Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the collective works of Stephenie Meyer's Twilight Saga
A/N: Violence like Woah. Viewer discretion advised. Seriously. Don't read this chapter if violence against teens/women will upset you. You should be fine up until the 'No Stone Left Unturned' page break, but I'll leave a TL;DR at the bottom if you aren't able to read any of it. Your mental health is important. XOXO, CheckAlexa
Chapter 39: Judge
In the three weeks between receiving the summons and the trial, Louisa crotched two blankets, nine socks, three sweaters, and twenty-seven hats. Kelly even received a new stuffed animal out of the ordeal, which she showed off to any nurse who came in to check on her. Jasper, who preferred her crafting over picking her cuticles until they bled, enabled her coping mechanism by making sure her yarn stash was adequately stocked. They spent hours cooped up at the Collins' house where Jasper tried to keep from fretting too much. Rosalie joined them more often than not, accompanied by Emmett. Whilst the couple could hardly be described as soothing, they offered a great distraction from Louisa's growing anxiety.
Mr Collins spent more time at home, too, which was an unexpected (though not unwelcomed) outcome of the impending trial. Although he didn't coach her on what to say, he talked her through what to expect. Considering all she knew about courtroom proceedings came from watching Legally Blonde, this was incredibly helpful. His main piece of advice was for her to keep a cool head.
"The defence may try to provoke you," he warned in the car on the way to Seattle. "Getting overly emotional may give you a bad impression to the jury."
"So show no emotion," Louisa sighed, glancing out the window. She had elected to sit in the back seat with Jasper, who had insisted on attending the trial. The day was muggy and overcast in a way that only a July morning in the Pacific Northwest could be, which proved to be fortuitous, considering her boyfriend's aversion to sunlight. "Got it."
"I didn't say that," her father replied, shooting her a look in the rear-view mirror. "That would make it look like you don't care."
Louisa wanted to snap back that she didn't care, but everyone in the car knew that wasn't true. No, if anything, she cared too much, which was part of the reason why she was so agitated. Other than Pyotr, Louisa was the only witness to what had happened in the warehouse a year ago. Due to a lack of forensic evidence, the majority of the trial was centred on their testimony. She knew that if she failed, Jason Lambe could walk free, unpunished, for the myriad of crimes he had committed.
It was a lot to put on the shoulders of a seventeen-year-old.
She returned to looking out the window and rested her head on Jasper's shoulder. He pressed a kiss to temple and placed a soothing hand on her knee, easing her growing anxiety. The three-hour drive to Seattle was somehow too short, and soon they were parking the car and walking up the courthouse steps. It loomed over them like an ominous, imposing shadow, ready to swallow them whole as they approached its gaping maw. Her father continued to chatter away about court procedures and other boring law stuff, which mostly went in one ear and out the other. But one detail, in particular, stuck out to her. It filled her with so much disgust that Jasper looked down in her in alarm.
"They're only trying him for one murder?" she asked in a choked voice. "After all he did?"
Her father gave her a grim smile. "It isn't uncommon," he explained while he smoothed down the collar of her blouse. "The prosecution can only try him for a crime once because of double jeopardy. That way if they lose this trial, they have other murders they prosecute him for."
"Not that they think that's going to happen," Jasper added.
Her father hummed and smoothed out her hair, which Dottie had braided into two long plaits. Combined with her knee-length plaid skirt, Louisa felt like she looked more like a schoolgirl than a witness. When she complained, her father merely shrugged.
"That's rather the point," said Mr Collins. "We want to remind the jury how young you are. You'll look more sympathetic to them if you dress like you're about to go to algebra."
Louisa pulled a sour face at her father's words. "That's so manipulative."
He shrugged. "That's law," he replied. "The coming days will all be a show. And whoever is the better actor, wins."
"I don't think I like lawyers."
"I don't either," said Mr Collins drily. "They're insufferable, the whole lot of them."
