Page 87 of Silent Vendetta (Vendetta Duet)

Judge Whitfield, a man with a reputation for being tough but fair, peered at me over the rim of his glasses, nodding for me to continue.

“With respect, I submit new findings from a recent review of the autopsy by new medical examiners.” I slid the files to the clerk. “Which reveals that the victim’s cause of death was not, in fact, from a beating as initially reported. Instead, it was the result of a vehicular strike.”

A restless rustling shifted in the courtroom from the handful of people, whispers colliding and bouncing off the walls.

“We’ve also found new evidence on the victim’s clothing. Paint chips,” I said, presenting a sealed bag containing the pants, carefully preserved.

“These paint chips, Your Honor, match the color and type of paint used in vehicles. They were embedded deeply in the fibers of the victim’s pants, consistent with the force of a car hitting a pedestrian.”

The judge looked down at the evidence before him, his brow furrowed in contemplation. The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the cacophony of heartbeats thundering through my chest.

“Your Honor,” I pressed on, my voice echoing in the silence, “this new evidence turns the whole case on its head. A man has lost two decades of his life for a crime he did not commit. The defense respectfully requests that all charges against my client be dismissed.”

Rumbles cascaded over the onlookers behind me.

The judge’s eyes bore into mine, his raised eyebrows a silent challenge.

“Counselor,” he began, “you were asking for a retrial, and now you want dismissal?”

“The defendant did not own a vehicle. Nor did he have access to one, so there is no way this defendant could have been the one to strike the victim. Further, video surveillance from my client’s work shows him leaving onfootbefore the victim was killed. This is a second and third independent lab confirming the paint found on the victim was from a vehicle. Specifically, a Jaguar.”

I shuffled the files in my hand to retrieve another piece of paper—the new evidence that bore the possibility of freedom for Dad—and handed it off, waiting as the judge looked it over.

“And these tests were carried out by accredited laboratories, Counselor?” he questioned, finally breaking the silence.

“Yes, Your Honor, they were conducted by three accredited and recognized forensic laboratories,” I confirmed, “They’ve also provided a statement attesting to the reliability and accuracy of their testing methods.”

With a sigh, the judge leaned back, removing his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose.

“You’ve made some compelling arguments. However, why were these autopsy findings not presented at the initial trial?” he asked.

“Your Honor, the initial autopsy report was, unfortunately, incomplete and did not account for some crucial details,” I explained. “The subsequent analysis, completed by three different forensic pathologists, reveals that the original report overlooked critical evidence consistent with a vehicular accident.”

“And these paint chips found on the victim’s clothing,” he continued, holding up the sealed bag, “why weren’t they discovered sooner?”

“Regrettably, Your Honor,” I said, swallowing hard, “the original investigation didn’t scrutinize the victim’s clothing to the extent necessary. The discovery of the paint chips came only when we sought to re-examine all physical evidence.”

“Well, Counselor,” he began, his voice grave and deliberate, “this evidence was available at the time of the original trial.”

The statement hung heavy in the air, echoing the judge’s reluctance to acknowledge the possible miscarriage of justice.

“Your Honor, while the paint chips were indeed present at the scene and collected during the initial investigation, the technology to accurately identify and match these specific paint chips was not available twenty years ago,” I explained, the crisp edge of my voice slicing through the courtroom’s silence.

The judge waited for me to explain.

“The forensic paint analysis technology has significantly advanced in the past two decades. This report”—I motioned toward my copy of the document in front of him—“verifies that the paint chips match those used in automotive manufacturing. This evidence exonerates my client.”

As the judge took his time to peruse the report, the room was gripped by a tense silence. Each tick of the courtroom’s grand clock struck like a hammer to my heart, echoing the agonizing wait for justice.

The silence was thick, suffocating. When the judge finally sighed, removing his glasses again, my heart skipped a beat.

“Counselor, I will adjourn to review this evidence in detail. This court will reconvene after lunch to deliver a decision,” he declared.

While my dad was taken into holding and Hunter stayed in his seat—presumably to give me space—I stayed in the courtroom, unable to eat lunch or do anything else, until finally the judge returned, and the hearing resumed.

Everyone seemed to hold their breaths as the judge steepled his fingers, his gaze sweeping across the room.

“Upon careful examination of the new evidence presented,” he continued, his voice reverberating through the courtroom, “it has become apparent that the death of the boy was not due to a physical altercation, but rather, he was tragically struck by a vehicle.”

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