Okay, so I had intended to send this out earlier as my birthday gift to all of you, but festivities ran much longer than I anticipated so my good intentions were for naught! But I hope you manage to enjoy it anyway! Let's see what's up next at the courthouse today, shall we...

Onward!

IX

The rest of the afternoon was spent listening to an interview with a handwriting expert, who identified at least four different persons who had penned letters in Mr. Poligny's possession.

"And what about the final letter? The one that threatened to physically harm the deceased if he did not comply with monetary compensation?"

The witness held up a photocopy of the note and pointed to one of the words. "See this downward stroke? It suggests hesitation. At first glance the letters themselves are fairly consistent suggesting a single author, but this one in particular shows some interesting qualities. The oldest are almost childlike, the penmanship stunted… like if you tried writing with your non-dominant hand. Two other sets are far too round and natural, while the last makes a greater effort to appear like the older letters."

No matter how Christine squinted at the picture to which the forensic specialist referred, she could not see the specific marks that so clearly evidenced multiple hands had made the spiky scrawl. But Mr. Chagny made her recite her credentials, and even though Christine knew nothing about this field, she seemed a credible witness.

And if her testimony was accurate, it meant that whoever had first begun sending the letters was not the one who had threatened to kill Mr. Poligny.

Christine looked over at Erik. Despite his earlier conference with Mr. Chagny he remained as stoic as ever, giving her no acknowledgement. Ever since Mrs. Poligny had referred to him as that and shuddered at the mere thought of being intimate with him, he had seemed to retreat within himself—and for some unknown reason it made her heart hurt to see it.

Mr. Debienne had said that when they followed the instruction of the notes, their production actually improved. Had Erik simply communicated his musical prowess the only way he knew how? She did not fully understand what classified as extortion, but she didn't think that friendly suggestions left on a manager's desk should result in a prison sentence.

She hoped they would be allowed to look at the letters themselves soon.

Mr. Sorelli was not nearly so polite to the analyst, his tone automatically taking on a sarcastic nature that Christine found objectionable.

"Ms. Williams, how accurate do you consider your… interpretation of these samples?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you asking if I am confident in my testimony? Of course, otherwise I would not have agreed to come here today."

He shook his head, his smile placid and almost mocking. "Not quite. Is there, or is there not, still some debate about the validity of your field?"

This time she did nothing to hide her affront at his probing enquiry. "People in my field are widely respected for our analyses, Mr. Sorelli. Handwriting is like a fingerprint—everyone is different with subtle nuisances that become obvious to the highly trained eye. For you to insinuate that it is merely guesswork is an insult to forensics in general."

He raised his hands placating. "Did the defendant actually provide you a sample to compare to the letters?"

She looked somewhat disappointed. "Unfortunately not. Until recently he has not participated much in his own defense, hasn't said much of anything or so I'm told, and he was not willing to provide a sample."

Mr. Sorelli sent a triumphant smirk in the defense's direction. "So really, you have no idea which of the letters he has written."

"That isn't quite true."

His smirk fell. "What do you mean?"

"There was a considerable amount of writing samples found in the underground dwelling where Erik was discovered. From this I was able to infer that he was the same individual who had written the majority of the notes."

Mr. Sorelli frowned. "But you cannot be certain. None have actually witnessed his signature since his incarceration."

She sighed. "I suppose not."

Mr. Sorelli returned to his desk.

"Anything else, counselor? Or may we move on?"

He picked up one of the files from the neat pile on his desk and flipped through it absently.

Both lawyers had done this multiple times throughout the trial and it always gave the attorney an heir of credibility—that their questions were based on some submitted evidence and not merely rhetoric, and Christine wondered how many of these were merely props and how many were of actual use and purpose to their case.

"It has been suggested that the accused is of considerable intelligence. You previously stated, if indeed most of these letters were written by the defendant as you suggest, that the handwriting is stunted. Childlike. Is that consistent with high levels of aptitude?"

Ms. Williams appeared thoughtful, her words slow and carefully chosen. "Not… generally. But individuals on either end of the spectrum, from intellectual disability to what we might consider 'geniuses' have specific strengths and weaknesses. If Erik did not receive formal training in fine motor skills as well as lessons in how to properly form letters, it is reasonable to think that his penmanship would suffer. If I handed the average person a pen and demanded they write in cursive, they too would have trouble creating a fluid motion."

