Wow. Thank you all so much for taking the time to review, I've never had so many on a first chapter before! And here I was, feeling nervous that nobody would like the setting of my new story… shows me how much I know!

Quick clarification about the genres since a few people asked. I put Crime/Mystery because for the part I have written (which is oh so much at the moment… ahem) that's pretty much all it is. But as always, this will eventually become an Erik and Christine romance with all the bumps and… issues that come along with it. So never fear! Just a little patience is required.

Onward!

II

Contrary to the judge's assurances, her manager was not overly accommodating.

"Christine, you haven't been here long enough to qualify for the position. It's one thing to sing and serve lunch—people's expectations just aren't as high. You know that most of our business comes from the dinner shift, and I just don't know if you're ready."

She bit her lip, promising herself that she wouldn't cry. She had to respect the rules of the establishment and while most of her wanted to beg and plead, the rest of her remembered that this was a place of business and she wouldn't make a fool of herself by weeping in front of the manager.

No matter how much she might want to.

"I understand that, Ewan, really I do! But you wouldn't even have to let me sing. Just… let me work. I'll stick to waiting tables or I could even stay in the kitchens and wash dishes, whatever you need."

Her hourly wage was not a lot and most of her pay came from the tips received from her performances, but anything would be helpful. She had almost scoffed when the clerk at the courthouse had tried to offer comfort by reminding her that jurors were paid fifteen dollars a day for their service—as if that was enough to cover rent and utilities.

Ewan sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Christine, we have people who do that and they need the money just as much as you do. I can't deny them a shift just because you got called in for jury duty."

Despair settled over her and she pulled her coat a bit more firmly around her, even though the interior of the restaurant was comfortably cool.

"Listen, did you try to explain our policies to them? The court tries to be understanding about this kind of thing, especially since you're so young."

She shook her head, and even to her own ears her voice was pleading. "I tried to but the judge said that this trial was important and if I would just explain to you, you'd help me. Please, Ewan, it's just until the trial is over. I need this job…"

His lips thinned and he motioned for her to follow him into the office and he pulled out the deployment chart filled with names—her own still placed on shifts she could no longer cover. "I can't make you any promises but I will talk to the rest of the staff and see if anyone is willing to switch with you."

Christine's shoulders slumped and she nodded, at least glad that he would look into the matter.

"You're a good worker, Christine, and I'll do what I can. I know you didn't ask for this but it's still a big inconvenience."

She bit her lip to keep back her retort. She most certainly did not ask to be called and if she had succeeded in being dismissed, she would be more than happy to work whatever shifts he asked of her. She was always dependable, and it made her a little sad that he didn't seem to value her talents more. Perhaps she wasn't the one regular customers always requested, but a few came especially for her, introducing her to clients and praising her performances.

But she did not betray any of her feelings, instead offering what semblance of a smile she could manage.

"Thanks, Ewan, I really appreciate it."

He gave her a small grin, and she suddenly realized how tired he looked. He was only twenty-eight yet he bore most of the responsibility of running and managing the restaurant, the owner being a rude, overbearing woman who had received ownership of the place following a long and tedious divorce.

"Are you okay? I'm sorry that this is such a burden on you."

Ewan sighed again and gave a half-hearted shrug. "It's nothing for you to worry about. Just…" He shuffled a few papers on his desk before squaring his shoulders. "Try to remember that I'm not the one who makes these rules. I know what you and the rest of the staff must think, but I'm someone's employee, just the same as you."

She blinked. "Is the restaurant in trouble?"

He chuffed out a low laugh. "Not if I can help it. But Christine, I'm not the one who's really in charge. I can only try to make the best of it."

New worries settled over her. Would she even have a job to come back to? They did not lack patrons and the food was excellent, but the owner was… eccentric. She took hiring upon herself, and after the audition she was the one to place the prospective staff member on a shift. She had been critical of Christine's voice, claiming that she lacked feeling and passion, and Christine had not thought to argue.

Her joy for singing had dulled significantly since her father's death. While once it had been a source of endless amusement between them, now she felt empty and lonely without his violin to accompany her.

