Page 125 of Winning Bid

Well, shit. That’s a good plan. But still, “I don’t think he’d do anything like that to me.”

“He’s the reason you were shot, Anderson! Can you honestly tell me a little prison time is beneath him?”

The trouble is, I can’t. As much as I don’t think he’d do that to me, she’s not wrong about him. He has put me in life-and-death scenarios more than once, and if it weren’t for Moss, I’d have been dead. But still, this hurts. My voice goes hoarse when I scratch out, “Can you blame a guy for not wanting to think the worst of his own father?”

Her face softens, and she pulls me to her for a hug. “I’m sorry, baby. I don’t like this either. Forget what I said, okay?”

The trouble is, I can’t.

When we go to court, her words ring in my head. Could Dad be their star witness? I shake it off when I see him, Mom, and Cole in the courtroom. Can’t be him.

I keep telling myself that. Thankfully, there are no cameras in the courtroom today, so it’s less of a production than the bail hearing. We have enough stress without adding to it.

Not being a trial lawyer myself, I don’t know if it’s normal for Neil’s employer to be called to the stand, but it feels inappropriate. Late fifties, too tan, teeth too bleached, and his navy suit is stuffy. He’s sworn in, and Tanner tells him, “Please state your name for the court.”

“Simon Connolly.” When he says his own name, it comes out haughtily, as though everyone should already know who he is.

“Mr. Connolly, first let me say I am sorry for your loss. Can you tell us what your relationship with the victim was?”

“I was fortunate enough to employ Mr. Johnson.”

“Objection,” Dana says firmly.

“Grounds?” Judge Ackerman asks.

“Relevance. Mr. Connolly is a founding partner at Bryce-Connolly. Mr. Johnson was a junior hedge fund manager, so I doubt they were golf buddies.”

Connolly shoots a scowl at her. “I did not know him personally, but?—"

The judge sighs. “Objection sustained. Mr. Connolly, please step down. Mr. Walsh, call your next witness.”

The next one is a little old lady with a handbag. Crap. Even I want to like her. She reminds me of my grandmother.

Once she’s sworn in, Tanner says, “Please state your name for the court and why we’ve called you here today.”

“Mrs. Linda Jackson. I was Neil Johnson’s neighbor for the few months he was in Boston.”

“How did Mr. Johnson seem the few weeks before his murder?”

“He was in a good mood, singing to himself in the halls. He always did that when he met someone he liked.”

Tanner asks, “Did you ever see the defendant’s wife with Mr. Johnson?”

She squints at June. “Yes, I believe I did.”

The courtroom murmurs gut me. There’s no way she ever saw June with him. She never went to his place, according to her. I whisper as much to Dana, and she nods.

Tanner smirks at us. “Your witness.”

Dana puts on a kind smile as she approaches the old lady. “Mrs. Jackson, did Mr. Johnson have a type?”

She nods, blushing. “He liked brunettes with small bosoms.”

Dana pauses at that, gears turning. “Women like my client’s wife?”

Again, she nods. June has big tits, so I’m confused.

Dana walks back to our table, standing beside it. Then she holds up four fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

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