She looked over at him, this time her expression one of compassion. "It is entirely possible that he might not have had anyone to communicate with. Penmanship takes practice and if there is no one to help guide these skills…"

Mr. Sorelli cut in abruptly. "No further questions, your honor, and I would ask that you remind the jury that compassion, while an admirable quality, is not relevant to this particular case."

The judge nodded. "I agree. Jurors, the circumstances of this man's life are not relevant to the facts of the case. Please note only the testimony relevant to the nature of these letters and the probability that the accused was the one who penned them."

Christine stared blankly at the judge. How did they expect a person to simply disconnect their feelings from testimony? She understood that facts and evidence were predominant, but it mattered to her if Erik had never had anyone to write a letter to. It mattered if he was qualified by some innate musical genius to work in a theatre but his face and lack of social skills kept him from actual employment.

It mattered if he was only accused of this crime because he happened to be on the premises and it was easier to pin a murder on an ugly, lonesome man than actually find the killer.

It mattered if he had meant to be malicious or if he was merely trying to help.

But of course none of the lawyers truly answered these questions, and so she was left only to piece together what really happened with the snippets allowed in between objections and censures from the judge.

Court recessed soon after, and when she was about to exit the room, the bailiff approached once again. Erik was still seated at the defense table, Mr. Chagny speaking lowly in his ear, and she couldn't help but wonder once again what they talked about.

"You are certain there's nothing you want to tell me? I'd hate to find out tomorrow that something happened to you and I could have done something to stop it."

His face was once again the perfect picture of concern, but Christine cast one more quick glance in Erik's direction. His shoulders seemed straighter than before, and his head was tilted ever so slightly in their direction.

She smiled thinly, uncertain if he was attempting to listen to their conversation.

"Thank you again, but I'm sure everything is fine. I haven't been getting to sleep much and I'm probably just reading into things. I'd hate to stir up trouble over nothing."

He looked doubtful but didn't press further. "Alright then. But just so you know, we don't have a lot of information about the defendant. There aren't any known associates in the system but that could be just because he's not in the system. Don't even have a last name for him. But keep your eyes and ears peeled and tell me immediately if you get scared or think there's a threat. Okay?"

She nodded, her cheeks reddening despite her full understanding that he was simply doing his job and was not paying her any particular attention.

"You know…"

Christine glanced up at him. "Yes?"

"I hope you don't mind, and of course this would have no bearing on the trial but… I wondered if maybe you'd like to have coffee with me when this is all over."

She blinked. "What?"

He smiled at her, his eyes warm as he regarded her. "Coffee? Or tea if you'd rather. You seem like an interesting person and I'd like to get to know you better. When it wouldn't interfere with the case of course."

This time there was no mistaking the crimson blush that overtook her cheeks, and she swallowed thickly. He was handsome, there was no mistaking it, with a slightly mischievous look in his eyes that highlighted his youth. His job might be important but he always treated the jurors with a dose of good humor, especially when he ensured they had whatever they required.

She had been horribly embarrassed one morning but she had been forced to ask for a tissue, the cool air of the A/C making her nose itch terribly, and he had presented it with a bright smile and a flourish of white.

Richard had eyed her knowingly but she had resolutely ignored him.

He chuckled at her blank expression and tried again. "You know, go out with me when the trial's over."

Christine's throat felt tight and her heart began to pound rapidly in her chest. She didn't know anything about it, least of all why he thought her interesting, but she was so very tired of being alone and there would be time enough to change her mind by the time the trial was over…

"Alright," she managed to squeak out, cursing at how timid she sounded.

His brow furrowed slightly. "I don't mean to twist your arm or anything."

She smiled at him shyly. "That's not… I mean… that could be nice."

His grin widened immediately. "Good then. Something to look forward to." His expression grew more serious though and she looked about the room, but Mr. Chagny and Erik still seemed to be whispering about something and the secondary bailiff was stationed in the far corner. "Not that you should try to shorten the deliberations or anything. This is a serious matter and I don't mean to…"

She interrupted, not wanting him to think for a moment that she would let the prospect of a new friend and a cup of tea cloud her judgment. "I know what you mean. This is important and like you said, it's just something to look forward to, Officer…" His nametag supplied Ryan, but she wasn't certain if that was the correct way to address him.