She would have preferred to sing melancholy pieces, but evidently that was not conducive to the proper atmosphere, and more lively compositions were selected. And although she had some reservations in the beginning, she had started to notice that the cheerful melodies or the occasional lovesick ballad almost made her feel better.

For so long she allowed the hollow ache that resided in her heart to taint what used to bring her comfort. Perhaps her papa would be proud if she could still find some pleasure in the diversion they had once shared so freely.

It was dark by the time Christine walked home from the bus stop. While the restaurant was in one of the nicer portions of the city, her small studio apartment could not boast of fine surroundings. The street lamps were few and far between and the buildings were dirty, and it was not at all uncommon for her to be stopped by a few homeless asking for change. Most of them were harmless, and she would spare whatever she could—though her giving wasn't often due to her own meager income.

But what she hated were the times when some of the rough looking men would call out to her as she passed, making lewd remarks about what they would like to do with her if she ever came nearer.

She had started keeping pepper spray in her purse, just in case.

Her apartment was not as nice as the one she had shared with her papa, but she took good care of it. The building itself was old as was much of the city, and while others in her building might not have been so careful in its upkeep, she did her best to keep a tidy house. Her papa had always ensured their home was clean, no matter the state of the place when they moved into it. "Just because we're poor doesn't mean we have to be slobs, Christine."

Her parents had emigrated from Sweden early in their marriage, ready for a grand adventure that included greater opportunity for her papa to make use of his musical talents. France had been considered, the romance of the country a tempting allure to the newly wedded couple, but ultimately America had become their chosen destination. Her mother had always supported him, or so he had often told her, even though Christine could see that guilt lingered on her papa's face.

She thought she understood it now.

To support a dream meant drudgery and sacrifice, whether it be skipped meals or dealing with unruly customers simply for the sake of a paycheck. Her mother had worked as a waitress while her father auditioned, and while he said they had been happy, Christine realized now how much her mother had loved her father to put his ambitions before her own.

Christine didn't even know what her own dreams were. Her father had wanted her to join him on stage, where she could sing as he played his violin, only this time to people who truly understood the art of music instead of what neighbors could overhear through the too-thin walls of their apartment.

She climbed the many steps up to her apartment, sighing in relief when the door clicked shut behind her and the quiet of the room embraced her. She was too tired to consider dinner, and she'd rather wait to eat any of her small reserves until she was more confident in her income, so instead she stripped tiredly out of her clothes and donned one of her well-worn nighties, soft and thin with age, before huddling under the covers and hoping that everything would work out all right, just for a little while longer.

-X-

"You look tired, missy. Not excited for your first murder trial?"

Despite how early she had gone to bed the night before, worries and troubled thoughts kept her from sleeping until almost dawn, and she had been forced to scramble to find suitable clothes before once more making her way to the courthouse.

She pushed away her grumbling thoughts that such was her lot that she would be required to frequent the courthouse on the other side of the city, and not the building she passed nearly every day on her way to the restaurant.

She turned to the man on her right, the same man who had spoken to her the day before. "Not really. It's a big responsibility and I've got a lot on my mind right now."

He smiled sympathetically and patted her hand. "Can't say that it's not good you're nervous. I've sat on a trial once before and there was a young kid who wouldn't take it seriously. No matter what the prosecutor says, it's hard to forget that a man's life is on our hands, and he'll be punished according to our vote. Doesn't get much more serious than that."

Christine nodded, his words not comforting her in the least.

"Name's Richard by the way. I guess we'll be getting pretty well acquainted over the next few weeks."

"Christine," she mumbled, grasping his proffered hand lightly.

Richard might have continued speaking but all of Christine's focus shifted to the defendant, led into the room by two bailiffs. He looked a little different today. While his face was still as deathly, his body impossibly thin, he carried himself with a bit more presence than before—his stare not quite as vacant.

"Scary, isn't he?"

Christine swallowed, her eyes never moving from his form. "He's only a man. He can't help it if he looks like that."

Richard shrugged. "Hear all the time in the news about face transplants and medical advancements. He could probably have tried something."

