Page 71 of Matlock
She’d painted Simon as a jealous, unstable man driven by shame and obsession.
She’d weaponized his sexuality.
She’d made his love for his sister sound like a taboo fascination.
And she’d done it all with the kind of calm, measured delivery that made it sound reasonable.
Logical... inevitable.
I could see it working on some of the jurors. Walter Hayes in the back row, arms crossed, jaw tight. Elaine Miller in the second row who wouldn’t meet Simon’s eyes. Cole Tyler in the front who kept glancing at Simon like he was trying to reconcile the man sitting beside me with the monster Rosalind had just described.
My hand was still on Simon’s arm, and I could feel the tension radiating through him. He was holding himself together by sheer force of will, but I knew him well enough to recognize the signs. The way his breathing had gone shallow. The way his hands were clenched in his lap. The way he was staring at the table like he could disappear into it if he just focused hard enough.
Rosalind had hurt him.
And that made me want to tear her apart.
But I couldn’t do that.
Not here.
Not now.
What I could do was what I did best.
I could tell a better story.
“Mr. Gallagher.” Judge Markham’s voice cut through the silence. “Your opening statement.”
I turned to look at Simon.
His eyes were still fixed on the table, his jaw tight, his body rigid with the effort of holding himself together.
I leaned in close, my mouth near his ear, my voice low enough that only he could hear.
“I’ve got you,mo leannán,” I whispered. “I promise. I’ve got you.”
His breath hitched.
His eyes lifted to mine. Every emotion he felt shone in his eyes.
Fear.
Hope.
Trust.
And love.
I held his gaze for a moment longer, letting him see the truth in mine.
Then I stood.
I buttoned my jacket with deliberate precision, taking my time, letting the silence stretch. Letting the jury’s attention shift from Rosalind’s narrative to mine.
I walked to the jury box, my steps measured, confident.
I’d done this a thousand times before.
