Chapter 8 - THE TRIAL
The trial took place in early December. The courthouse was packed with local reporters; the story of the wounded veteran betrayed by her husband had made national headlines.
I sat at the prosecutor's table in my dress uniform. My medals caught the light of the courtroom overheads.
Marcus sat across the aisle, looking gaunt and terrified in his orange county jumpsuit. Eleanor sat behind him, weeping loudly to garner sympathy from the jury. It wasn't working.
When it was my turn to take the stand, I didn't use my wheelchair. I didn't use my cane.
I stood up, gritted my teeth, and walked the thirty feet to the witness box entirely unassisted. The courtroom was dead silent. I could feel Marcus staring at my legs in absolute disbelief.
I answered the prosecutor's questions with military precision. I laid out the timeline. I presented my father's evidence. I let the jury hear the voicemail Marcus had left me, demanding I come back and "fix things."
The defense attorney tried to rattle me, asking if my PTSD made me paranoid.
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"I'm not paranoid, sir," I answered, projecting my voice so it rang off the oak walls. "I am observant. My husband assumed my physical injuries made me weak and blind. He forgot that before I was a wife, I was a soldier. And soldiers do not surrender to domestic terrorists."
The jury deliberated for exactly forty-five minutes.