Not if he wanted to take her out for coffee someday.

"Joe. Well, in the courthouse it's Officer Ryan, but… I wouldn't mind if you starting thinking of me as Joe… you know, for later."

She held out her hand as her papa had taught so very long ago, and smiled as confidently as she could. "It's nice to meet you, Joe. I'm Christine."

She only allowed herself one last peek over her shoulder as they exited the courtroom, and she caught Erik's glare at the bailiff and wondered what had troubled him so.

And then he glanced at her with eyes so full of sadness and pain, and her heart felt heavy and sore for whatever had caused it… and even her timid smile at him did nothing to enliven his spirits before he returned his focus to the desk and she walked through the ornate oak doors.

It felt odd going straight home from the courthouse that day, but Marjorie had demanded Ewan put her on that night's shift and with five years seniority at the restaurant, he had begrudgingly obliged. Christine had initially been upset that the money she would have made was now going into another's pocket, but she did understand the woman's ferocity. She had a frequently ill daughter, or so she had regularly explained to the staff, and it was not unusual for her to beg to switch with another waitress—or in some cases snatch one away by going through management.

But perhaps a night off for resting and actually making something substantial for dinner would not be such a bad thing. Her rent had already been paid this month and with the extra money coming in from her jury duty as well as her evening tips, she actually felt that things were not so dismal after all.

At least not for the moment, and she would be grateful for it.

Winter was fast approaching, the cold winds and sudden rains promising a dreary few months to come. Christine had always liked the stormy weather when her papa was alive—they would share hot chocolate and he would tell her stories as they huddled near the ancient radiator. He would always scold her if he saw any hint of uncovered toes, absolutely certain that she would catch frost bite if she went without socks for even a moment during the winter months.

While their apartments had never been the finest, they had never been that cold, but she had indulged him as he fussed.

And now she so dearly wanted him to be there to worry over her, and her cold toes, once more.

The market was busy as it seemed most people were just now coming home from work, last minute items thrown haphazardly into metal carts with squeaking wheels before long lines meant short tempers and bruised feelings. Christine usually avoided the store at this time but she decided that she would treat herself to something special tonight in honor of her free evening.

Steak was not something she usually indulged in. Only on birthdays really had her papa thought it worth the expense, chicken or cheaper types of fish a more common meal in their home.

But as she had brushed her teeth that morning she noticed that her gums looked pale and after some consideration she realized that perhaps her frequent feasting on little more than bread, peanut butter, and a healthy spread of blueberry preserves was not adequate for covering the major food groups.

The butcher noticed her staring vacantly at the meat display, her understanding of the prices far outweighing her knowledge of which cuts were most desirable.

"Just for you?"

Christine didn't know what was so obvious about her single status, but Officer Ryan… Joe… hadn't even questioned whether or not she had a boyfriend.

She just smiled at the butcher ruefully and nodded. "Just me."

He pulled out a package that held a single steak, and while she silently balked at the price, she hoped that it would be worth it.

He put a little sticker on the cellophane detailing how best to cook it before wishing her well and turning his attention to a mother, with two young children in tow who thought it great fun to poke idly at the chicken breasts and watch their fingers sink slightly into the tissue, giggling all the while.

The mother sighed tiredly before intervening, her children appearing chastened, at least for the moment.

Perhaps it was pathetic really, but as Christine unloaded her basket onto the belt and waited for her items to be rung up, she wondered what it would even be like to need to use a cart. To know what each of the family liked and to make purchases accordingly, special Saturday morning cereal for the children and maybe coffee beans for a husband.

Not that she knew how to make coffee as that required special equipment beyond her lone kettle that permanently resided on the stove. She wouldn't even have had that if it had not been left by a previous tenant—and after scouring it thoroughly it had appeared almost new, and it was one of her most frequently used item in her otherwise sparse kitchen.

It was growing dark by the time she finally made her way home from the market, the days growing shorter as the year drew to a close. She was certainly growing used to returning home during nighttime hours, there was something less foreboding about doing so while otherpeople still milled about, children held protectively by the hand as they hurried home for dinner.