She gave him a weak smile and allowed him to pull her in for a brief hug before continuing up the steps. Her anxiety mounted with each step she took. Had it not been for Jasper's hand on the small of her back offering his unique brand of comfort, she would have hightailed it out of there. She still wanted to ask if he would pick her up and run away, of course, but it helped take the edge off her panic.
Louisa wasn't sure which she was more nervous about: having to testify, or being in the same room with Jason Lambe. She knew, realistically, that he wouldn't be able to hurt her. Even if he somehow managed to evade the bailiffs and attempt to attack her, Jasper would be sitting in the audience. Jasper would never let something hurt her if he could prevent it— vampire laws be damned. Still, something about the thought of sitting in Lambe's direct line of sight made her skin crawl. And not just for the numerous trauma-related reasons. There was an itch in the back of her mind, like a memory that she couldn't quite access, that had her uneasy.
Well, at least Dottie wouldn't be in the same room as him. Louisa had flat out refused that her sister be allowed to attend the trial and their father was more than happy to comply with her demands. Instead, she would be spending the day with Chief Swan, who needed her help setting up a bedroom for a teenager. This task would be infinitely more enjoyable, even if it did evolve vague descriptions about what his daughter liked. ("'Reading' is hardly anything to go off of!" Dottie had screeched.)
At the top of the steps, Louisa was met with the amusing sight of Petya and his father. They both held venti sized Starbucks cups and wore matching wool blazers, although her friend didn't look anywhere near as cool as his father did. Petya shifted from foot to foot, filled with nervous energy as he towered over his father, who looked bored to be there. Although to be fair, that was Dr Yakovlev's default expression.
Whilst Petya was tall and coltish, Dr Yakovlev was a short, stocky man with biceps thicker than her head. Despite looking like he lived in a gym, there was a gaunt quality to him, which screamed of a childhood of malnutrition that no amount of food would ever fix. His neat hair and immaculately groomed goatee were steel grey, which he claimed were from having to deal with her and Petya's shenanigans. Combined with his pristine white dress shirt and bespoke waistcoat, he gave off the impression of a headmaster at a Victorian boarding school. This intimidating appearance, however, belied an inner warmth Louisa knew he possessed.
After catching sight of her, Dr Yakovlev began berating Louisa for not eating enough and yanked her into a hug. Several dozen kisses later, he pulled back and gave her a once-over. "What have you been feeding this girl?" Dr Yakovlev asked her father.
Mr Collins shrugged. "Not much. I just make sure to water her every day."
He hummed in response before turning to survey Jasper with a critical eye. "And this is the boyfriend?" he asked Louisa in rapid Russian.
"Da," she confirmed, reaching to grab hold of Jasper's hand.
"Jasper Hale," he said, extending his free hand with a charming smile.
Dr Yakovlev watched him for a moment before reaching to shake Jasper's hand. "You'll do."
Petya and Louisa shared an amused look before following Mr Collins into the courthouse. They made it through security without much trouble. Well, except for Jasper, who kept setting off the metal detectors, earning glares from the security guards. ("It's a side effect of vampirism," he muttered in her ear. "Airports are a nightmare.") The memory brought her some comfort when she was ripped away and ushered into a tiny little room to wait. Fortunately, she brought a bag of yarn and a crochet hook, because it was an hour before anything happened. And naturally, Petya got to go first.
She gave him a hug and wished him luck before he too was whisked away.
No Stone Left Unturned
"State your name."
Courtroom 202 was hot, and it had nothing to do with the thirty-degree heat outside. The gallery was jammed with reporters and observers alike, and the combined heat too much for whatever air condition the King County Courthouse was paying for. Within minutes of stepping into the witness box, Petya was sweating. At least he wasn't packed in a bench between Mr Collins and Jasper like his father was.
"Pyotr Yakovlev," he said, trying to keep his voice as even as possible.
The first half of his testimony went well, he thought. He kept a level head as the attorney for the prosecution asked him questions about the night he and Louisa were held captive by Jason Lambe. The questions focused more on what Lambe himself had done, rather than the circumstances leading up to the events leading up to it. Considering he had been trespassing that night, this was rather fortunate. He sat on his hands to keep them from shaking as he recalled what had happened, but it was difficult to separate himself from the event. Even a year later, the events were fresh in his mind.
