Vance sat at the defense table, leaning back in his leather chair with a smug, relaxed confidence. As I walked down the aisle, he caught my eye and deliberately tapped his heavy gold watch. Tick tock. Save your parents. Ruin yourself.
My father sat in the gallery, his face a mask of solemn, patriarchal grief. My mother was weeping softly into a linen tissue. It was an Oscar-worthy performance, a masterclass in manipulation.
Jenkins, the prosecutor, stood up, looking slightly nervous. “The prosecution recalls Lauren Moore for redirect.”
I walked to the stand. Every step felt like I was walking toward a firing squad, but I was the one holding the rifle. I placed my hand on the Bible, swore the oath again, and sat down.
“Ms. Moore,” Jenkins began, her tone gentle but firm, completely unaware of the bomb in my pocket. “Yesterday, the defense presented a narrative that you are mentally unstable. That this entire trial is born of a vindictive grudge against your family, and that you are fabricating evidence to harm your brother. Do you wish to change your testimony?”
