Page 1 of The Birthday Girl
On the tape, pink-lacquered nails scraped the dirt, leaving behind cavernous grooves as the victim was dragged deeper into the trees.
She kicked, screamed, and begged for her life as she fought like hell.
Her heel snapped, and a hand clamped over her mouth, muffling the sound.
A knee drove into her sternum, her ribs cracked, and her chest gave one wet, uneven rattle.
“People think death is quiet,” the man said, his eyes glued on the television hanging inside the interrogation room.
“It isn’t. It’s messy, wet, and full of tiny sounds that linger in your ears even after the body gets cold.
” The man’s eyes closed as though he were experiencing utter bliss.
“God, I can still hear them.” His voice was intimate, the narration as clinical as it was cruel.
“Stay on topic, you sick fuck. What did you do next?” Detective Vega asked.
“I watched her to ensure her chest had stopped moving. That was the point. I needed to be sure I ended her once and for all.”
When the tape ended, the room stayed still.
The defendant, hands laced on the table, looked up and gave the smallest grin.
A woman's muffled sob sounded from the back row. A juror in the front pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. Another looked down at his lap, jaw muscles working beneath his skin. And Detective Vega’s pen had stopped its incessant clicking, frozen mid-air above his notepad.
He would never forget that interview.
The defendant sat motionless as twenty-four eyes dissected him from the jury box, joined by Detective Vega’s and the victim’s family in the gallery, every gaze branding him a monster.
“Let the record show,” the prosecutor’s voice cut in, clipped and official.
The defendant glanced at the detective in the front row. Vega’s lips curled upward at the corners, a predator's smile, reaching his cold eyes. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, mentally drafting the press statement about the confession because, in his mind, he’d already won.
Behind him, Tyriq Lawson adjusted his platinum cufflinks, the only person in the room whose shoulders remained perfectly squared.
He unfolded from his chair with the liquid confidence of a panther, his Italian leather shoes pivoting on the polished floor as the jurors followed his every movement toward the jury box.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, buttoning his jacket, “what you just heard isn’t a confession. It is the product of hours of coercion, intimidation, and psychological manipulation.”
Detective Vega's bench squeaked as he lurched forward, a vein pulsing at his temple, teeth grinding audibly.
Tyriq's eyes flickered to him for only a heartbeat before he resumed his path to the jury box, one hand casually tucked in his pocket, the corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile that made the female juror in the second row straighten her blouse.
“We don’t convict people in this country because they’ve been bullied into saying what the detective wants to hear. We convict on proof. And proof…” He smiled. “…is exactly what the state does not have.”
Tyriq ducked his chin. “We all heard the ‘so-called’ confession, but my client's words were twisted after hours of interrogation without counsel present.” Tyriq's voice dropped to a silken whisper that somehow filled the courtroom.
“Meanwhile, the prosecution neglected to mention the bloodwork results, or the so-called ‘trace evidence’ that was conveniently contaminated during police transit. Let me not even start on the CCTV footage, which, if you review the timestamp, plainly shows my client never left their apartment that night.”
Tyriq turned then, now playing to the jury, always the jury, with both hands in his pockets, his thumbs drumming an idle rhythm against his waistband.
“My client is guilty of only one thing: being in the wrong place at the wrong time, with the wrong detective desperate to close his case before the mayor’s reelection. That’s what this is about. Not justice. Not the victim’s family. Optics.” He paused, as if savoring the word on his tongue.
“The system is supposed to protect people like my client, who, by the way, has no arrest record, no history of violence, and was, as you’ll see, miles away from the scene of the tragedy.
But instead, they were made to sit in a freezing room, denied counsel, and asked the same loaded question until exhaustion compelled them to give the detective the confession he wanted. ”
He let his words drop to the floor as he slipped a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his upper lip. There was no sweat. He’d done it as a gesture, a punctuation mark for the end of his tirade.
“The state has failed to meet its burden of proof beyond a reasonable doubt, so I ask you to honor your oath and return the only verdict the evidence supports: not guilty,” Tyriq said before thanking the juror for their time and returning to his seat.
The judge watched him with a look that betrayed nothing but fatigue, her mouth drawn tight as a purse string. In the back row, the victim’s aunt let out a sound that was a cross between a stifled cry and a sigh.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” the judge intoned after a pause, “you’ve heard the closing arguments.” Her voice was worn but textured with finality. “The court will now recess. Bailiff, please escort the jury to the deliberation room.”
The twelve stood in unison, each face blank. They filed past the defendant, whose eyes stayed glued to the table, and past Tyriq, who watched them like a hawk.
Forty-seven minutes after they had exited, the jury returned.
The forewoman rose, her silver-streaked bob as rigid as her posture, and a plastic juror badge pinned to her navy blazer.
With two fingers, she extended the folded verdict slip toward the bench.
The judge unfolded it, gave it a quick read, and handed it to the clerk, her face a perfect mask of judicial impartiality.
Detective Vega's knuckles cracked against the bench, his fingernails digging into the wood. His jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped beneath the stubble as he waited eagerly for the verdict to be announced.
The clerk’s voice was flat as stone. “We, the jury, find the defendant… not guilty.” The words clanged through the chamber, louder than any gavel, louder than the aunt’s muffled cry, louder than Detective Vega’s teeth grinding behind his lips.
Forty-seven minutes, not even an hour, was all it took to undo eighteen months of arduous work, and he was pissed.
Detective Vega didn’t move. He watched the killer, who met his gaze evenly.
Neither blinked. In the liminal hush, he thought he saw a wink, but it could have been his mind playing tricks on him.
He wondered, not for the first time, what the monster would do with their freedom, now that they’d slipped through the cracks of Law and Order and were loose in the city again.
The thought was less chilling than infuriating.
However, what he would never forget wasn’t the jury’s words, the killer, or the gavel’s crack.
It was her.
Tahlia Banks, on her feet in the gallery, her diamonds blinding every eye in the room as she clapped for Tyriq. Her smile was worshipful and proud, as if the killer’s freedom were her own.
And at that moment, with Detective Vega’s fury burning into her back, she looked every bit the queen of the damned.