Last Mile (Vicious Cycle #3) - Katie Ashley Page 0,82
this level of support and unified strength for a victim.
We hadn’t been seated long when the bailiff asked us to rise for the judge. Once the judge was seated, he asked the prosecution to call their first witness.
“We call Ansley Marie Butler.”
Ansley slowly rose out of her chair. Her legs shook violently like a newborn colt’s. As she started down the row, everyone patted her on the back. Some bumped fists and some of the women reached out to hug her. When she got to me, I smiled and patted her back. Although words seemed totally inadequate in that moment, I bit back the tears as I whispered, “You’ve got this.”
After giving me a weak smile, she started up the aisle to the witness box. As she took the stand, I suddenly became overwhelmed with a flashback so intense that I began shaking in my seat. When I stared ahead, it was no longer Ansley raising her right hand to swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth on the Bible.
Instead, I saw my nine-year-old self as I testified at the trial of the man who killed my father.
Feeling the bile rising in my throat, I clamped my hand over my mouth and bolted out of my seat. I ran down the aisle and burst through the courtroom doors. My gaze spun wildly around to find a restroom. When I saw the sign, I broke into a run. I barely made it into a stall before I emptied the contents of my stomach. Over and over again, I heaved until there was nothing left within me.
When I finally finished, I flushed the toilet and staggered out of the stall. I placed my palms on the sink basin and stared into the mirror. As I was transported back to that horrible place, tears overran my eyes, sending mascara-blackened tears down my cheeks.
The morning I was due in court, my mother had come into my room to dress me. She had put me in a simple black dress that had scratchy material and made my skin itch. My protests about the fabric fell on deaf ears as my mother brushed my hair. She swept it back on the sides with black barrettes. She ignored me once again when I protested that I wanted to wear my usual ponytail. That morning she seemed to be in an almost trancelike state of going through the motions. She didn’t talk to me or my brother or sister. We had exchanged looks among ourselves during the period of silence.
As I eased down onto the hard chair in the witness stand, I kept my head tucked to my chest. I didn’t dare look across to the defendant’s table. I knew if I did I would lose all my nerve, and I wouldn’t be able to give the carefully rehearsed answers that the prosecutor had gone over with me. Earlier that week, I had spent several miserable afternoons reliving in horrific detail the night of my father’s murder.
My stomach twisted tighter and tighter into knots as Mr. Greenly led me through the events of that night. I swallowed hard to keep down the bile rising in my throat. I didn’t want to do anything wrong, least of all throwing up. I knew everyone was counting on me to put Willie away. Most of all, I felt I couldn’t screw up because I owed it to my father to get him justice.
The questions seemed to go on and on. Finally, we got to the one I was dreading the most. Mr. Greenly approached the witness stand. He leaned on the railing and gave me a reassuring smile. “Samantha, is the man you saw shoot your father present in the courtroom today?”
When I stared into Mr. Greenly’s dark blue eyes, he nodded encouragingly. Slowly, I began turning my head to the defense table. All the while, I kept my gaze on my lap, staring at the silk handkerchief my mother had slipped into my hand right after they called my name. “He’s over there,” I whispered.
“I’m sorry, but I need you to repeat that,” Mr. Greenly said.
Raising a shaking hand, I pointed at the table. “He’s there.”
The defense attorney’s voice caused me to jump. “Your Honor, the witness has not visually identified my client.”
I pinched my eyes shut. My body trembled so hard my knee knocked the microphone stand, causing a loud screech to echo throughout the room.