“Ms. Bell, there’s hard evidence that points to it being consensual, whereas the evidence of the claimed sexual assault is nonexistent.”
“Objection. Counsel is stating his own conclusions…”
“He did it…he…” Sandra stands abruptly, her whole body shaking. “He did it!”
“You can’t say that when there’s no evidence. Isn't it true that you're just doing this to slander my client's reputation? That you came up with these allegations so that you could take his hard-earned money? Are you—”
“Stop.” The low voice catches me off guard.
It’s Anastasia. She’s grabbing Sandra by the arm, tears shining in her eyes. “Stop it, please.”
“If she can’t take this, she won’t be able to be a witness in court.”
“I just need a moment.” Sandra sniffles before she bolts out of the office.
Anastasia stares at me funny, like she wants to punch me. “You don’t have to be a monster to drive a point home.”
I step closer until I’m toe to toe with her. “Didn’t you say you needed a dark warrior of justice? This is what we look like.”
Her lips purse before she releases them. “I’m going to see how she’s doing.”
And then she’s out the door, too, her orange blossom scent lingering behind her.
Or maybe I’m the only one who smells it.
I grab a file the prosecutor sent us and fall back into my seat.
Lauren rolls her chair so that she’s facing me. “Ms. Bell needs a lot of prepping and we don’t have much time before the trial.”
We don’t.
Sandra reported the charges against her father a few months back after she ran away from home and lived off the trust fund her mother left her. Since they’re paid off by Matt and his defense, the police and the DA office attempted to sweep everything under the rug, but Sandra was smart and sent the report to the media. Considering her father’s public status, the press latched onto the case like hungry sharks after smelling blood. As a result, the prosecutor was obliged to file the criminal case against Matt Bell, but he’s been carefully backpedaling and hoping this whole thing will be old news so he can drop the charges.
But the press wouldn’t leave this alone. There are support groups and women organizations involved now and they all have their eyes on how the prosecutor will handle this case.
Sandra had a restraining order against Matt, but she got her recent bruises when she went back home to get something and he suddenly showed up and beat her again for daring to go against him.
Which is why she decided to sue him civilly as well.
Point is, the prosecutor could take the criminal case to trial any time now. Especially since Matt’s defense attorney used every trick under the sun and underhanded methods to push the civil case forward. I assume they’re counting on Sandra to freak out and handle the civil case poorly, which will give the prosecutor all the reasons to dismiss the criminal case.
I don’t trust the prosecutor. I don’t trust the whole fucking system, which means in order for Sandra to get her justice in both cases, I need to twist his arm with evidence I will present in the civil trial.
“Let’s brainstorm, Lauren. We have to get more media attention and for that, we need to play harder on their emotions.”
Even though I’m sure Anastasia won’t like it. But this is what she asked for and this is what I’m going to give her.
And the world.
17
ANASTASIA
I step out of Knox’s office, but I couldn’t follow Sandra even if I wanted to. My legs shake so badly that they’re hardly holding me up.
So I lean against the wall in the corner to catch my breath. I really don’t think I’m fit for comforting people.
I’ve never been good at it.
Being raised to remain in the background put shackles on me—like never standing out. Never offering a hand or a shoulder to cry on.
My cousin, Rai, is the only woman who’s been by my side since Mom died, and while she loves me, she didn’t need any comforting from me. She’s strong, stronger than some men, and I’ve never seen her weak.
She also treated me with kid gloves as if one wrong touch would break me.
A twinge spreads in my chest when I think of her reaction to my disappearance. She must be so disappointed in me, so angry.
But I can’t afford to think about the family I left. Not now.
My fingers tremble as I retrieve my phone and scroll to one of the few pictures I have with Mom and Babushka. I was so young at the time, probably four, and I’m sitting on Mom’s lap, giggling uncontrollably.