Page 58 of Free to Judge (Amaryllis Heritage #2)

TWO YEARS LATER

The federal courthouse smells like lemon-scented cleaner and has my nerves strung out as I sit on the witness stand.

My suit itches and since I flat out told her father that I refuse to wear one to the office ever again, I haven’t worn a tie in months—not since the last funeral we’d gone to together.

Even then, I’d torn it off the second we got back to the car and tossed it in the backseat like it offended me.

Today, though, it is necessary. Part of the armor I used to wear when I was an FBI agent. A part of a uniform I wore with pride.

I’d adjust it again, but I’m certain the federal prosecutor is contemplating wrapping it around my neck and yanking both ends tightly. She’s trying to finish her questions with clinical precision, but her eyes dart up every time I fiddle with my stupid neck apparatus.

She wanted me to keep things neat for the jury. Keep it surgical. That just isn’t possible. Not with what we’re being forced to dig up.

“Thank you, Mr. Conian,” she says, nodding before retreating to her seat.

I nod back, but don’t look at her. My eyes find the jury. Seven women, five men. Mostly middle-aged. Some skeptical. A few sympathetic.

Then my eyes find the woman who was harangued by both the prosecution and the defense earlier in the trial.

Sitting in the second row of the gallery.

Dark blue blazer. Hair pulled back in a knot she only wears when she needs to look tough—depositions, confrontations, days when she was coming to Hudson Investigations to scold her father for keeping me too late at the office.

Her eyes are locked on mine.

God, she’s the only reason why I can manage to make it through reliving this nightmare.

The judge turns to the defense. “Mr. Allister, your witness.”

Victor Allister stands like he’s preparing for his swan song. His suits throughout the trial have been multi-thousand-dollar shades of Quaker Oats. When Kalie’s Uncle Phil first mentioned that at a family dinner, her Aunt Em spit out her drink across his chest.

For once, Phil didn’t seem to mind. He pulled Emily close, kissed the top of her head, and said, “That one’s a freebie.”

Allister steps forward and presents a tight, civil smile to the jury before beginning his verbal warfare. “Mr. Conian. Let’s get into it.”

I lean back in the chair, rolling my shoulders. “Let’s.”

“You were with the FBI for—how long again?”

“Eight years. Last two, I was a handler while my partner went undercover at Velvet Vice.”

“Velvet Vice,” he repeats like he was tasting it. “A gentleman’s club.”

“If you want to call it that.”

“Then you left the FBI?”

“Yes.”

“And did what, exactly?”

“I went to work at Hudson Investigations.”

Allister turns to the jury. “A private firm. Not affiliated with law enforcement. No jurisdiction. No oversight.”

“We work with local PDs, state agencies, even federal when asked. We handle cases they can’t. Or won’t.”

“Right. The noble mercenary.” He flips a page in his notes. “You’ve testified before, haven’t you? But not like this. Not against your former contacts.”

I don’t respond. Not yet. He wants me to fill the silence. “Why is that, exactly?”

“There were concerns about whether or not my partner was killed as a result of information I provided to my superiors.” I pause. “For the record, an internal investigation by the agency has cleared that.”

“But you still went rogue?”

“Yes. I wanted answers.”

“What did you do, exactly?”

“I became a defense attorney for the Byrnes’ family interests.”

“Money?’

“Yes”

“Violence?”

“On occasion.”

He leers at me. “Girls?”

“Never.”

“Never? Never is an awfully long time.” He pauses. “Did you or did you not have your photograph taken at Velvet Vice?”

I stare Kalie directly in the eyes when I lean into the microphone and admit, “Yes, I did.”

The jury titters among themselves.

“Yet you say you were never involved with the girls?” he jeers.

“I never was. The VIP room was used for business meetings.”

“Your honor, I would like to enter photographic evidence from Sexy & Social showing Mr. Conian receiving a lap dance at Velvet Vice.”

“Objection!” shouts the prosecution. “Those photos are being taken out of context.”

“I’ll allow the evidence. You’ll have the chance to challenge the context shortly.”

Allister, the slime bucket he is, tries to get me to admit the dance Nerissa performed was more than just an information drop. But he fails. Spectacularly. Especially when I point at his client—Jack Marshall—and explain how he murdered one of the other strippers in cold blood that night.

Allister can’t let it go. Won’t let me go. “While you were undercover, you attended parties. Conducted legal transactions for my client’s people. Were lent out to another crime organization to resolve their cases. Took part in legal transactions.”

“While collecting evidence, yes.”

Allister gives a casual shrug. “You admit, then, you lied.”

I keep my voice calm, the way Keene grilled into me during witness prep. “You don’t get to frame it like that.”

“How should I frame it, Mr. Conian? You were in deep with my client and his network. You acted as their lawyer of record to stay under. Now you’re breaking your oath to come clean.”

I let the silence sit for a moment, then give him credit, “You’re right about one thing.”

The courtroom stills.

“I knew testifying would cost me. I have no doubt that the bar association is going to revoke my private license. Hell, I’ll be lucky if the penny ante crap I actually prosecuted isn’t overturned.

Certainly, the Byrnes should be concerned whether the villas I purchased for them in Cork and Tuscany are legal.

