Page 17 of Courtroom Drama


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“Are we talking about me or Margot?” he says, the right side of his mouth twitching a millimeter upward.

“She’s famous,” I say, irritated he’s managed to steer the conversation away from himself.

“Famous is a justification for being cold?”

“No, but... she’s like the spring fling crown at the end ofMean Girlsthat Cady Heron breaks into pieces and tosses around until there’s nothing left.”

He looks at me for a beat, face unmoving, then says, “That’s an obscure reference.”

I wonder if he remembers me sitting him down in his living roomafter he made a big show of not wanting to watch, but then never pulled his eyes away from the screen, even chuckling when Regina asked if butter was a carb.

I shake my head. “Unexpectedreference, perhaps, but not obscure. My point is, she has to be guarded.”

He stares at me, and there’s a glimmer of... something. It’s like knowingness and un-pin-down-able sadness mixed into one. I watch as he grabs a napkin from an unused stack on the table and begins folding it, both purposeful and absentminded in his movements.

I look on, finding myself too interested in this interaction between us. In the silence, we are testing each other. Who will break and dive into our history first?

He looks down at our plates. “I would kill for some sushi right now,” he says, backing down.

My stomach instantly rumbles. “Why did you say that? Now all I can think about is the yellowtail at Sushi Gen.”

Damon shifts to face me more fully. “I love that place.”

I’ve seen his road signs. We frequent the same sushi restaurant. Perhaps these are meaningless details, but they confirm that Damon and I could have crossed paths so many times before this trial in the last ten years. And in some ways, we already have.

“How’s Kara?” It’s an abrupt shift, but I’ve wanted to ask about his sister since the moment I saw him. She’s a big part of what I’m still angry with him about. When he left me, he cut me off from her, too.

I knew her from the time she could barely speak, when a then-ten-year-old Damon and his family moved into the house two doors down. The blue one with the neglected yard and paint chipping at its base. Kara used to push up and down the street on a pint-sized red race car. I gave her a strawberry once when she wandered over, pointing to the bowl next to my seat on the front porch. My mom later scolded me for giving a toddler food she could have potentially been allergic to, which hadn’t even occurred to me. But from then on, I was her designated strawberry stand, coming over to ask for “sawbayees.” It didn’t take much before she no longer had to ask, and I’d open the door with a bowl.

She’s the reason I met Damon. He came jogging up the drive. His eyes caught me, even then. They were interesting.Hewas interesting. “Sorry,” he huffed, scooping Kara up like a football, making her giggle—this high-pitched, kicky laugh, like the stutter of a struggling ignition. Never having had a sibling myself, she always felt like a little sister to me, too.

Now, I watch the jut of his neck as he swallows with what seems to be great effort. He concentrates on a fold of the napkin in his hands and then, satisfied, pushes it toward me before standing.

“Good night, Syd,” he says, and I’m struck by his abruptness. He eyes me for a second before heading in the direction of our rooms. I watch him go and, when he disappears around the corner, pick up the napkin. It’s folded with tight, crisp lines, now holding the clear shape of a well-practiced origami crane.

I press my fingertips to the tangle of emotion in my chest, trying and failing to unknot it.

10.

Adverse Testimony (n., phrase)

when a witness, expected to be supportive or aligned with the party they are related to, provides testimony that is unfavorable or damaging to that party’s case

fathers who betray their daughters

Damon and I learned of my father’s affair with his mom midway through our sophomore year. We snuck off campus for lunch when Damon asked me to run home with him to grab his bag for lacrosse practice. We were six years in as best friends, on the delicate cusp of something more.

We walked in the front door of his house, two doors down from my own, to find Mallory Bradburn fully naked, bent over the worn leather armchair that Damon’s father always sat in, my father behind her. Unfortunately, my brain registered every detail, like one of those 360-degree cameras with hundreds of flashes going off at once.

My father was supposed to be fixing our leaking kitchen faucet before he left for a four-day trip. She was supposed to be on a conference call or otherwise working from the small desk in the corner of the main bedroom she shared with Mr. Bradburn. Damon and I fully intended to sneak in and out that day without her noticing.

It’s odd, the thing I thought of as they scrambled for their clothes, Mrs. Bradburn’s hair messy and swinging wildly as she searched the floor for each of her garments. I wondered how this man—my father—managed to get so many women to have sex with him. He was, by all accounts, ordinary. No better looking than any other dad on the street. Less so than, say, Mr. Bradburn. My father was polite and even charming, but not in a swoon-worthy way one might expect for a man who had managed to win over so many willing sexual partners.

“What the fuck.” Damon’s voice ping-ponged from every inch of ceiling and floor and wall as if we were pinned inside an echo chamber. I looked at him because I didn’t want to see any more of my father as he fought to step into his boxers. Damon, however, focused in on him, eyebrows pressed so tightly together they merged into one, hands fisted at his sides, eyes searing with a hatred that scared me. He looked like an antagonized bull about to charge, locked in on one specific victim.

I had never seen Damon like that, so full of shock and rage, all of it directed at my father. I’ve never seen anyone as angry as Damon in that moment.

I don’t particularly remember what they said. His mom cried. My father didn’t look me in the eye, instead focusing on whether he’d need to restrain Damon.