Page 116 of Man On

CHAPTER 36

LANE

My mom lets out a sob.

One of the defense attorneys actually groans.

The court records person types furiously.

Otherwise, the silence that fills the room is tense. After about a minute, the court reporter asks if there are any more questions or anything to add to the report. Across the table, the three men who have spent all day trying to fluster and trip me up have their heads lowered together, muttering. None of them look very happy, but they shake their heads. Details about the date, time, and court identifiers are repeated, the camera is turned off, and then we are all excused with the thanks of the court.

Ms. Clarke and Jamison stand up, so I do as well. She shakes each of the defense attorney's hands, although they don't look like they want to have anything to do with her. None of them so much as look at me.

"We'll be in touch, Ms. Clarke."

"I'm looking forward to it, Mr. Howard," she says confidently, before turning to thank the defense attorney's assistant and the court official.

I'm impressed by how quickly she clears the room, and as soon as the door is closed, she becomes almost an entirely different person. During the deposition, and while dealing with the defense attorneys, she was nothing short of intimidating. But now, she slips off her high-heeled shoes and beckons my family over, even wrapping my mother in a hug.

Shaking myself out of my stupor, I start to walk around the table, but Noah meets me halfway. He all but tackles me, pulling me against him in a tight hug. I'm exhausted, my emotions are all over the place, and I sob into his shoulder. He holds me like that for several minutes, until I become aware of my mom and Scott joining us, both wrapping their arms around the two of us.

We eventually pull ourselves together and turn to face our smiling lawyer.

"You did good, kid," she says. "You did real good."

"What does that mean?" I ask, because I can't find it in myself to be happy about any of this.

"Did you see their faces when you said Christian's name?" Ms. Clarke asks.

"Sort of. They didn't look very happy."

"I thought the old guy was going to pass out," Noah says.

"Which one?" Jamison asks, wheeling in a cart with a sandwich tray and some drinks.

"Yes," Noah answers, getting some laughs.

I'm too tired to even roll my eyes. Noah's hand pushes itself into mine, entwining our fingers. The lawyer raises a brow, but doesn't say anything, quickly tempering her moment of curiosity.

"With the help of the ACLU, Christian Blakely's mother wants to go after Gideon Larsen and a few of the other leaders for manslaughter. And you, my friend, just handed them an eyewitness account that could add not only another charge, but up to another ten years to an already hefty sentence."

"Wouldn't that mean Lane would have to testify in court?"

"It's always a possibility, but I have a good feeling that it won't go that far. The defense is absolutely not going to want you in court. A jury would crumble at the prosecution's feet with you as a witness. Not only is your testimony air tight, but you're compelling, and having you up there invoking the name of Chris Blakely would not be good for them. Those old geezers are smart enough to know that. I'm expecting that I'll have a plea deal on my desk come Monday morning."

"So it's over?" I ask nervously.

"If you want it to be."

"What about the manslaughter charge?"

"Honestly? They wouldn't be able to even attempt it without your testimony. And even with it, pursuing a manslaughter charge for a suicide victim is a long shot."

Noah squeezes my hand, and I meet his eyes. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he knows what I'm thinking. And I also know he'll support me whatever I decide. "It's alright," he whispers. "Whatever you want to do is alright."

Today has been a lot, and it's barely two o'clock in the afternoon. My exhaustion reminds me of the time I had the flu, like all my limbs are weak and made of jelly. From our parents finding out about my illicit relationship with my stepbrother, to Ms. Clarke's pre-deposition interview where she laid down her pen and had a long, serious heart-to-heart about how I haven't been following up with my therapist. To intrusive question after intrusive question thrown at me by three men who were clearly trying to get me to lose it so I seemed like an unfit witness. And finally, laying bare all the traumatic secrets I've held inside all this time.

I'm wrung out. But for the first time, I also feel revived. And when Ms. Clarke mentioned that my testimony might be the key to making doubly sure that Gideon Larsen never sees the outside of a prison again, I felt an awareness prickle at the back of my skull. Something inside me says this is the right thing.

---