Page 176 of Because I Killed Him
We forget about both croquet and studying, holding our breath as we click on a video embedded in the article. The footage shows Benjamin Bogart on the steps of the Hourglass Courthouse in Charleston City, framed between two double-headed eagle statues, each with its wings spread wide enough to cast a long, unbroken shadow. From Bogart’s rigid posture and solemn, fiery gaze, I never would’ve guessed he and Scarlett Du Pont had gotten back together if I hadn’t seen the headline last week.
“It has been, ladies and gentlemen, a devastatingly dramatic day here at the Hourglass Courthouse. For days, legal analysts predicted a swift acquittal or, at worst, a hung jury. The defense had done its part: cross-examining witnesses, exposing inconsistencies, and systematically dismantling the prosecution’s case. The tide, it seemed, had turned.”
The screen splits as courtroom footage rolls, overlaid with Bogart’s somber voice. The two accused Blues sit shoulder to shoulder at the defense table, both clean-cut and unnervingly still. Their cold, uniform expressions reek of something military, a covert unit that doesn’t officially exist until the high-citizens need someone silenced.
More than men on trial, they look like men between assignments.
The only Blue at the table who looks afraid is the one with the least reason to be: the defense attorney. He’s crouched between the accused Blues, whispering rapidly, one hand braced on the table and the other clutching a digital tablet that trembles in his grip. His smile is broad and brittle, the kind worn by men already feeling the loss before it comes. One of the accused Blues exhales through his nose, visibly irritated.
Bogart waves a hand, and the footage vanishes. “Everything changed shortly after nine o’clock this morning. A key witness, whose earlier refusal to testify dealt a near-fatal blow to the prosecution, returned to the stand.Agatha Grey.She is a senior aide to Representative LorraineRussell of the Orange District and was a direct witness to the assassination attempt on President Reeve at the Bridge Banquet.”
Bogart lowers his head, letting the silence stretch long enough to feel like a stage cue.
Dickie groans and flails his croquet mallet. “Speed it up, you gilded gasbag! Spit it out already!”
Bogart presses on. “Miss Grey entered the courtroom visibly shaken. Her hands trembled as she was sworn in. And yet… she testified, under oath, that she had received direct threats. That her family had been followed by unmarked drones. That she had been warned to stay silent about what she witnessed that night. And still, she identified the shooters. Both of them.”
A brief clip plays across the screen. Agatha sits on the witness stand, her shoulders squared beneath her burnt-orange blouse. Her pale eyes are rimmed with red, and her lips move slowly, as if each word is torn from a place of deep, wrenching fear.
“Following Miss Grey’s testimony,” Bogart continues, “she and her family were placed under immediate protective custody.” He lifts a finger with a tone of finality. “And then came the final blow.”
The courtroom vanishes, replaced by a rapid collage of Bond footage stitched together by prosecutors overnight.
“This,” Bogart says, “is footage recovered from individual Bonds, submitted by guests of the Bridge Banquet. Time-stamped. Verified. And, as of this morning, admitted into evidence.”
Dickie snorts like he heard a bad joke. “Took ’em long enough. What’d they need to finally find their nerves? A handwritten invitation to hell?” He leans on his mallet like it’s a cane, tapping it on the ground as he mutters.
Then the clip plays, and he goes still. The mallet stiffens in his grip as the footage shows the two accused Blues, disguised in Copper uniforms, raising their guns in the crowd at the Bridge Banquet and firing at President Reeve. The slow-motion frame captures the bullets leaving the chambers in a trail of proof so damning that the accused Blues might as well have turned the guns on themselves.
“The defense objected to the admission of this evidence,” Bogart says,standing tall as he descends the courthouse steps. “They argued it was circumstantial and did not meet the standard of proof. But the judge overruled the objection.”
Bogart pauses at the bottom step, his gaze lifting to the double-headed eagle statues, as if weighing what that symbol will mean should the accused Blues be convicted. Then, with a tragic sigh, he continues, “At 4:00 p.m. today, both the prosecution and the defense gave their closing statements. Directly afterward, the jury was sent to deliberate.”
The camera cuts back to the courtroom, where the accused Blues sit straight-backed and silent. One glances repeatedly toward the exit, while the other taps his fingers against his thigh in a slow, agitated rhythm. Their attorney wipes sweat from his upper lip and leans in for a hushed exchange. One of the accused Blues mutters under his breath, his eyes flicking toward the jury chamber.
Bogart’s voice returns: “It bears repeating, ladies and gentlemen, that if the accused are convicted, the sentence is death… And, as we all know, there has never been a public execution of a high-citizen in the history of the Civilized World.”
He pauses, his face drawn tight with something close to fear. Then, on a breath barely louder than a whisper, he adds, “But in a matter of hours that precedent may fall.”
The camera zooms out to reveal the entire courthouse, with sunbaked stone and a copper dome aged to a soft green patina, its beauty too serene for the storm brewing inside. Then the video cuts out.
For a long moment, neither Dickie nor I speaks. The garden is eerily silent, interrupted only by the gentle bubbling of the nearby stone fountains. Finally, Dickie lifts his mallet and, with a casual pivot of his feet, lines up his shot.
“Guilty, or no?” he asks.
“I’m not sure,” I say, my mind already drifting to jury tampering. “You?”
“Guilty.” Dickie swings his mallet, and the crack of wood against the ball echoes like a gavel. “Guilty, and already halfway down the chute.”
He waves for me to hurry and take my turn, then pulls a fistful of chocolate-covered fruit from his pocket and crams it into his mouth. Iwatch him, waiting for some sign of fear or doubt, but none comes. Instead, he looks resolute, almost eager, as if he’s already booked a front-row seat to the execution.
For a moment, I don’t recognize him. He looks hungry for something I can’t quite identify, something no amount of sugar can ever satisfy. Whatever it is, it makes him seem old enough that, for a brief, alarming instant, I don’t see the scrawny, freckled boy I know but a man seeking justice.
Or maybe it’s revenge.
Now and forever, although they are dead,
We remember the nine great gentlemen who bled,
