They took me to his house."
"And then what happened?"
She catches Santana's eye and stays there, recalling that evening in her mind.
"I was taken from a street corner and knocked out. I woke up in a small cellar in Maroney's basement where I was beaten and harassed. Threats were made against my loved ones. I was told that I was being used as bait to blackmail my fiancee; that she had offered to pull her testimony in this case in exchange for my life. They beat me until I blacked out again. When I came to, I was alone and in bad shape. I kept thinking..." Quinn searches for the words, wringing her hands together. "I kept hoping that Rachel wouldn't come because I just knew they were going to hurt her. I would have taken her place," she says, staring at Vince with her eyebrows furrowed. "I would have taken her place in a second, but in the end it didn't matter. Nicole Maroney cut me loose and snuck me out, gave me the keys to her car and the time I needed to make a clean getaway."
"I see. And for the jury's sake, what is your relation to Nicole Maroney?"
"She's my boss."
A murmuring of interest went through the court room.
"What happened after you left Maroney's home that day?"
Sighing, Quinn runs a hand through her hair, pushing her bangs off to the side.
"I went to my friend Santana's because I knew Rachel couldn't go home and she couldn't go to my place. She was there. She dressed my wounds and took care of me. We made a plan with Witness Protection to get her away safely until the trial. I was going to stay at Santana's so Maroney couldn't try another stunt like that."
George nods, turning slowly towards the jury.
"If you would please turn on the projector."
The slow whir of the projector starting is soothing, until the screen lights up with a picture of Quinn's face, marred with deep bruising and swollen knots. She hears the gallery gasp, looking between her on the stand and the picture for comparison.
"Quinn is an example of what Vincent Maroney can do, my friends. Look at that face. That was done to an innocent bystander; a pawn to help Maroney get what he wanted. Attained, broken, then thrown away, just like Melanie Michaels."
"Objection," Burton calls. "Lack of foundation."
"I'll let it slide." The judge says, watching Quinn as she struggles to keep her face neutral. George paces slowly, letting Burton's clear discomfort settle on the jury for a minute.
"You see," he says, turning. He reaches to pat the top of Quinn's hand then walks towards the jury. "Mr. Maroney is very smart. He wasn't the one to hurt Quinn because he knows enough to keep his hands clean when he can. But sometimes... sometimes when he wants something done right, Mr. Maroney does take care of it himself."
Flipping back to Quinn, George fires off a question, yelling.
"Quinn Fabray did your fiancee witness the murder of Melanie Michaels at the hand of Vincent Maroney."
"Yes."
"And where is your fiancee now, Quinn?"
"She's-" Quinn gasps, the word caught for a second with the unexpected flare of pain in her heart. Whispering quietly, she sets her palm against it. "She's dead."
Nodding slowly, George watches her, letting the silence in the court room speak for itself.
"Nothing further, Your Honor."
Since George had thoroughly illustrated Quinn wasn't a witness nor a victim at Vince's hands, the cross examination turned out to be relatively painless and did little for Maroney's side. Quinn was thankful for that because, honestly, she didn't know if she could take anything else unexpected. She shoots Santana a meek smile, knowing that her witness testimony is next, and takes a deep breath, drying her sweaty palms against the fabric of her pants. She can feel the burn of Maroney's glare burrowing into the side of her head and turns to face him, his lip curled back, clearly displeased with Burton's work so far.
She feels a little better just watching him stew.
"If you're ready Your Honor, we'd like to call our next witness to the stand."
"By all means, George."
Quinn doesn't register the doors in the back of the courtroom opening, but she does notice Vince pale immediately. Looking up, she sees Dexter in his usual black suit and scoffs, then double takes as he steps aside.
Rachel Berry is behind him, her big brown eyes brimming with emotion.
Quinn actually feels her insides shift back into life as she gasps, reaching for her throat, choking on her own gratefulness.
"Quinn."
With the sound of Rachel's voice her heart flutters recklessly against her ribcage and the room slips slowly away, the tender tracings of a smile set upon her lips.