Then the cross-examination started. The defence attorney stood up with a flourish and smoothed out the non-existent wrinkles on his dark grey suit. He flashed Petya an easy, charming smile. It put him on edge.
"Now, Peter."
"Pyotr," he corrected on reflex.
"Oh, I apologise. Your name is difficult to say. Do you mind if I call you Peter instead? That's the English version, isn't it?"
"Yes," he agreed, his gaze shifting to his father in the crowd. "But my name isn't Peter. It's Pyotr."
"Well yes," the attorney replied, giving him a charming smile. "But we're in America."
"Objection, your honour," the prosecutor said, jumping to his feet. "Relevance?"
"Is there a reason to this?" the judge asked, looking bored.
"I don't want to disrespect the poor boy by butchering his name."
The judge looked down at Petya with a raised eyebrow. "May he call you Peter?"
Petya made eye contact with his father once more, who looked just as stoic as before. Wiping his sweaty palms against his trousers, he replied, "If a lawyer can learn to saw funny Latin words such as pro bono and amicus curiae, I think I would like for him to attempt to pronounce my given name."
A chuckle rippled through the courtroom at that, but Petya didn't know what was so funny about what he said. The barrister didn't think so either and gave him a tight smile.
"Pyotr," he amended. "When did you arrive in the United States?"
"I immigrated eight years ago, at the age of nine."
"And how many years at that point, would you say, you had been learning English?"
Dread pooled in his gut at the question. He knew at once what angle the defence would be playing: the confused immigrant who couldn't possibly understand what he saw. All because he spoke another language. As if being fluent in several languages somehow made him less intelligent, less reliable, simply because English wasn't his native language.
"None," he admitted.
The attorney hummed. "And your father? How much English would you say that he spoke?"
Petya pursed his lips, trying to follow the man's line of reasoning. What did his father have to do with any of this? "I don't know. You'd have to ask him."
A titter of laughter rose from the gallery and Petya looked for the sound. Was he missing something?
"What language do you speak primarily at home?"
He resisted the urge to sigh. "Russian."
"And would you say that you are fluent in English?" the attorney asked. Was it his imagination, or were his words carefully enunciated, as if he wasn't sure Petya could understand him?
He swallowed down his irritation. "I could not say, sir," he replied. "Although, I have not sat for any formal fluency examinations, my English teacher has assured me that I am rather proficient." Perhaps the flowery language was unnecessary, but he couldn't resist throwing it out there. He had studied hard to get to where he was today, and he wasn't about to let some hotshot lawyer make him look dumb.
The attorney gave him a tight-lipped smile. "They're correct. I can barely hear an accent," he said. "And English isn't the easiest language to learn, I think we can all agree."
Petya opened his mouth to agree but quelled his tongue at the last moment. The attorney hadn't asked a question, he realised. Petya didn't have to answer, but the statement was phrased in a way to elicit a response from him nonetheless. If he agreed with the statement, he would play right into the attorney's strategy to win the case, whatever that proved to be. So instead he remained silent and continued to watch the man with a blank expression. In the audience, he saw Mr Collins give a small nod of approval.
The attorney continued on, unfazed. He began asking personal questions that Petya was forced to answer such as, where he was born ("Moscow") and where he lived before immigrating ("Kyakhta") and why they left Moscow (he didn't know, you'd have to ask his father) and why did they move to the US (his mother died). He wasn't sure what any of these questions had to do with the murder trial, but he responded truthfully, if a touch reluctantly. After all, why did the court need to know how his mother died ("Leukaemia"). He wasn't the one on trial.
"And what was your father's occupation in Russia?" the attorney asked.
The question through him for a loop. "He was a doctor."
"But he isn't now?"
Petya felt his brow furrowing despite his best efforts to keep his face impassive. "He is not currently licensed to practice medicine in this country."
