Page 97 of The Boy from Half Moon

Breathe, Tate. Stay calm for Luke. You knew this could happen, and now it’s showtime.

* * *

Luke was in a holding cell when I arrived at the jail. The ride to town was spent with me convincing myself that there was absolutely zero chance that the man I loved was capable of murder. No way. Zip. Zero. Nada.

However, he was a victim of horrific abuse, most of it sexual, some of it physical. And who would believe a boy built like him couldn’t defend himself? Luke had the motive to kill Franklin. He’d shared the extent of the abuse with me. It wasn’t a pretty revelation.

I waited in an empty room for the officers to give me an update on the charges and to provide me with evidence that my client—my future—had committed such a heinous crime. Once I had the evidence, I could prepare my defense, see if he could bond out, and all the things I was more than familiar with as a criminal attorney. The difference this time? I was in love with the accused.

The door opened and, much to my disgust, Alec Browning, attorney for the victim’s spouse, appeared, flanked by two other men in suits. “Hello, Tate,” he greeted, too smug for my liking. “This is Assistant District Attorney Karlton and Assistant Sheriff Marks.”

I sat, stoically ignoring anything coming out of Alec’s mouth, instead looking at the other two suits. “What do you have on my client that would warrant an arrest?” I demanded, opening my briefcase and removing Luke’s file.

“He’s a hothead, boys,” Alec quipped, giving me a nasty glare. “Angry because his Loverboy is going to jail today.”

I ignored the taunt of the preschooler in the expensive suit. “What do you have?” I repeated.

If I’d thought they might pussy-foot around with weak evidence, I had grossly underestimated them. “We have a video of your client having consensual sexual contact with the deceased, a laundry list of motives, and about four hundred witnesses that your client threatened to kill Mr. Smith more than four times, and on two separate occasions. Mostly circumstantial, but the D.A. is confident it’ll be enough for a conviction.”

Fuck! Time to play cool, Tate. You know the game and how it’s played. “Forensic evidence?” I inquired.

“Nothing yet,” Mr. Karlton admitted.

“Murder weapon?”

“Not yet,” he answered.

“How about a single shred of my client’s DNA on the victim? Bloody clothing? Any kind of proof Mr. Oliver was anywhere near the crime scene on the day of the murder?”

“Not yet,” he repeated.

I stood and tossed Luke’s file on the table dramatically. “You’ve got nothing,” I hissed. “I expect you to release Mr. Oliver immediately.”

“Not happening, Tate!” Alec stated. “The kid was fucking the cult leader. Something went wrong. The kid is jealous or some shit, and then he blasts him with a shotgun. The video proves they had a lover’s quarrel.”

Once again, I ignored Alec and focused my attention on the men who had any relevance in the room. “My client was a victim of sexual abuse, and Franklin Smith was the perpetrator. End of story,” I insisted.

“Not so fast, Mr. Finnigan,” Karlton said. “One of the witnesses, a minor boy, witnessed your client nearly beating Mr. Smith to death at the eventual crime scene. That evidence alone will give us the ability to charge your client with murder. We’re confident the physical evidence will surface once we complete our search of the ranch.”

“So, you’re admitting you haven’t completed a search of the ranch?” I asked.

The look on their faces was all I needed to know what my next move would be. Alec’s smug-ass look disappeared faster than a greyhound chasing a stuffed rabbit.

“The video is loaded in that VCR,” Karlton stated, motioning to a relic of a TV and a VCR.

Jesus! A VCR in this age? “It’s a real doozy, Tate,” Alec chirped. “I can definitely see what you see in the kid,” he added, holding his hands in the air and pretending to measure Luke’s endowment. “Where do you put it?”

As much as I wanted to jump across the room and pound his ass into the floor, my remaining calm presented a better visual. “I’d appreciate privacy while I view your evidence,” I demanded.

“Suit yourself,” Alec snarled.

Did I want to see this?

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO: Luke

“Thirty minutes, fag!” the guard barked. “Stay in your fucking seat until he gets here.”

Two metal chairs, one metal table, and a round clock on the wall, three of its hands marking the time like I was, occupied the sterile space. The guards gave me exactly two minutes to get dressed before they marched me to this private visitor’s room. The guard had said, ‘until he gets here.’ I prayed that the ‘he,’ was Tate.

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