But I didn’t come here to protect my career. ”

I glanced at Kalie again. She hasn’t moved, but her eyes aren’t as fierce as they were before. They’re as warm as they were when we woke up in bed together this morning. “I came here because I will not sit by and let these men walk.”

Allister scoffs. “So you claim you’ll sacrifice everything. For justice.”

“No. There’s only one thing in the world I have worth protecting.

It’s not justice. Not anymore.” I motion with my eyes toward my wife.

“She’s sitting right there. The woman I gained because she punched me in the face at the courthouse two years ago.

She didn’t know I wasn’t just a two-bit attorney bent on protecting criminals.

It was her sense of justice that led me to where I am today. ”

A couple of jurors exchange glances. The older woman in the back leans forward.

“She forgave me when I didn’t deserve it for harming our relationship when I got scared over too many things related to her and this case.

When I finally understood what being undercover meant.

Not once did she ask me to give up justice for my partner.

My wife just gave me a new purpose when it was all done—love. ”

Allister opens his mouth, but I don’t stop.

“We bought a house together. Tons of bedrooms, creaky floors, a backyard with a stubborn pine tree. We painted the kitchen together, even though we fought over the cabinet color. We run together first thing in the morning, sometimes after dinner. She reads contracts on the couch while I work cases that still matter—finding missing persons. The people who have fallen through the cracks.”

A lump lodges in my throat, but I push it down.

“My wife’s not just my future. Kalie’s my redemption.”

Allister frowns. “Your Honor, I’m not sure how this is relevant—”

“It’s relevant,” I say, cutting him off, “because you keep trying to convince this jury your client’s somehow not guilty of attacking my wife—his own granddaughter.

That I’m here to save my own skin. That I’m betraying some sacred code by throwing away a career I give two shits about when the truth is, I already gave all that up.

The only thing that matters to me if I ever lose it is her. Nothing else matters but that.”

The judge studies me for a long second. Then nods. “Continue, Mr. Allister. But tread carefully.”

Allister tightens his grip on the podium. “Mr. Conian, are you or are you not aware that testifying today could compromise ongoing investigations related to the Byrne family?”

“I cleared my testimony with federal oversight. Anything I’ve disclosed is admissible and isolated from classified operations.”

Allister clicks his pen once. Twice.

“I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

“You may step down.” The judge gives me a nod.

I stand slowly. My legs feel heavier than they should. I turn and make my way down the steps from the witness stand, each footfall stronger than the last.

I don’t glance at the jury. I didn’t bother with Allister.

I have eyes only for Kalie.

Her gaze connects with mine with the look that wrecks me every time—equal parts love and pride. When I saw it in her eyes on our wedding day, I knew I’d do anything and everything to see it again.

A silent I see you.

I love you.

Always.

This is what matters. No courtroom in the world could take it away.

The courthouse doors swing shut behind me with a weighty thud, the ending of a chapter I never thought would be over. The cold hits first. Then air. Fresh air.

Much like it did when I was a defense attorney for the Byrnes, the press crowds the sidewalk. Questions are shouted. But they blur into white noise because off to the side, away from the hoopla, she’s waiting for me.

God, I still don’t deserve her, is all I can think.

I move toward Kalie like the moon circles the earth. No hesitation. No deliberation. She’s my orbit, my anchor. When I reach her, I stop short of touching her. Not yet.

Her eyes probe mine before her lips curve upward. “You didn’t have to say my name.”

“I did.”

She steps forward and lays her hand flat over my heart. I cover it with my own. “I meant what I said in there,” I murmur. “I started this for justice. But I finished it for you.”

Her throat moves as she swallows. “I know.”

For a moment, we’re caught in a bubble made of just the two of us. Nothing else exists. No mob. No crazy grandfathers. No bridezillas trying to sue her or hysterical families needing my help. It’s just her hand over my heart and the love we’ve built between us.

“Is it really over?” she asks.

“Our part testifying is, yes. ”

She nods slowly. “Good.” Then, more softly, “Take me home.”

The door clicks shut behind us.

She toes off her heels by the door. I watch her for a moment, admiring the way she moves in the space we built together—our home.

My jacket lands on the back of the sofa we spend every night snuggling on together.

She shrugs off her blazer. I toe off my own shoes and peel off my socks before walking toward her in bare feet.

Then, I tug her against me and just hold her against my chest—pressing a kiss to her head without a word.

Kalie nestles into me like she’s been waiting all day for that one kiss. “You’re quiet.”

I relax my chin on her shoulder. “I don’t remember the last time I felt this much at peace.”

She smiles against my chest.

For a long time, we just stand there absorbing each other. Eventually, she pulls back and tugs my hand.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go to bed. You need to relax. I want—”

I don’t let her finish.

Bending at the knees, I swoop her up into my arms before carrying her down the hall.

We pass framed family photos, running medals we’d earned together and into our master bedroom.

I carefully step over the pieces of our baby’s bassinet.

We have months until our “we” turns into “three,” but we’re ready for moments that smell less like stress and instead drown us in sweet scented baby powder.

Wrapped in Kalie’s arms, after loving her to sleep, I hold on to my future with nothing left to hide. Our trials are over.

Finally.