"Is it because of his connection with the Russian mob?"
"What?" Petya hissed, hands clenching at his side in fury.
"Objection!" The prosecutor called before Petya had a chance to yell at the defence attorney.
"Sustained," the judge said in a stern voice. "I don't know what your reasoning is behind your question, Counsellor, but xenophobia has no place in my courtroom. I will ask the jury to disregard any questions regarding Mr Yakovlev's parentage. He is not the one on trial today."
The defence attorney nodded in concession, but a small smile twitched on his face. Regardless of the judge's instructions, Petya's credibility had been questioned. The damage had been done, and everyone in the room knew it. He felt his stomach plummet to his feet and wished he was anywhere else but there.
A fire burned in his chest as he glared at the defence attorney. He wanted nothing more than to dress him down in front of everyone and defend his father. His father who moved them to America to give them a better life, knowing full well that the country wouldn't see his medical license as valid and deny him work he was qualified to perform. His father was a hardworking man, who had worked full time as a janitor during the day and attended university, then medical school at night. He was a good, honest man who didn't deserve to have such hateful words spewed against him.
But a word was not a sparrow. He knew that if he took the bait and rose to his father's defence, the defence could, and no doubt would, find a way to use his words against him. That was the last thing Petya needed considering that the worst was yet to come. And judging by the smug look on the defence attorney's face, he knew it too.
"Walk me through the night of the incident," the attorney said. "The thirteenth of July, 2017. Start from the beginning of the evening, if you please."
Pyotr very much did not please, but he did so anyway. He spoke uninterrupted about how Louisa had deduced the location of the victim. About how he had followed her around an unfamiliar city, trespassing and breaking into warehouses (both abandoned and functional), in search for a woman they had never met. He explained finding the victim, whose name he didn't know but whose face was etched into his memory, who wasn't even tied up, because why would she be when her ankles were broken. The terror in his veins when he saw Jason Lambe, who practically skipped into the room, a wide grin on his face when he saw them. The woman was heavy, dead weight, as Petya scooped her up into his arms, dashing after Louisa. He could taste the sweat that streamed down his temples, beaded on his top lip as they dodged behind shipping crates and dusty forklifts with 'clean me!' traced on the windscreens. The relief of seeing the chain-link fence that meant freedom and safety, his heart pounding in his ears, the soles of trainers slapping against the asphalt. The barbed wire on the top the fence bit into his skin and tore at his clothes, but he helped the woman climb up but she was too hurt to climb down and Louisa was too short to climb up and Jason Lambe was getting closer and closer and Louisa's face was ashen and why wasn't she moving?
Then Lambe hit her over the head with a baseball bat. The sound was a sickening, wet sort of crack! that would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life. He watched in horror as his best friend dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes and didn't move again. Even in the dark, Petya could see how Lambe's fingers carded through Louisa's pale hair, a grotesque smile on his face.
"Well?" he asked, swinging Louisa up into his arms. "Are you coming or not?"
He couldn't leave her behind. Not Louisa. Anybody but Louisa. Even if that meant dropping down from the safety of the chain-link fence and dragging the sobbing woman with him. He trailed behind Lambe, retracing their steps through the abandoned warehouse until they reached the room. His movements were jerky and mechanic as he lay the now screaming, pleading woman back down on the concrete floor, exactly where they had found her.
"I knew she'd figure it out," Lambe said, tracing his fingers along the apple of Louisa's cheek. "She didn't need your help, you know."
But Petya didn't know. He had no clue what was going on. He wanted to say as much, but his breaths were coming in painful, ragged gasps and his head was spinning and he just wanted to go home.
"What shall I do with you, Pyotr Yakovlev?"
"So, you allege that the accused, Jason Lambe, knew your name?" The sudden question brought Petya out of the dazed trance he had fallen into. It took him a moment to realise that he was no longer in the grimy warehouse.
"Yes," he said, his voice coming out in a hoarse whisper.
"How?"
