CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR Luke

"When we get in there, let me do all the talking," Tate said, rubbing the top of my hand with his thumb.

"I know," I muttered. "Like always."

I gazed at Tate, my heart overflowing with love, and wondered how he did what he did. The past month was the worst time of my life, yet he was always there, visiting, comforting, and fighting for me.

"You know I love you, right?" he asked. "I'm going to do my best for you today, love. I promise you."

"What if it doesn't work out, though?"

"Then I'll try something else," he answered. "I'll try something else," he repeated, his voice trailing away as if the possibility was too much to even think about.

I moved his hair out of one eye. "You need a haircut," I whispered. "You look tired."

"I'm fine," he defended.

I could tell Tate was exhausted. He worked tirelessly on my case while I sat in jail, dying a little bit every day. I missed touching him, seeing him, being with him. I missed the intimacy and the knowing I had a home with him waiting for me if I ever got released from custody.

"What about the money?" I asked, having recently learned the legal term of bail bond. "You don't have a job."

"I'll get it, Luke. I promise I'll find a way."

I squeezed his hand tighter, wishing I could hold him, be held by him. We held hands even though doing so wasn't allowed in the stark room. A knock on the door alerted us that the judge was about to enter the courtroom. Tate explained in an earlier visit to jail that I'd be held in this side room until the hearing began. He was trying to get me released on bail.

He looked at me as we both stood. "I know. I know," I said. "No talking if not asked a question."

"Sit up straight and look involved," he coached for the fiftieth time. "Try to look like you didn't do it," he added.

"I didn't do it," I reminded him.

"I know. I'm just worried, Luke."

I held his hands. "I trust you, Tate. Whatever happens in there, I know you fought as hard as you could."

"I can't live without you, Luke. I just can't do that," he said, looking like he could fall apart at any moment.

This was the first time I'd seen the real Tate in more than a month. This version was the person who loved me, cared for me, showed he was as vulnerable as I was. I suddenly realized why mean Tate was so needed. The kind one couldn't do the job necessary to save me. He was too obviously biased and invested.

Another knock, one last squeeze of his hand, and it was time to face judgment. The door opened and two officers escorted us into the courtroom and to a long table in front of the judge. A matching table was across the aisle, where Tate's old boss and two other men sat side by side.

The few people seated behind us were unknown to me. There were no supporters there for me. My only supporter sat next to me, taking deep breaths and turning on the steely-eyed expression he always seemed to get when, as he put it, it was showtime.

The courtroom was more elaborate than I'd expected. Of course, I hadn't known what to expect since I'd never been in one, but the interior was beautiful, with flags of the United States and Oregon behind the judge, and pictures of old men with strange white wigs, on three of the walls.

"Counsel for the Prosecutor's office, you may begin," the female judge announced.

She looked mean, but then again, lately, anyone standing between me and freedom looked mean. Tate's former boss didn't stand. A man I didn't recognize did, though, and before he spoke, he glared at me as if to make a nonverbal statement about me right out the gate.

"That man, Mr. Luke Oliver, is a murderer, your honor," he said, his voice booming and echoing around the chamber. "We request that the court deny bail for Mr. Oliver until the investigation is complete."

"I've read through the evidence, Mr. Holden," she stated. "I'm not impressed."

My hopes jumped a million percent at her response to his cruel comment about me. Tate jotted something down on a notepad, his knee nudging mine under the table.

"The accused is the only person with the motive to have murdered Franklin Smith, Your Honor," he replied. "And additional evidence will prove that fact."

"You'd better hope that's the case, Counsel because as of right now, you have nothing that convinces this court that the accused is the conclusion of your investigation. Other than you going on the words of a sixteen-year-old boy who was also sexually abused, your case is weak at best."

"We have over three hundred other witnesses that can testify in court that Mr. Oliver threatened to kill Franklin Smith," he argued. "These witnesses loved the victim and want to show their support in convicting the defendant."

The judge raised her hand to her brow, leaned forward exaggeratingly, and scanned the courtroom seating behind us. "I see a few folks from the press, sir, but where are these three hundred folks you speak of?"

I glanced toward the prosecutor's table. Tate's former boss looked angry and glared at the judge. After standing and leaning into the ear of the lawyer speaking, he slammed his hand on their table and sat back down.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Browning?" she asked. "Because I'm warning you right now, I don't take kindly to shows of bravado or courtroom drama. I run a tight ship here, so do not test me."

He stood back up. Tate nudged my knee hard, like he wanted me to pay attention.

"I think the court should be made aware that the defendant is in a sexual relationship with his attorney," Mr. Browning said. "Surely you see a conflict with that, Your Honor."

The judge turned to Tate and motioned for him to stand. "Is that true, Mr. Finnigan?"

"Yes, Your Honor. That is a true statement," he agreed. "However, I disclosed that to the court, as well as to the prosecution, before this trial was scheduled, per rules code #567-88A. I believe Mr. Browning would have received that brief, Your Honor."

"Mr. Browning?" the judge inquired.

"That's not the point," Tate's former boss argued, glaring at the judge.

"Are you addressing me, Mr. Browning?" she snapped. "Perhaps you didn't notice the robe I'm wearing? Because the last time I checked, you're required to address me as Your Honor."

Mr. Browning ignored her and turned to face our table. "Tate is covering for his gay lover. He knows that Moonie killed that ridiculous cult leader."

The judge slammed her gavel hard. "Order in the court!" she demanded, her voice deeper than I thought possible based on her smaller stature. "Mr. Browning!" she yelled. "I am two seconds from having you removed and dismissing this case based on the shoddy job of this entire investigation."

"I don't give a fuck!" he muttered, barely audible.

"Excuse me?" the judge asked.

By then, the other two men at the prosecutor's table were trying to calm Mr. Browning down. Tate remained quiet, calmly looking forward until his former boss came running across the aisle and threw himself at me.

I ducked, and Tate grabbed him by the neck the moment he landed by us. "This kid killed someone, and nobody gives a shit!" he squawked, trying to catch his breath, and clutching at Tate's arms until three officers of the court ran to our aid. "Fucking Moonie!" he screamed, thrashing and kicking as the officers dragged him down the aisle and out of the courtroom.

Five minutes ticked by before the judge spoke again, both tables straightening out paperwork and gathering themselves. "Anything else from prosecution?" she asked.

"No, Your Honor," the prosecutor answered. "Nothing further."

She turned her ferocious eyes toward me and Tate. "Mr. Finnigan?"

"Yes, Your Honor," he began, coming to his feet. "I'd like to ask the court to grant release of custody to Mr. Oliver. The prosecution has provided no evidence, other than hearsay, and he-said-she-said, hyperbole, concerning their case against my client. There are literally a dozen people with the motive and the incentive to kill Mr. Franklin Smith. Whereas this is a tragedy, Your Honor, as my client is innocent, and until they can provide state evidence to the contrary, Mr. Oliver deserves to be freed on bail."

"Is your client a flight risk?" she inquired.

"No, Your Honor."

"Are you willing to provide bond and agree that you are responsible for Mr. Oliver appearing in court should there ever be a resumption of this case, of course, with further evidence provided?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Tate responded.

"Then it is my judgment that Mr. Oliver be immediately released from the Jefferson County jail, with zero dollars in bail required," she decreed, slamming her gavel.

The opposing table attempted to continue arguing, but the judge was already halfway to the door of her office. Tate remained standing until she exited, turning to face me once she had.

"We can go home now," he said.