The Prodigal's Return. Anna DeStefano
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filled Joshua Gardner’s eyes. Sadness. Disappointment that she’d never seen, before a few weeks ago. Never thought was possible. Not from the man who’d been her hero. Her rock.
“Drunk, you mean?” the lawyer asked.
“What?”
“You stopped because you thought Bobby was drunk?”
“Yes. I…I’d seen him drinking at the dance.”
“And were you and Neal drunk as well?”
“No!”
Her parents and their pricey Atlanta lawyer had insisted that she not speak with anyone about that night, not even to defend herself against the rumors flying all over town.
“But you had been drinking with the deceased?”
“Y-yes.” Her father closed his eyes, crossed his arms, as the courtroom’s attention shifted his way. It had sent shock waves through the county, the preacher’s child admitting to the police that she’d been drinking since she was thirteen. “Bobby, Neal and some of the other football players snuck some beer in. A lot of us were drinking it, but Neal and I weren’t dru—”
“But Neal and Bobby had been fighting before you decided to leave the dance?”
“Y-yes.”
“Because Mr. Compton kissed you on the dance floor?”
“Bobby… He’d just broken up with Stephie Blake. He was upset. I was talking with him, trying to make him feel better… To get him to stop drinking. He said I was being so sweet, that Neal was lucky…Then…I’m not really sure how it happened, but—”
“Bobby Compton kissed you?”
She chewed her lip, shuddering at the memory of the argument that had followed. Bobby trying to shrug off Neal’s hand, hauling her even closer. Neal’s accusing glare as it shifted between her and his best friend. Her plea to Bobby to stop it. To let her go.
“Miss Gardner?” the D.A. pressed.
“Yes.” Neal wouldn’t look at her, no matter how long she stared. He hadn’t spoken to her since the night Bobby died. “He kissed me.”
Shock whispered through the room.
“And he and the defendant fought?”
“They… Neal was angry, and Bobby wasn’t thinking straight.”
“How long have you and the defendant been dating?”
“Almost two years.” The most perfect years of her life.
“Yet, you kissed his best friend right in front of him?”
“Bobby kissed me—”
“Would it surprise you to learn, that I have eyewitnesses from that night who would testify to the contrary? Maybe you wanted your boyfriend to see you kissing—”
“Objection, Your Honor.” Mr. Cain shot to his feet. “Miss Gardner’s behavior is not on trial. It’s irrelevant to these proceedings who kissed whom, or why.”
It took several pounds of the judge’s gavel to settle the room.
“Mr. Burnside,” he warned. “Keep your questions focused on the defendant’s actions.”
“So,” the prosecutor continued with a nod, “the defendant and Bobby Compton fought over you at the homecoming dance. Mr. Compton left. Then you followed him.”
“I didn’t follow Bobby.”
The D.A. laid his folder on the witness box’s ledge. It was open to a report that ended with Neal’s signature. “The statement the defendant gave the sheriff says that when he found you, you were inside the car with Bobby.”
“Yes. I took Bobby’s keys away so he couldn’t drive home. He asked me to sit with him while he cleared his head.”
“You sat together?”
“Yes.”
“In his car?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
Jenn swallowed the lump her breakfast kept making in her throat. “Bobby grabbed me again.”
“Your Honor!” Mr. Cain was on his feet once more. Neal stayed seated, his fists clenched on the tabletop.
“I tried to stop him,” she insisted.
“Get to your point, Mr. Burnside,” Judge Pritchard warned.
The D.A. placed his hands on his hips, every speck of friendliness gone from his unsmiling face.
“Miss Gardner, please describe for the court Neal Cain’s reaction when he found you trying to stop the advances of his best friend.”
“Neal was angry. He was hurt.”
A hollow weight settled on her chest. If Neal would only let her close again, maybe then she could survive everyone else deserting her, even her parents. She searched his downcast features, desperate for any sign that he hadn’t given up—on both himself and on her.
D.A. Burnside retrieved the folder from in front of her. “The defendant pulled Bobby Compton from the car?”
“Yes.” Her stomach took another threatening roll upward.
“And they began to fight again.”
“Yes.”
“And the defendant hit the victim.”
“They were hitting each other.” She brushed at her tears. If only there were some way to wipe away the memories. “I tried to stop them—”
“You tried to stop the defendant?”
“Yes… No! Both of them. I tried to stop them both.”
“But you couldn’t.”
“No. And then Bobby fell and he… He hit his head against the curb.”
After a long pause, the D.A. plucked more papers from his briefcase. “The police report states that while Bobby Compton received a blow to the head—one we now know was the contributing cause of his death—the defendant escaped the confrontation with little more than a black eye. If they were fighting each other, as you say, how do you account for the defendant’s lack of injuries?”
“I don’t know.” She gripped the edge of her straight-back chair. “Maybe because Bobby was drunk, and Neal was—”
“Angry?” the D.A. offered.
“Neal didn’t mean to hurt him.” She turned to address the judge directly. “They were best friends.”
“But Bobby Compton was hurt,” the D.A. interjected. “He was taken to the hospital in an ambulance, where he later died. While Neal Cain spent that night, and every night since, sleeping peacefully in his own bed.”
“But he hasn’t. I don’t think he’s slept at all.” And anyone who thought differently didn’t know him. Neal had already convicted himself for Bobby’s death—so had the rest of the town. But she couldn’t. She never would. “He’s devastated by what happened. He’s lost his best friend.”
“And Bobby Compton lost his life,” D.A. Burnside added softly, his words carrying through the now-silent room.
A stifled sob drew everyone’s attention to the back, to the very last row of benches. Mrs. Compton, her face partially buried against her husband’s burly chest, was shaking, clinging to him.
Jenn closed her eyes against the sight of the same shock and grief that were eating her and Neal alive. She looked to her father for… For what?
Understanding? Forgiveness?
Not