Reasonable Doubt ✔ | Open Novella Contest 2020 | Complete

Twenty-three - Colt

A clatter of dropped silverware and plates makes me jump, whirl in my seat. My fists furl, heart in my ears, eyes searching.

Sharron clicks her teeth beside me as she peruses the menu. "Easy, big guy." She gives another once-over of my too-large suit. "We need to work on your wardrobe before the trial."

I grunt, straighten myself in the seat, face the door once more. Old habit. It doesn't matter that this is the Italian restaurant I've seen dozens of times wining and dining Dad's business ventures. Things were different then. I was different.

There wasn't the compulsion to catalogue the wait staff, monitor movements. Someone stops too close, I feel a change in the electricity of the air, breathe easier when they pass. The chatter of fellow diners is too loud. I track conversations from six tables over, poised for something to pop off.

Sharron squeeze my knee as the waitress pauses at our booth, "A double of your house scotch. And a bottle of the Petrus, Pomerol for the table."

"Maxwell's favorite," I remark as the waitress sashays away.

Sharron just smirks. "Don't hate the player."

She slides the tumbler to me when it arrives. "There. Take the edge off. I need you focused."

No sooner do I down the liquor than the hostess leads Maxwell and Finch to our booth. Sharron and I stand out of respect. Her voice takes on a husky, sultry tone. "Mr. Cross, pleasure as always."

He takes her hand, presses a kiss to her knuckles. I get gooseflesh at the smug grin. "Pleasure's all mine."

Finch doesn't waste time on pleasantries. "Really, Sharron? This is your trial consultant?"

Sharp brown eyes catalogue my clean-shaven face, styled hair, and vague black stain on my nails. A permanent fixture, no matter how thoroughly I scrub. Just like the defiant set of my shoulders standing before my father.

"Yes," Sharron beams. "I take it you both know Colt?"

The edges of Max's eyes are tight, eyes unreadable. The exact same as before. Only with a few more lines around his mouth, a sophisticated graying at his temples. "Son. Good to see you again."

Oh, I'm your son now?

I force a smile, meet his pleasant business mask, reciprocate. "Likewise, Maxwell."

Sitting down at the table, we get to work. Sharron makes me take point, dammit, and I go through a list of jurors, witnesses, and defensive council. Prison taught me a lot about psychology – watching body language, speech inflections – enabled me to read people. I ain't good at reciprocating intimacy, but damn can I exploit it.

Max listens attentively, lips pursed against steepled fingers. Toward the end of dinner, he's wearing an enormous grin while Finch has become livid. Her neck flushes bright red over her white blouse and silver locket.

"Well, Sharron," Max gulps the remainder of his glass of wine, which absolutely scandalizes me – shit's seriously $100 a pour. "I look forward to your victory in court. Finch?"

"Yes sir."

He pulls out his wallet, hands her a black card with platinum lettering. "You're going to be Ms. Obioken's second on this."

I snort. The expression on her face says You're fucking kidding me, even as her mouth tilts with a forced smile. "Of course."

"Good girl," he kisses her cheek and stands. "Well, youngbloods, I've got more work to finish before tomorrow. Sharron, join me at the office when you're through, won't you?" Nonchalantly pulling on his leather driving gloves and Prada scarf, he adds. "I've got something I need your hands on."