Page 100 of The Fortune Games
“Are you sure that no one can be traced through the documents you are talking about?” asks the judge.
“Yes, we have checked with several experts.”
That is the only thing the judge wants to know about the investigation prior to Enzo’s tip-off. The policeman leaves the courtroom, and with him, the prosecution’s presentation of evidence is over.
Now it is our turn.
André’s turn, I mean. Time to find out what Bastian has prepared.
If he follows my script, Bastian will call one of Garros’ clients to testify. This client admitted that he knew the Counterfeiter’s identity; they had been friends for years. Garros was private with his affairs, but this friend just had to put two and two together. When he confronted his friend (i.e., Julian) about the matter, Garros told him, quote: Tell me what you want, and I’ll see what we can do.
This is the only case in which the Counterfeiter offered his services to the client, and not the other way around, although the prosecution says there was no such occasion. There was, we have proof.
Besides, this man’s request did not come true. Why? Because the Counterfeiter was three people, not one. And Julian Garros was not the singing voice of the group. It was someone else, someone who refused to comply with this client’s wishes, even if it was at Julian’s request.
I now know that someone was Enzo.
Garros’ friend ended up seeking the services of the Counterfeiter years later, but he made sure that Enzo did not know that this was the same person who, years earlier, had discovered the identity of one of them. If he had, he might have been spared the consequences of being a client of one of the biggest counterfeiters of the last decade.
Too bad for him, but it suited me just fine. I had the perfect witness.
No… I still do! No matter if Bastian is there, taking my place, looking like a Greek statue under the court’s dim lights. I’m still the one who did most of the work.
“My name is Thomas Krill,” says the first witness called by the prosecutor.
That’s him, Garros’ friend.
A grin tugs at the corners of my mouth, and despite my best efforts, I can’t hold it back. Bastian had listened to me. Every word, every hour of effort, it all felt worth it.
I keep smiling like a fool throughout the whole statement. Thomas Krill says just what I wanted him to say; just what we had rehearsed months ago. The opposing counsel, a woman with a sharp expression and rigid posture, lowers her hand. Her eyes dart from the judge to Thomas Krill and back again, the apology on her lips almost a formality. It’s clear she’s strategizing.
“With all due respect, Your Honor,” she says, her tone clipped but controlled, “I have reason to believe the witness may be… withholding relevant information.” Her lips twitch, almost betraying her, though she catches it in time.
Thomas, sitting in the witness box, fidgets in his seat, glancing around the room as if searching for an escape.He glances at his own attorney, Bastian, who remains frozen, still processing the interruption. Bastian’s brows knit together in disbelief.
The judge’s brow furrows, and he leans forward. “I don’t believe we’ve reached that point yet, Miss. Allow the witness to complete his testimony.”
Thomas inhales, drawing himself up. He’s about to continue when the opposing counsel, still standing, takes one more measured breath and raises her voice once again.
“I would like to present this.”
The woman searches through her papers (correction: she pretends to search through her papers but ends up lifting the sheet of paper she had on top) and hands a document to the judge.
The silence becomes even heavier.
What does he think he’s doing, presenting new evidence in the middle of the trial? André has told me a thousand times. If the judge and the expert witness haven’t had a chance to review the documents before the trial, the judge could dismiss them without even glancing at them. It’s the best way to lose credibility in one fell swoop.
The judge reads the documents and then asks a question:
“Mr. Krill, how do you meet Julian Garros?”
He responds without missing a beat. “We met in middle school.”
The opposing counsel raises an eyebrow, holding up a document. “According to the records, Mr. Krill, you attended Cutnam Grammar, while Julian Garros went to Flickerwood. So, when exactly did you two meet?”
Krill freezes, the confident ease in his expression faltering. A chill creeps up my spine, as if someone just doused mein cold water. He told us they met in school—that can’t be wrong. He wouldn’t lie about that.
“I meant to say…” Krill’s voice wavers before regaining its strength, easing my anxiety. “We’ve known each other since we were little, before school even. We played together.”
