Listed: Volume III (5 page)

“He
might have bought something. I don’t remember.”

“What
other reason would he have for coming into your father’s store?”

“He
wanted to buy the store. He was trying to buy up the whole block.”

“And
your dad sold to him?”

“No.
He wouldn’t sell.” That was what she tried to say, but her mouth was so dry she
could barely speak, and the room spun a few times as a wave of heat and fatigue
washed over her.

She
glanced over to where Paul was seated. He’d been watching her with a calm,
steady gaze, but his brow lowered now, as if he recognized something was wrong.

Briefly
terrified that she was actually going to pass out, she turned to the judge,
since she didn’t know who else she was supposed to ask. “I’m sorry, your honor.
Is there any way I can get some more water?”

The
judge—an attractive black woman in her fifties—looked surprised but then nodded
to the bailiff, who walked over, took Emily’s glass, filled it with water from
one of the pitchers, and returned it to her.

Emily
gulped it gratefully, feeling better as soon as she’d swallowed the water.

Barton
hadn’t looked at all pleased with the interruption to his momentum, but he knew
what he was doing. He closed the gap between the questions by repeating, “Did
your dad sell the store to Mr. Marino?”

 “No.
He wouldn’t sell.”

“Why
not?”

“His
father had bought the property and opened that store. My dad thought it was his
birthright, and he didn’t like the defendant.”

“Didn’t
he?” He looked like she’d said something revealing, and Emily started to worry
she was falling into a trap.

She
took another gulp of water and tried to clear her mind, but she felt so weak
her hands trembled a little.

“So
your father and Mr. Marino fought?”

“I
don’t think so. I mean, not real fighting. All my dad did was keep saying no.”

“So
Mr. Marino continued to make purchase offers to your dad?”

“Yes.”

“How
many?”

“I
don’t know. It went on for a while.” Emily knew she was too affected by her
illness when her eyes burned at the memory of those last months with her
father, when he’d been so incredibly stressed with trying to keep his store
above water and too proud to even consider selling to Vincent Marino.

“Did
you resent the defendant for that?”

 “What?”
Despite the water, Emily’s mouth and head still felt cottony.

“Did
you resent Mr. Marino for the pressure he put on your father?”

“Why
would I?”

“Did
you love your father?”

“Of
course.”

“So
did you resent it when Mr. Marino started to squeeze him out of business in an
attempt to persuade him to sell?”

Hathaway
objected to something about the questioning, but Emily was too blurry to follow
the details. She used the brief pause to try to pull herself together and get
her mind to work better than it was.

When
Barton started to question her again, he asked, “How did you feel when the
defendant used his influence in the neighborhood to keep your father’s store
from turning a profit?”

Emily
stared at him, bewildered. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I
don’t know how I can ask the question any clearer. How did you feel when Mr.
Marino used his influence in the neighborhood to squeeze your father out of his
business?”

“I
didn’t know he did that.” She was absolutely horrified by the idea—by what
Vincent Marino might have done to her poor father.

“How
profitable was your father’s store in the last months of his life?”

“Not
profitable at all. He was trying to keep it from folding.”

“And
who did you blame for that?”

“No
one. It was just one of those things.”

“You
didn’t blame Mr. Marino?”

“I
didn’t know he was doing anything.” A few embarrassing tears streamed from her
eyes. “My dad never told me. I thought it was just one of those things.”

“You
didn’t resent Mr. Marino for it?”

“Objection,”
Hathaway interrupted. “Asked and answered.”

The
judge sustained the objection, and the brief pause gave Emily a chance to
hurriedly wipe away the tears. She was a wreck. She was doing a terrible job. Talking
about her father like this—learning the truth about what he’d had to go through
without her ever knowing—was heartbreaking. She didn’t dare look over to Paul.
He would be so disappointed in her.

“Had
your husband shown any signs of romantic interest in you before he married
you?”

The
shift in topic was so abrupt that Emily couldn’t follow it. “What?”

“Had
your husband shown any signs of romantic interest in you before he married
you?”

“No,”
she admitted, “But he didn’t—”

“So
your courtship and marriage were…sudden?”

“Yes.”
She sniffed a few times, desperately needing a tissue.

Barton
didn’t give her time to explain further. “Did you find it surprising that a
rich, attractive, older man would be willing to marry someone like you?”

The
question hurt and surprised Emily so much she gasped.

When
it looked like Hathaway was about to object, Barton added, “I mean, marry a teenage
girl he'd never shown any interest in.”

“There
were certain circumstances,” she began, trying desperately to think clearly,
even though her hands were shaking helplessly and her eyes still blurred with
tears.

“Ah,
circumstances,” Barton interrupted. “Was your testifying in this trial part of
the marriage agreement you made with your husband?”

Emily
gulped, understanding where this was going. “Yes.”

“Do
you believe that your husband is in love with you?”

It
was awful. Absolutely awful. That Paul didn’t love her, and that she was
ruining him now by speaking the truth. She choked, more tears sliding down her
cheeks.

“Please
direct the witness to answer the question, your honor.”

“Mrs.
Marino,” the judge said, “You need to answer.”

Emily
managed to force back the emotion. “No. He’s not in love with me.”

“Did
your aunt recently die, Mrs. Marino?”

“Yes.”

“Is
your father dead?”

“Yes.”

“Where
is your mother?”

