On The Run: Part Two

Chapter Twenty-Three - "Open And Shut And Open"

I sat in my chair, as Fitch was brought out, looking worse than he did every time I saw him. His face was covered in stubble and his eyes were tired and had something akin to resolve in them. The bruises on his face were healing, but that wasn’t much of a consolation, because of his forlorn expression. He was thinner than when I’d first met him and his hair, which had grown out, hung loosely. He was certainly still attractive enough – he at least hadn’t lost that – but Fitch himself was fading fast.

He was diminishing.

I was very glad that Chloe wasn’t here to see him right now. In fact, I made a promise to myself right then, to make sure she never stepped through those courtroom doors.

“Hi,” he said. He looked like it hurt to smile, but he tried anyway. It was when he did things like this that I truly felt pain at what was happening to him. He was in immense pain – that much I could see – and yet he still smiled when he said hello.

Which was why, despite my internal turmoil, I beamed at him, “Hi. Hanging in there?”

He nodded and looked down at his feet. Conversation over.

The room filled up fast, with reporters mostly, but also a few of Fitch’s friends – Kayla and Trey, and Benjamin – his boss. There were a few other people I didn’t know sitting with them. I assumed they were also here for support. His brother had school, but I had a feeling he was attempting to sneak out right at that moment.

The reporters however, were like virile creatures, all clawing at the same meatless carcass, hoping to find something. Just clawing and scratching. Even though there were hundreds of others lying around.

The thing is: Fitch’s case, in the grand scheme of things, was completely irrelevant. To them, at least. It was the fact that I was on it that pulled them in. It was like they assumed that whatever I was working on must have had some added specialty. I wished they wouldn’t.

“All rise for the Honorable Judge Winchester,” the bailiffsaid.

We stood. I groaned. All I wanted to do was turn around and walk off before I made a complete fool of myself, but I stood even more frozen as they brought the first witness up to the stand.

Again, I groaned. Internally, of course.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” he was asked.

“I do.”

The prosecutor, Barbara Farrow,stood and walked to the witness box, looking as obnoxiously content as she always did.

“Please state your name for the court,” he said.

“Jacob Finchley.”

I looked down at the table as I felt his gaze draw to me. I could feel it. And it hurt like hell.

*

Two weeks earlier

“Funny running into you here,” he said, smiling.

It was funny, but I could barely crack a smile. I was standing in the NYPD waiting area, my heart in my mouth. I’d hesitated about five times already, and I knew that just seeing him would freeze me to the spot.

“Hi. Are you busy? Can I talk to you?”

“Sure,” he said, leading me out, into the brightness of the city; of the day. A total contrast to my heart. I was nervous, and all I wanted to do was turn the other way.