“Mrs. Ashford, are you aware of how much you expect to gain from the life insurance policies from your father, husband, and daughter?” He smirks, and it feels as if thousands of ants creep along every inch of my skin. “Surely, you realize that as the beneficiary, you’ll be awarded”—he raises a sheet of paper to read from it—“a sum of approximately $750,000. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Ashford?”
I part my lips, my eyes darting over to my lawyer, who simply nods for me to answer. “I honestly don’t know the exact amount.”
“Or,” the man continues like I haven’t even answered, “that your father recently liquidated some assets?”
What? Utterly baffled, I stare at the man who grins, his bleached white teeth practically blinding me. “I don’t know anything about that.” It’s the truth. I certainly wasn’t aware of it.
What in the hell was my father doing? But I’m unable to ponder that because the lawyer bulldozes right over me.
“You’re also due to receive the insurance payout for the damages sustained to the shop your family owned.”
He saunters across the space separating where his clients sit and heads toward me. “I find it fascinating and awfully convenient that your family is miraculously gone in one fell swoop, and you’re about to receive a lot of money.”
With a shrug, he offers in a noncommittal tone, “Newly single. No one to tie you down. Hundreds of thousands of dollars soon to be in your bank account.” He glances around the courtroom. “It sounds like a dream come true to me.”
I grind out the words from between clenched teeth, incensed that he’d try to paint me this way. “I didn’t kill my own family!” I jab my index finger accusingly to where the two men sit, relaxed in their seats as if they don’t have a worry in the world. “I watched those men murder them!”
“I’ll thank you to lower your voice, Mrs. Ashford,” Judge Milton reprimands. “This is my courtroom, not Jerry Springer.”
Snickers sound throughout, and I scowl. Judge Milton is young compared to his colleagues. Newly appointed and in his early thirties, many consider him attractive, with sandy blond hair, brown eyes, and a fit body.
“Mrs. Ashford, you informed the detectives that first the glass windows of your family’s pawn shop shattered before something was thrown inside. Is that correct?” the lawyer asks.
“Yes.”
“And according to your statement given to police, there was flashing and loud banging that immediately followed the shattering of the glass windows, correct?”
“Yes.”
He holds up a photograph for me to see, his eyes darting back and forth between me and Judge Milton. “These were found at the scene. They’re called flash grenades, Mrs. Ashford. Are you familiar with what these devices are used for?”
When I glance toward my lawyer, he nods discreetly, directing me to answer, and I have to fight against the growing unease spreading through me. “Yes.”
“So this means you are well aware that flash grenades are used to temporarily disorient with the flashes of light and the loud noise?”
“Yes, but—”
“And somehow, somehow, you managed to focus enough to identify the alleged shooters?”
My skin prickles as a menacing air descends over me as I answer, “Yes, I did.”
He mashes his lips together in a firm line, nodding slowly, and it strikes me as utterly condescending. “I see. So within the shop, amidst the loud noise and flashes of light from these grenades, you managed to catch sight of two individuals and identify them with one hundred percent certainty?”
My stomach feels as though a thousand-pound weight has plummeted to the bottom of it, filling me with dread. “I did. I saw them.”
Fixing a plastic smile on me, he responds with, “I’m sure that’s what you believe, Mrs. Ashford. However, the flash in these grenades can render individuals blind for a few seconds. Not only that, but their loud sounds can plague an individual with temporary deafness. I find it challenging to believe that you managed to clearly and accurately identify my clients despite those conditions and effects rendered on you. Furthermore, I—”
“I saw these men kill my family! They killed my daughter! My six-year-old daughter!” I cry out. “They shot me!” I push back my hair to show the area that’s still red and raw from where the bullet abraded my scalp. “They’re murderers!”
The slamming of the judge’s gavel barely registers through my haze of fury, and Judge Milton’s icy tone cuts me off. “You will conduct yourself accordingly, Mrs. Ashford.”
The churning in the pit of my stomach becomes incessant now, and the sense of foreboding hanging over me is nearly stifling.
Pure panic flows through my veins, and I turn to the judge. “You have to listen to me! These men killed my family! I saw them do it!” I dart to my feet and grip the thick wood that separates us, nearly white-knuckling it in desperation for him to listen to me. “Please!”
My pleading does nothing to break his irritated façade; he continues eyeing me with utter disdain.
“You have to believe me!” I reach over the wooden divide, my outstretched hand seeking his arm in hopes that he’ll finally hear my pleas. That he’ll realize I’m telling the truth. “I saw them! I saw—”
He shirks away from me with such violent movement that the fabric of his black robe flaps audibly. “Mrs. Ashford!” he thunders. “Perhaps the court should recess so that you might get yourself under control.” Turning from me, he commands, “Bailiff! Escort Mrs. Ashford to her seat.”
The large uniformed man with a potbelly to rival Santa escorts me none too gently back to my seat. I slump into the wooden chair just in time to see my lawyer slide a file folder over his legal pad, but not before I catch a glimpse of his doodling.
Mouth bracketed with lines, Judge Milton glares at my lawyer. “Mr. Maldeman, please see to it that your client controls herself better once we resume.” The judge addresses the courtroom, his authoritative tone practically echoing as he announces, “We’ll take a five-minute recess.” He slams his gavel down with such force that my body jolts in response.
We all rise, and I watch with detachment, defeat pummeling me. Judge Milton steps down from his bench, and I stare after him, willing this to be a nightmare that I’ll wake up from.
This is when I hear it.
The judge’s footsteps as he retreats to the door leading to his chambers… Oh my God. I know those footsteps. My eyes dart down to his feet, and I’m unable to look away from the sight.
It’s the exact moment I realize I’ve lost. When it becomes glaringly evident that I never even had a fighting chance.
A horrifically dawning realization strikes me as my brain replays moments which had somehow been forgotten or dismissed from the night I was attacked in my home. I recall hearing the same click of each step, as those smooth, hard-soled boots the man wore made contact with the floor.
And in that small beam of moonlight, the last thing I’d seen that night were black alligator skin boots.
The same boots Judge Milton is wearing.
“You!” My cry sounds feral as it rises from deep within me. “It was you! You were there that night! You attacked me!” A deluge of staggering outrage floods my veins. “How do you sleep at night?! How could you?! They killed my family!”