Page 101 of The Boy from Half Moon

“You know I love you, right?” he asked. “I’m going to do my best for you today, love. I promise you.”

“What if it doesn’t work out, though?”

“Then I’ll try something else,” he answered. “I’ll try something else,” he repeated, his voice trailing away as if the possibility was too much to even think about.

I moved his hair out of one eye. “You need a haircut,” I whispered. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine,” he defended.

I could tell Tate was exhausted. He worked tirelessly on my case while I sat in jail, dying a little bit every day. I missed touching him, seeing him, being with him. I missed the intimacy and the knowing I had a home with him waiting for me if I ever got released from custody.

“What about the money?” I asked, having recently learned the legal term of bail bond. “You don’t have a job.”

“I’ll get it, Luke. I promise I’ll find a way.”

I squeezed his hand tighter, wishing I could hold him, be held by him. We held hands even though doing so wasn’t allowed in the stark room. A knock on the door alerted us that the judge was about to enter the courtroom. Tate explained in an earlier visit to jail that I’d be held in this side room until the hearing began. He was trying to get me released on bail.

He looked at me as we both stood. “I know. I know,” I said. “No talking if not asked a question.”

“Sit up straight and look involved,” he coached for the fiftieth time. “Try to look like you didn’t do it,” he added.

“I didn’t do it,” I reminded him.

“I know. I’m just worried, Luke.”

I held his hands. “I trust you, Tate. Whatever happens in there, I know you fought as hard as you could.”

“I can’t live without you, Luke. I just can’t do that,” he said, looking like he could fall apart at any moment.

This was the first time I’d seen the real Tate in more than a month. This version was the person who loved me, cared for me, showed he was as vulnerable as I was. I suddenly realized why mean Tate was so needed. The kind one couldn’t do the job necessary to save me. He was too obviously biased and invested.

Another knock, one last squeeze of his hand, and it was time to face judgment. The door opened and two officers escorted us into the courtroom and to a long table in front of the judge. A matching table was across the aisle, where Tate’s old boss and two other men sat side by side.

The few people seated behind us were unknown to me. There were no supporters there for me. My only supporter sat next to me, taking deep breaths and turning on the steely-eyed expression he always seemed to get when, as he put it, it was showtime.

The courtroom was more elaborate than I’d expected. Of course, I hadn’t known what to expect since I’d never been in one, but the interior was beautiful, with flags of the United States and Oregon behind the judge, and pictures of old men with strange white wigs, on three of the walls.

“Counsel for the Prosecutor’s office, you may begin,” the female judge announced.

She looked mean, but then again, lately, anyone standing between me and freedom looked mean. Tate’s former boss didn’t stand. A man I didn’t recognize did, though, and before he spoke, he glared at me as if to make a nonverbal statement about me right out the gate.

“That man, Mr. Luke Oliver, is a murderer, your honor,” he said, his voice booming and echoing around the chamber. “We request that the court deny bail for Mr. Oliver until the investigation is complete.”

“I’ve read through the evidence, Mr. Holden,” she stated. “I’m not impressed.”

My hopes jumped a million percent at her response to his cruel comment about me. Tate jotted something down on a notepad, his knee nudging mine under the table.

“The accused is the only person with the motive to have murdered Franklin Smith, Your Honor,” he replied. “And additional evidence will prove that fact.”

“You’d better hope that’s the case, Counsel because as of right now, you have nothing that convinces this court that the accused is the conclusion of your investigation. Other than you going on the words of a sixteen-year-old boy who was also sexually abused, your case is weak at best.”

“We have over three hundred other witnesses that can testify in court that Mr. Oliver threatened to kill Franklin Smith,” he argued. “These witnesses loved the victim and want to show their support in convicting the defendant.”

The judge raised her hand to her brow, leaned forward exaggeratingly, and scanned the courtroom seating behind us. “I see a few folks from the press, sir, but where are these three hundred folks you speak of?”

I glanced toward the prosecutor’s table. Tate’s former boss looked angry and glared at the judge. After standing and leaning into the ear of the lawyer speaking, he slammed his hand on their table and sat back down.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Browning?” she asked. “Because I’m warning you right now, I don’t take kindly to shows of bravado or courtroom drama. I run a tight ship here, so do not test me.”

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