She
shrugged. “On the street somewhere.”

“Have
you been diagnosed with a terminal illness?”

“Yes.”

“Are
you seventeen years old?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs.
Marino, has your husband taken advantage of you?”

“No!”

“You
wouldn’t consider it taking advantage if a man marries a vulnerable girl in
order to get her to testify against his father?”

“That’s
not how it happened.” She was washed with heat again, hating her weakness, her
illness, her stupidity, everything that had led her to make such a mess of this
now. “That’s not why he married me.”

Barton
arched his eyebrows. “Do you care for your husband, Mrs. Marino?”

“Yes.”

“Would
you try to help him whenever you could?”

“I
wouldn’t lie for him.”

“Please
answer the question.”

“Yes,
I would help him when I could, but I wouldn’t lie for him.”

“Do
you like to please him?”

The
room was spinning again, and it was too hot. Emily clutched at the seat of her
chair, desperately trying to breathe. She couldn’t pass out. She just couldn’t.

“Please
answer the question, Mrs. Marino.”

She
opened her mouth. Tried to answer. But the room darkened around her.

“Your
honor?” Barton prompted.

“Mrs.
Marino,” the judge said, “You need to answer the question.” Her voice had been
gentler than normal, but it changed when she turned her head and said, “Please
sit down, Mr. Marino.”

Emily
nodded. Tried again to answer. But she felt herself swaying on her seat.

“Mrs.
Marino?” the judge asked. Then, “I said
sit down
, Mr. Marino.”

“Your
honor,” Hathaway jumped in. “We request a short recess. The witness has spent
the last two days with a high fever. It’s obvious she’s not yet fully
recovered.”

“You
have thirty minutes,” the judge said. “But then we have to move on.”

Emily
wasn’t sure what happened after that. Maybe she actually did pass out for a few
seconds. The next thing she was aware of was Paul’s arms around her, his
helping her out of the room, then his settling her on a loveseat in some sort
of small conference room.

She
leaned against him, shaking desperately although she didn’t have any tears.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Paul. I messed everything up.”

“No,
you didn’t,” he said, his arms still holding her tightly. “You didn’t mess
anything up. You did fine.”

“No,
I didn’t. I was terrible.” She stared up at Hathaway, who was looking down on
her with a surprising sympathy in his eyes. He hadn't seemed to care that much
about her before. “Wasn’t I?”

“No,
you really weren’t,” he said. “In fact, I think stepping into you was a mistake
on Barton’s part. Marino had obviously told him what buttons to push, but he
didn’t expect you to be so fragile or he wouldn’t have pushed so hard.”

“I’m
not fragile,” she gasped, offended by the word despite the circumstances.

Paul
stroked her hair and murmured dryly, “Let’s try to focus on essentials.”

The
faint irony in his tone actually helped. “How could my breakdown have helped?
Didn’t it look like I was overwhelmed by how Paul had taken advantage of me? Or
maybe they thought I was faking to earn sympathy.”

“There's
no way you were faking—you turned dead white. We can clear up the circumstances
of your marriage in redirect,” Hathaway said. “The incident made Barton look
like a bully. Several of the jurors looked like they wanted to jump up and help
you themselves. You did fine, Mrs. Marino. You did just fine.”

She
nodded, something easing in her chest. She looked up at Paul. “Sorry I’m such a
wreck.”

“You’re
not a wreck,” he objected gently, wiping lingering tears from her face with his
thumb. “You’re sick.”

Emily
was really tired of being sick.

*
* *

Emily was exhausted but
steady again when she took the witness stand one more time.

Barton,
evidently realizing any further cross-examination would cast him in a negative
light, declared he was through with her as a witness. Then Hathaway asked for a
redirect examination.

He
began, “Did you agree to testify against Mr. Vincent Marino after you married
your husband?”

“No.
I had agreed to do so before.”

“Did
your husband originally suggest you testify?”

“No.
It was my idea from the beginning. He didn’t know anything about it until my
aunt and I had already gone to the FBI.”

“Who
proposed the marriage between you and your husband?”

“I
did.”

“Why
did you ask Mr. Marino to marry you?”

“I
had three months to live. I wanted to get married before I died.”

“Why
do you believe he agreed?”

“Because
he’s a good man, and he felt sorry for me.”

“Do
you trust your husband, Mrs. Marino?”

“Yes.
Absolutely.”

“Have
you known him to lie to you?”

“Never.”

“Has
he ever taken advantage of you in any way?”

“No,”
Emily said, looking over at Paul, who was sitting in his seat again, watching
her steadily with an expression she was too far away to read.

Feeling
an outpouring of affection, she continued, “He’s never taken advantage of me.
He’s never been anything but caring, considerate, generous, and good to me.
He’s given me more than I could ever dream of—and not asked for anything in
return. He has selflessly sat by my bed when I was sick for hours to take care
of me. Except for my father, no man has ever treated me better than he has. He
wants justice for his father, not vengeance. He’s the best man I’ve ever
known.”

Something
twisted on Paul’s face. He put a hand over his mouth, like he was rubbing his
chin, and glanced away from her.

Emily’s
eyes returned to Hathaway, who concluded, “That’s all, your honor.”

The
judge dismissed her and announced that the trial would resume the next morning.

As
Emily walked shakily past the defense table, she couldn’t help but finally glance
over at Vincent Marino.