"I don't know." It was an honest answer to a question that had plagued him for a year. He had never spoken to the man before, even when Louisa was investigating the case. Lambe had always been absent when they visited the soup kitchen where he worked, and each time they had tried to set up an interview with him, he always had a convenient excuse to skip it. It had always been Louisa who had had contact with him, never the two of them, and never with Petya himself.
"But you had never met him in person before?"
Petya's chest constricted. He would remember meeting Jason Lambe, wouldn't he? But, then again, there was nothing special or particularly interesting about the man. Was it possible that he had met him and didn't remember it? Did the defence know something that he didn't, and was hoping to catch him in a lie? The idea made his head spin. "Not that I'm aware of," was the reply he settled for.
"Continue with your story, please," the attorney said with a dismissive hand wave.
Something about the phrasing threw Petya off. It was almost like he was suggesting that his testimony was nothing but a story— something made up. False. He had already attempted to make Petya out to be a clueless immigrant with alleged ties to the mob. Gooseflesh covered as the realisation of the attorney's strategy came over him. They were going to blame it on him.
"He—"
"Who is he?" The attorney interrupted, yet again.
Petya grit his teeth and pointed at Jason Lambe, finally looking at the man for the first time since he had entered the courtroom. He was a decently attractive man of middling height, with sandy blond hair cut into a fashionable hairstyle. Wearing a cheap polyester suit, Lambe could have passed as your average run-of-the-mill office worker— not a murder. "Him," he replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "Jason Lambe."
"And how are you certain that he is Jason Lambe if you never met him?"
"He tried to kill me," Petya snapped. "Regardless of his name, that leaves an impression." There was no laughing in the gallery now. Just an eerie, still silence.
"Continue," the attorney said.
"He placed Louisa on the ground," Petya said. Lambe had been so gentle with Louisa. He cradled her head and arranged her body with care, which was bizarre considering had just hit her over the head with a baseball bat. The baseball bat he handed to Petya.
"Take it." He said it in a way that left no room for discussion and Petya found himself reaching for it on reflex. "Kill her."
The bat slipped out of his hands and clattered to the ground. "Shto?"
Lambe growled and swiped the bat off the ground before forcing it into Petya's numb hands. "Kill her."
"I don't understand," he replied, dimly aware that he had slipped back into his native language. He wanted him to kill someone? His eyes darted to Louisa whose eyes were cracked, showing the whites of her eyes. Did he want him to… kill Louisa?
Revulsion stronger than anything he had ever known rolled through his stomach and bile burned his throat. "Nyet," he managed to choke out, his eyes watering. He would rather die than kill Louisa.
"Not her!" Lambe yelled, his voice reverberating off the concrete walls around them. "She's mine!" He leapt forward and seized Petya by the shoulders and spun him around to face the woman. "Do it. Now."
There was no stopping his tears now. They streamed down his face and his body shook with sobs. "Nyet!"
"Do it!" Lambe had his arms around him, his gloved hands covering Petya's bare ones, gripping so tightly he could feel the bones shifting beneath his skin.
"Nyet!"
He tried to fight him off. He kicked at his knees and swung his head back in an attempt to break his nose. He writhed and squirmed and elbowed and screamed, but it made no difference. He was being shoved towards the woman, who was trying to crawl away, trying to escape, just as he was. But it was no use. He could hear bones cracking, snapping, shattering beneath the bat as it bludgeoned her over and over, blood splattering against the concrete floor, the filthy forklifts, his face— until finally, finally, she stopped moving and the only sign of life was an awful, wet gurgle coming from her mouth.
Petya was shoved to the ground, landing hard next to the dying woman. He had just enough time to block the baseball bat with his arm and yelped when the bone snapped on impact. He kicked out, his foot connecting with Lambe's ankle, who dropped the bat in surprise. In a last-ditch effort, Petya dove for it, wrestling for it. He tossed it across the room before Lambe could reclaim possession. The man roared in fury, and Petya knew this was the end.