Irritation rose within her at his critical tone. While she did not know this man, Richard most certainly didn't either. Anyone could be poor and struggle with even basic necessities, and hospitalizations were expensive. Every year when flu season returned, she prayed she would remain well enough to work as she could not afford days off to recuperate, let alone a trip to the hospital from complications.

While the man was wearing a suit that appeared to be of quality, that did not guarantee he had money enough for risky surgeries. And if his parents had been poor like hers, they certainly couldn't have helped him when he was little, no matter how they might have wanted to.

One of the bailiffs came forward, a large stack of notepads in his hand as well as a clump of black pens rubber banded together. "These are for you to use to take notes throughout the trial and they are strictly confidential. When deliberations begin you may refer to them in your discussions but until then, keep them close and keep them private!"

"Don't know how we're supposed to do that when we're seated so close together," a young man in the front row grumbled in what she was sure was supposed to have been a low voice. A few of the other jurors chuckled, but Christine could understand his discomfort. A rather burly man was seated next to him, his shoulders easily encroaching on the younger man's seat.

"All rise!"

The judge entered, his hands already waving for the room's occupants to sit.

Christine smiled dimly as Richard's grumbled, "I'm too old for all this up and down…"

"I would like to thank our jury for being so punctual, I know this can be a terrible inconvenience for you and the court acknowledges your service." His voice was low and rote and Christine imagined it was tedious to constantly thank a group of twelve hostages—at least, that's how she felt in the moment.

While the jurors had indeed been on time, the court had not been so prompt. Already they were an hour behind schedule. The courtroom itself had been locked and they once more had to sit idly by in the waiting room. She had thought that at the very least the too-small room would have seemed more spacious now that the jury had been selected, but instead it was even more crowded as the courtroom across the hall summoned a new batch of potentials for service. Yesterday she had been able to grab one of the few chairs, but today she had finally abandoned the room altogether in favor of sitting on the stairs, trying to find a bit of peace amidst the stuffy hallways.

Eventually a bailiff had appeared and ushered them into the courtroom, and Christine had been grateful for the moderate temperatures and a cushioned chair—a vast improvement over the harsh tile step.

"Now, before we begin, I'm given to understand that a plea agreement was offered yesterday by the prosecution. Has the defense decided to accept those terms?" He fiddled with the wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, squinting at a piece of paper before him. "Life imprisonment instead of the death penalty. What say you Mr. Chagny? Does your client wish to accept?"

Christine's heart clenched at the possibility that this decision would be taken from them. The man would not have to… die, and she could go home and back to work immediately.

And then she felt horribly guilty. Some people plead guilty even when innocent simply because they were frightened. The defendant did not seem afraid, but that didn't mean much.

And she hated to think what would be done to him in prison with a face like his.

The young attorney stood, buttoning his suit jacket nervously. His suit today was a light grey, and while this time it seemed to fit him better, Christine could not help but cringe at the pink paisley tie and coordinating shirt that seemed so terribly out of place in the courtroom.

"My client has chosen to proceed with the trial, your honor."

The judge did not look surprised. "Very well, we shall proceed with opening statements. Mr. Sorelli, would you care to start?"

"Certainly, your honor."

Compared to Mr. Chagny's strange attire, the prosecutor looked every bit the professional attorney. He exuded confidence and authority, and he walked purposefully in front of the jurors.

"Members of the jury, the case before you is a simple one, but only if you do not allow your compassion to overtake the facts. While this man may have had a difficult life due to his deformity, that does not make him any less responsible for his actions. What the State will show is that the accused, on the third of April, entered the home of Edgar Poligny and when the defendant's attempts to further blackmail him failed, shot and killed him. You will hear testimony from Poligny's business partner Claude Debienne who will give evidence that this man," he pointed firmly at the accused, and Christine couldn't help but think it rude, "sought to exert control over their business for many, many years. He used fear and manipulation until finally, when the two gentlemen desired retirement and refused to give into his continued demands, Poligny suffered a fatal shot to the head. And furthermore, in his attempt to hide his crimes, the defendant staged the scene to appear as a suicide, showing a distinct lack of remorse for his actions."

The prosecutor paused and looked each juror in the eye, and Christine felt distinctly uncomfortable at his scrutiny.

