Page 93 of More Than Chemical
The Witness
It must be my ears. I must be hearing things.
But when I looked behind me, it was Dallas—myDallas—walking through the door wearing nice pants and a jacket cut to emphasize his shoulders and tapered waist.
A woman with a badge hanging from her waist followed him in and stayed at the back of the room. He passed by and stood before the witness box facing the judge, his back to me.
My breath came short and fast. My heart pounded so hard my rib cage hurt.
“Please face the clerk and raise your right hand,” the judge said.
“Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” the clerk asked.
“I do.”
The sound of Dallas’s voice sent a sharp pain through my lungs.
“Thank you. You may be seated,” said the judge.
He went around the stand and sat in the chair.
The clerk continued. “Please say and spell your name for the record.”
He looked at her. “Dallas Reynolds. D-A-L-L-A-S R-E-Y-N-O-L-D-S.”
Sweat started dripping down my back. None of this made sense. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, my legs, my body.
Expression blank, Dallas looked first at the rows of jurors, then glanced at the district attorney, then the defense table where my dad and Gray were sitting. Finally, his gaze trailed behind them and onto me.
In that moment, time stopped. It seemed like every person in the courtroom froze and it was only Dallas who had not. His eyes—the same eyes that had looked at me with reverence the night before—held mine. At first his brows rose, but then they furrowed into a tight frown.
I died a little inside. Dallas was on the stand at my dad’s trial. It was disorienting, discombobulating. Had Mars crashed into Venus?
Still worse, he wasn’t testifying on behalf of my dad. No. Dallas was here to help prove his guilt. Send him to jail. I might choose to be a critic of my father, but I wasn’t that awful of a daughter. I wasn’t that horrid. I still wanted him to put this part of his life behind him. Rid himself of the lawyers, judges, and be free.
The district attorney stayed seated behind her table, a binder in front of her.
“Mr. Reynolds, do you play hockey?”
He said nothing. He was still looking at me, his face flushed, his eyes trying to read me. He shouldn’t have much difficulty. He’d known who I was. He knew that my father was on trial. But he’d failed to tell me anything about himself and why he was sitting on that stand.
Bastard.
“Mr. Reynolds?”
He inched closer to the microphone, his glossy brown eyes still glued to me. “Yes.”
“How long have you played?”
“Since I was five years old.”
“And what team did you last play for?”
Dallas looked away from me and at the district attorney. “A USHL team called the Storm.”
“Were you being recruited by any college teams during your time as a USHL player?”
“Yes.”