He looked at the poor, battered woman next to him, blood darkening her black hair. She reached out a slow hand and he did too, their fingers touched, intertwined, warm and real in what could very well be the last moment of their lives. They would die. Horribly, they knew. But they wouldn't be alone. He was the last thing she saw as her green eyes slipped closed.
And then he was ripped away, dragged back to Louisa who was sitting up, dazed and confused. His back was pressed to hers and Lambe tied them together, the thick coil of robe heavy and biting. Louisa's breath was erratic and pained and his was too. He was facing away from Lambe and the woman, but he could hear Lambe throwing some sort of liquid around. Petrol, by the smell of it.
"I thought you would stop this," Lambe said from somewhere close by. He sounded solemn. Disappointed. "I thought you were special, Louisa Jane."
There was a roar, a wave of heat, and a single, shrill shriek as the woman was engulfed in flames.
Petya wailed too. It was too much. Everything hurt and nothing made sense and he wanted his papa and go to bed. He gagged at the putrid scent that assaulted his nose, one of smoke and petrol and burning hair and melting flesh. Snot and tears covered his face, trickling into his mouth and coating his tongue.
"You're dull," Lambe said. He was even closer now, directly behind him. Right in front of Louisa. "I win."
Petrol was being thrown around again, but this time on him. It seeped into his clothes and his hair and his skin, covering him so that no matter how many showers he would take later, the stench of it would linger. It was a fortunate thing that the police arrived before the match was struck. He didn't know how they found them, but he wasn't going to complain.
"Let it be known to the court that the woman Mr Yakovlev refers to is named Sally Gibbons," the defence attorney said after a long moment. "How many times did you hit her?"
Petya opened his mouth to remind them that he hadn't hit her, but the prosecution was already raising an objection for that very reason.
"But he was holding the bat, was he not?" the defence attorney shot back. "Not only does he admit this, but his fingerprints are on the bat in question! They were the only fingerprints found on it, in fact.
"We are here today because of a crime that this boy alleges took place," he said, jabbing a finger in Petya's direction. "There is no evidence that my client was the one to hold the baseball bat that was allegedly used to kill Sally Gibbons, and allegedly assault Miss Louisa Collins. There is, however, this young man's fingerprints all over the weapon."
"That's because he was wearing gloves!" Petya snapped.
"Which cannot be found. It's rather convenient, don't you think?" the attorney said, turning to address the room at large. "That the one person whose fingerprints appear on the murder weapon, is the only one who witnessed all of this? That the one person who could corroborate his story is unconscious at his feet?" He turned to face Petya once more, a triumphant gleam in his eye. "You can't deny this."
"Objection! He's badgering my witness."
"I'm questioning his sequence of events," the defence attorney corrected.
A tear slipped out of Petya's eye and rolled down his cheek, but he held his tongue. He bit it so hard that blood pooled in his mouth and he was afraid it might split in two.
"It's all very convenient!" he exclaimed again. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have been summoned here today because of the testimony of this boy. This boy who claims that my client has done unspeakable things. Not only is there no evidence to support said claims, but he contradicts the evidence that exists! I ask you, where is the justice in this? This is not justice. This is a kangaroo court set on besmirching the name of a good, upstanding citizen at the folly of two bored teenagers!"
Pyotr shook his head. "Nyet," he whispered. "Nyet. Nyet. Nyet."
His head was still shaking, so violently it might as well fly off his neck. His arms wrapped unbidden around his chest as if it would somehow hold him together.
The attorney didn't seem to care that Petya was falling apart. "Here's what I think happened that night," he announced. "Pyotr Yakovlev lured Louisa Collins, the girl he claims to be his best friend, to the warehouse that night with the promise of an adventure. She had no way of knowing that this young man, someone she trusted, was plotting her murder."
There were shouts from the gallery and the judge tried to regain control of the growing chaos. Chaos which the defence attorney seemed to relish in.