But the healthy dose of fear that generally accompanied her on the way home did not allow for the loneliness to settle in, and she found she almost preferred her wary treks home to the despondency that inevitably followed too many thoughts and too much longing for something she had yet to create.

Her conversation with Joe had reminded her that a family to an orphan was not impossible. It might not include parents and that particular sense of home, but she did not have to be perpetually isolated. Her period of grieving, while necessary at the time, did not have to mean she locked herself away forever.

Her paper bag of grocery items grew heavy on her way home, and before she could put it down and rifle through her purse to find her keys, one of her neighbors poked her head out of the door.

"Christine, wait!"

Mrs. Dobson had lived in the building for decades, long before the surrounding area had become shabby and ill-cared for. But still she remained, claiming her little apartment was home and no matter what riff raff came to stay near her, she refused to move away.

Christine did not have much contact with her, their hours very different as she liked to go to bed as early as seven, frequently complaining to Christine that, "All the good TV programs go to bed early, so why shouldn't I?"

"Yes, Mrs. Dobson?"

She hoped that meat could stay out for this amount of time without spoiling, as the walk home and the long line had meant she was delayed longer than she would have liked.

"Some mail got delivered to me by mistake and I wanted to give it to you."

Christine sighed, shifting her groceries on her hip in hopes of relieving the pressure on her arm.

It didn't work.

She smiled at her neighbor as best she could. "I can come by later to get it. Thank you for noticing."

She finally found her keys that had worked their way into the bottom recesses of her bag, anxious to just get inside and cook dinner. Her stomach grumbled noisily at the delay, the promise of good food waking it from its otherwise placid despair and general emptiness.

"Wait!"

The vehemence of her demand made Christine pause, her key still nestled in the lock. "What is it?" For the first time she stopped and turned to her neighbor, hoping that nothing dreadful had happened to her and Christine had been too distracted and focused to notice.

"I heard someone at your door so I peeped out to check thinking I could give it to you, but it was a man."

Christine stilled. "A man? Doing what? Was it the super?"

"I don't think so! He was tall and all covered up. Said he was here to make a delivery and that I shouldn't worry… well, by the time I put my glasses on to get a good look and tell him I'd call the police if he didn't scoot, he had disappeared!"

Christine relaxed slightly. Mrs. Dobson was practically blind without her glasses no matter how she insisted her vision was more than fine, and regardless of how the cloudiness from the cataracts proved otherwise. He was probably just a salesman that one of the other tenants had buzzed in and she'd find a flyer on the other side of her door.

Now if she could only get to the other side of her door…

"I'm sure it's fine, but thank you for checking on me. I'll come by later to pick up my mail."

Mrs. Dobson looked wholly unconvinced and stationed herself outside her own door as she watched Christine enter her apartment. Christine made a great show of peering into the darkened space and proclaiming it unoccupied, and with a huff Mrs. Dobson retreated to her own home, muttering that this was not simply a deliveryman.

Nothing appeared amiss upon her cursory examination, but at that point her stomach was too hungry to allow time for a more thorough look about. She followed the instruction on the sticker as best she could, and while perhaps parts of it were a little too well done and others a bit more red than she liked, the steak was a welcome addition to her otherwise bland diet.

It was only when she was tending to the dishes that she glanced over to the counter where her rose, that had looked sad and droopy when she had left, was now fresh and lively.

Her nerves returned tenfold.

The piece of paper that she had so carefully propped against the glass was still there, yet the slightly crumpled corner was now crisp and smooth.

She told herself firmly that she was being terribly foolish and that nothing was truly amiss as she picked up the note, fully expecting the same words from before be scrolled across the page.

Except that they weren't.

All good things come to those who wait, Christine. You can do better than a lowly bailiff.

And when a quiet tapping came at her window, it took all of her remaining self-control not to scream.

Sooo... looks like Christine got asked on a date and she accepted! But it doesn't appear that everyone is as thrilled about it as she might be... Hm... wonder who wouldn't like her even considering the prospect of new relationship... What do you think about her beginning to question her "gifts"? Is she right to make enquiries about their source? And do you think her admirer has crossed a line by entering her apartment? Living quarters are very personal you know!

I'd love to hear your thoughts in a review... consider it a birthday present to meee!