"You will also hear testimony from a private investigator assigned to the case as well as the investigating officer, both of which will provide evidence of the involvement of the accused as well as the execution of the crime. Thank you."

Due to his formality, Christine half expected him to bow before returning to his seat.

But his demeanor was an effective tool, as she found her opinion of the defendant already muddying. Everyone was capable of terrible deeds, even ones who suffered through physical deformities and who made her feel such a sense of pity…

She stomped down her conclusions and reminded herself firmly that they were to suspend forming firm judgments until the evidence was given in its entirety. She would remain open minded and not allow herself to be swayed simply depending on who was talking. Lawyers were trained in the art of persuasion and she would not be a simpleton who merely believed whatever was spoken at her. She would use discernment and reasoning and, despite her reticence in being here at all, be the best juror she could.

Because it was impossible to ignore that a man's life hung in the balance.

"Mr. Chagny, would you care to provide your opening statement?"

The young man rose, wiping his palms on his pant legs before coming to stand before the jury box. He fiddled with his tie for a moment before taking a deep breath. He stood a bit taller and Christine sympathized with the difficulty he was having as he obviously tried to pull himself together. While she could sing in front of a crowd with little difficulty, she loathed speaking in front of others—and hadn't she been forced to address this very room only yesterday?

She shivered a little just remembering it.

But regardless of her commiseration, he had chosen a profession that required him to do so, and she hoped that he was actually qualified to defend this man.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," surprisingly his voice was steady, and Christine relaxed a bit hearing it, "the burden of proof lies with the prosecution. Not only must the State convince you that Edgar Poligny was murdered, but they must also unequivocally prove that my client was the one to pull the trigger. They must show that he was the one who, allegedly, harassed both Poligny and Debienne into making financial and artistic decisions at their theatre company that they would not have otherwise made. What this requires, ladies and gentlemen, is proof.

"And that, I am afraid, after I have looked over all their so called evidence, is sincerely lacking. While an argument could be made that there were some mysterious events at the theatre, there is very little that can actually be connected to my client."

He turned slightly to the prosecution, his expression almost accusatory. "Yet here we are."

The judge interrupted. "Keep things civil, Mr. Chagny. You may be new to this, but I don't tolerate cheap shots in my courtroom."

He bowed his head, looking properly contrite, though Christine didn't really believe it. "My apologies your honor."

"The prosecution asks you to suspend your compassion in favor of the facts, but I would urge you to remember that the DA and the police department, while admirable agencies, are just as fallible as they rely on human judgment."

Christine shifted uncomfortably as he voiced her very concern. Who was she to sentence someone? Who were these other eleven people?

"My client is not a monster. My client is a man who has been unjustly accused of these crimes based on circumstantial evidence, and that cannot be tolerated—not in a justice system that relies on fact and evidence over bias and prejudice."

Christine's eye flickered to the accused, and for the first time she noted the small cuts and bruises that were half-healed on his pale flesh. She didn't know much about how the system worked, but she thought he was probably kept in jail until the trial was over. Weren't there guards who were meant to protect him from other inmates?

She hated to think how cruel some might be based solely on his face. From what she could tell of his body he looked frail and thin, not at all like he was capable of defending himself. His height was really the only imposing thing about him, and she doubted that would be enough to dissuade someone from hurting him if they so desired.

Richard leaned close to her, his voice only a whisper. "How do they expect us to keep from taking a face like that into account? Either he's a monster just like he appears to be, or he's a saint and this is all a big misunderstanding."

"I would remind the jury not to begin speaking until the deliberation has begun. For now you are here to listen and observe, not form conclusions." The judge gave a pointed glance in their direction. "Or interrupt my court with whispering."

Richard sat back sheepishly, and Christine's cheeks flamed from being caught—whether or not she had actively participated.

"Now, Mr. Sorelli, would you like to call your first witness?"

Sooo… Opening statements, and next up, witnesses! Any preliminary thoughts on Erik's guilt or innocence? Mind you, the lawyers said to wait until you've heard all the fact before forming an opinion… but come on, we all get gut feelings. And it looks like at least one of Christine's managers isn't totally unreasonable… wonder who the owner is?

I'd love to hear your thoughts!