"Sally Gibbons was already there," he continued over the growing din. "He had no way of knowing that she was, but it interrupted his plans, so she had to go. He bludgeoned her with a baseball bat— the one covered, in what he admits, were his own fingerprints!— until Sally Gibbons was dead. Then, when my client stumbled across the scene, he attempted to stop Mr Yakovlev from murdering Louisa Collins as well."
More shouting followed but Petya could barely hear it. His heart was pounding in his ears and his breath was ragged, ripping at his throat. It was all too much. He cast his gaze wildly about the frenzied courtroom, searching for his father but somehow finding Jason Lambe instead, who looked remarkably unbothered by the chaos around him. He was doodling on a legal pad, unconcerned that the world was falling apart.
Then he looked up. His colourless eyes made contact with Petya's own. They were somehow empty and emotionless. Predatory. He lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head, shooting him a wink before resuming his drawing.
Petya felt sick.
"Do you have any more questions for the witness, Counsellor?" the judge asked after regaining control of the room.
"None at all, Your Honour," the defence attorney replied, looking smug.
The attorney for the prosecution stood up again and began to ask Petya to clarify on parts of his testimony for the jury, though he didn't really see the point. No matter what he said, there would be no changing their minds after such a fiasco. He had ruined the entire trial.
"You said you heard Sally Gibbons scream after she had been set on fire, correct?"
His heart clenched at the blunt reminder but nodded anyway. "Yes."
The prosecution pulled up a stack of paper and waved it around. He began waxing poetic about how smoke damage was found in Sally Gibbons lungs, which could only happen if she was still alive—
Petya stopped listening at that point. There were no further questions for him and soon the judge called for a recess and dismissed him. Petya stumbled after the usher on numb feet back to the waiting room. Louisa smiled up from her crochet project, which was much longer than it had been when he left. He must've looked dreadful because her smile turned to a look of concern and she leapt to her feet.
She didn't get the chance to ask what was wrong, for which he was grateful. He didn't think he could recount what had happened. Instead, he was ushered out of the waiting room and back down the long series of halls, to the lobby where his father and Mr Collins were waiting for him. He collapsed into his father's waiting arms, his weak knees no longer able to support his body. He was vaguely aware of the tears running down his face and the fact that he was guided to a nearby bench, if only because his father was able to pull him into a tight hug. He curled into his father's chest and listened to the soothing sound of his steady heartbeat.
After several long minutes, Petya was able to compose himself enough to pull away. He faced Mr Collins, who looked more concerned than angry, which was a minor relief. Still, he reached forward and grabbed hold of the man's wrist and looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes.
"I didn't do those things," Petya said, his voice cracking. "I did not do what he said. You have to believe—"
Mr Collins squatted in front of him and produced a handkerchief from his pocket, which he used to dab at Petya's face. "Of course you didn't. You would never hurt anybody. Especially not Louisa."
"Her boyfriend would break you in half before you got the chance," his father agreed in a solemn voice. "You're too skinny."
"And everyone with half a brain knows you wouldn't do those things either," Mr Collins continued. "The defence doesn't need to prove that Lambe is innocent. They have to offer an explanation of why he is not guilty. You are the convenient scapegoat."
"But the things he said, about me! And Papa!"
"It truly is nothing personal," Mr Collins said calmly. "He's defending his client. It's his job to be rude."
"I have been called worse," his father said, sounding amused. "You give stitches to one alleged mobster and suddenly you have a notorious reputation." It was hard to tell if this was a joke or not. His father had a sense of humour odd enough to match his eventful life. From getting hit by a train as a child to accidentally joining a cult, aiding a criminal wasn't outside the realm of possibilities.
"The worst part is over," Mr Collins said after shooting his father a confused look. "You did very well today."
Petya scowled and looked down at his lap. "I ruined everything."
"You did no such thing," Mr Collins argued, reaching forward and grabbing him by the chin. He forced Petya to look him in the eye and gave him a very Louisa-esque look. "It is not on you to put Lambe in jail. That's the prosecution's job. You are a child."
