Pride. Rachel Vincent
I didn’t even get to cross-examine him, which I only found out when I overheard my father and Michael arguing over who had to tell me.
To help keep my temper in check, Michael had given me a stress ball painted to look like the earth. I’d excised most of South America when Malone asked Dr. Carver if he knew of any medical reason I seemed “disinclined to breed.”
“How long after Mr. Wallace’s death were you able to examine him?” Malone’s narrowed eyes and cold tone said he didn’t like Danny Carver any more than he liked me. But that was too damn bad, because the doc was an expert witness if I’d ever seen one. Dr. Carver was a coroner. He spent more time with dead bodies than a dog spends licking itself, and if his expert opinion was that Andrew’s death was an accident, the tribunal would have to accept that.
Right?
Dr. Carver didn’t hesitate. “Less than six hours.”
“And could you tell the cause of death?”
Harsh, barking laughter burst from my throat before I could stop it, and several disapproving eyes turned my way. They’d called in an expert for that? I could tell them the cause of Andrew’s death. I had told them.
“Yes, in fact the cause of death was rather obvious. Blood loss, from a massive puncture wound on his neck.” Dr. Carver’s expression was appropriately somber, but I thought I saw a spark of humor in his eyes. He’d testified in actual courts of law, and I got the distinct impression our little playtrial didn’t compare.
“How would you say he came by his wound?”
I rolled my eyes at Malone’s phrasing, but Dr. Carver looked like he wanted to smile. “I would say someone shoved a railroad spike into his neck. In fact, it was still lodged there when I examined him.”
“So someone killed him.” Malone glanced expectantly at the other tribunal members. “And by her own admission, Ms. Sanders was the only person present when Mr. Wallace died.”
“I’ve already told you I did it,” I shouted, jumping from my chair. “But it was self—” My father jerked me back into my seat by one arm, just as Michael slapped a hand over my mouth.
Malone tried to look angry, but his satisfied smirk ruined the image. “Miss Sanders, if you lose control of your mouth one more time, we will have you removed from the room.”
“Like it matters,” I mumbled, staring at the battered stress ball clenched in my fist. I can hear just as well from the living room.
Michael pinched my arm hard enough to leave a welt, and I glared at him. I would have pinched him back if I hadn’t seen concern behind the irritation etched across his face.
“I don’t think you understood what I was saying,” Dr. Carver said, shifting attention away from me. “Because I wasn’t finished.” His pointed look at Malone made me smile. “Yes, Faythe killed Andrew Wallace. She’s never denied it. But she says she had no choice, and I have no reason to doubt that.”
Uncle Rick leaned forward in quiet eagerness. “So you could tell it was self-defense based on the body?” I have no doubt he meant to help my case. Unfortunately, his question forced Dr. Carver to backtrack.
“Well, not for sure, no.” He moved uncomfortably in his chair. “But neither could I say for certain that it wasn’t. But beyond that, her story checks out, medically speaking.”
Uncle Rick nodded encouragingly. “Meaning…?”
“I also examined Faythe that night, and her injuries are consistent with her explanation of what happened. Cuts on the backs of her arms, from being pinned to the floor on top of broken glass. Severely bruised cheeks, from several blows to the face. Bruised ribs from blows to the torso. She was obviously the one on the ground—that much is clear from her injuries. And that implies that Mr. Wallace was the aggressor. Faythe says she was acting in self-defense, and I believe her.”
I exhaled in relief. I wasn’t out of the proverbial woods yet, but it felt so damn good to know someone else was willing to stand up for me. Someone who had no personal stake in my future.
“Dr. Carver, we have no doubt that Ms. Sanders was injured in the exchange. But we can’t ignore the possibility that Mr. Wallace was the one acting in self-defense, injuring Ms. Sanders in an attempt to preserve his own life. An effort which ultimately failed. So, implications aside, can you say for certain, based on the state of his remains and Ms. Sanders’s injuries, that this was not the case?” Malone’s voice was as persuasive as he could get.
“I most certainly can say that.” Dr. Carver’s tone was firm, and anticipation pulled my spine straight in my chair. “I just can’t prove it.”
The frustration in his voice was mirrored in my posture as I slouched lower in my seat.
Malone rolled his eyes. “Dr. Carver, we are interested in actual evidence here.”
“Only because you don’t have it,” the doctor snapped.
The room went completely, eerily silent as all eyes settled on Danny Carver, in his chair at the end of the table, face pink with irritation, gaze focused intently on Malone.
“If you had proof it was an accident, you’d want expert testimony to tell you that proof was wrong. But there is no irrefutable evidence in this case, and when that happens, you have to make your decision based on the testimony and opinions of others. And my testimony—my gut instinct—is that Faythe had no choice but to defend herself against Andrew Wallace. As she’s said repeatedly.”
“So she has.” Malone’s disbelief sent a fresh surge of irritation through me. My fist clenched around the stress ball again, and I glanced down to see that I’d carved a new tectonic-plate boundary down the middle of Central Europe. Thank goodness I wasn’t into voodoo.
“Speaking of Ms. Sanders’s testimony…” Blackwell began. “Are you aware of her claims that the infection was an accident, caused by a—” he glanced at his notes “—’partial Shift.’”
The doctor nodded curtly.
“And have you ever seen this…phenomenon?”
“Unfortunately…no.”
“What a coincidence,” Malone spat. “Neither has anyone else.”
I shot up from my chair in indignation, my latest warning forgotten. “That’s—” Michael’s hand clamped over my mouth again, and he shoved me back into my seat, much harder than necessary.
—not true! My protest ended in my head, as my teeth sank into my brother’s finger. He snatched his hand from my mouth, shaking it. And too late it occurred to me that biting was probably a bad idea, considering I was on trial, in part, for that very offense.
Still, Malone’s crack was an outright lie. Several people had seen the partial Shift. Of course, one of them—Eric, the psycho kidnapper—was now dead, so his testimony would be pretty damn hard to scrounge up. And none of my other potential vouchers—Marc, Michael, my father, and my cousin Abby—were considered reliable witnesses because they all loved me and would presumably lie to save me.
The tribunal had voted in favor of excluding their testimony by a margin of two to one, and no matter how fiercely Uncle Rick had argued, he was unable to gain even one vote. Stubborn bastards.
But he wasn’t done trying to help me. “Dr. Carver, do you think such a Shift is possible, medically speaking?”
Dr. Carver sighed. “No. Medically speaking, no Shift is possible. Our very existence should be a physical impossibility. But we do exist. And so does the partial Shift. I see no reason for it not to. It takes intense concentration to Shift intentionally, so it stands to reason that intense concentration focused on a particular part of the body would cause only that part to Shift.”
His gaze swung left to include only Malone and Blackwell.