He was right, of course. It wasn't his fault. He did as well as he could, given the circumstances. Petya felt himself nodding in agreement. He finally tore his gaze away from Mr Collins and relaxed into his father's embrace, his eyes wandering around the lobby. They landed on Jasper, who was approaching them with long, confident strides.
"Where did you go?" Mr Collins asked when he was within earshot.
Jasper jerked his head in a vague direction. "Louisa was on a warpath. I went to talk her down."
Mr Collins looked furious. "She's sequestered. You can't do that."
Jasper didn't look nearly as repentant as he should have. "Nobody stopped me."
The flippant tone threw Mr Collins off balance. He looked at Jasper as if he had grown a second head. "How did you even get in?"
"I walked through the door," he said this with such confidence that nobody could find a reason to dispute his claim.
Mr Collins sighed and the fight left his body. There were some things that weren't worth arguing over. Petya didn't know if he should be impressed or intimidated by how quickly Jasper outwitted Mr Collins.
"Come, Pyotr," his father said, at last, raising from the bench. "It's time to go home."
"I want to stay."
His father looked unimpressed by this demand. "No."
"There is nothing worth hearing in there that you don't already know," Mr Collins said in a patient tone.
"I need to stay. Louisa—"
"You need to rest," Mr Collins said firmly. "Louisa will understand why you left."
She would, wouldn't she? Petya thought, a strange sense of peace and acceptance washing over him. Louisa was always looking out for him. She would probably tell him to take a bubble bath and drink tea to relax, or something like that. She wouldn't want him to stress any further about the trial. He made eye contact with Jasper, who gave him a reassuring smile.
Petya nodded in agreement and rose before following after his father.
"When honor and the Law no longer stand on the same side of the line, how do we choose?"― Anne Bishop, Heir to the Shadows
Couldn't read? That's cool. Here's what you missed
-I'm not a lawyer and don't know a lot about the American Judicial system, so please don't 'at' me
-Louisa, Mr Collins, and Jasper travel to Seattle for the Jason Lambe trial, which is referenced throughout the story. See chapter 28, for a refresher on what happened.
-Dottie stays in Forks with Chief Swan to help set up Bella's bedroom.
-They meet up with Petya and his father before the trial. Dr Yakovlev is a silver fox. Love it. Embrace it. Deal with it.
-The trial starts as Petya steps into the witness box. It goes pretty well until the cross-examination begins. The defence wants to discredit Petya, by making him look like an unreliable witness. They suggest that he couldn't understand what happened that night because he is Russian (and don't talk American real good.) and that he has violent tendencies (supporting evidence: his father may or may not [definitely doesn't] have ties to the Russian mob.)
-The cross-examination makes Petya recount what happened the night of the hostage situation. It's traumatic enough as it is. Petya reveals that Lambe tried to force Petya to kill Sally Gibbons, the woman he and Louisa were trying to save, with a baseball bat.
-Lambe has a weird interest in Louisa and doesn't seem to like Petya
-Lambe kills Sally Gibbons and then tries to kill him and Louisa too. They are saved by the police.
-The defence team then tries to pin the blame on Petya, citing his fingerprints on Lambe's baseball bat. This is obviously untrue, but that's not the defence's problem.
-Petya's testimony ends, and he is comforted by his father and Mr Collins. And Jasper too, when he shows up after talking to Louisa. Louisa knows that Petya is upset and is pissed off. This doesn't bode well for the next chapter…
Got all of that? Good! XOXO
A/N: yeah hi, still alive. I never apologise for long absences because, ya know, this is fanfiction. I do it as a fun, free, hobby. But oh boy this was a doozy of a hiatus. What happened, you might ask (and many of you did reach out in concern, bless you)? In short: health problems. I still haven't recovered from my surgery back in July and I recently had a cancer scare. My mental health has tanked big time. But I'm trying to get my life back together. Thank you so much for all of the kind reviews and comments you have sent me over these last 5 months. They have been the bright spot in my day, even if I can't bring myself to write. Thank you to each of you who have reached out to check on me. It means more than words can adequately express. Lots of Love to all of you, Alexa