Alex
I SATin the witness box, my hands folded tightly in my lap to hide their trembling. The courtroom seemed larger today, more imposing than during the civil trial. Maybe it was the higher ceiling or the formal bench where Judge Collins presided, his silver hair and stern expression making him look like he belonged on currency.
Or maybe it was because today wasn’t about money or protective orders. Today was about whether Marcus would go to prison.
Crown Prosecutor Victoria Chang stood at her table, reviewing notes with practiced calm. She’d spent hours preparing me for this moment, explaining how criminal trials differed from civil ones, coaching me on how to answer questions clearly without volunteering information.
“Remember,” she’d said, “just tell the truth. Your truth is powerful enough.”
Across the aisle, Marcus sat beside his lawyer, immaculate in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent. His expression was placid, almost bored, as if this were a minor inconvenience rather than a trial that could send him away for years.
He caught me looking and smiled slightly, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. I dropped my gaze immediately, heart hammeringagainst my ribs.
“The Crown calls Alex Lajeunesse to the stand,” Victoria announced.
Though I was already seated, the bailiff approached. “Do you swear that the evidence you shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do,” I said, my voice stronger than I expected.
Victoria approached, her burgundy blazer and confident stride giving her a commanding presence despite her small stature.
“Mr. Lajeunesse, can you tell the court about your relationship with the defendant, Marcus Delaney?”
I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the courtroom’s attention. In the gallery, I spotted Damian, his face a mask of professional calm, but his eyes never leaving mine. Helena Mathers sat beside him, her notebook open.
“We met three years ago at an art gallery where I worked,” I began, my voice growing steadier as I continued. “He seemed charming at first. Interested in my artwork. He invited me to dinner, then more dinners. He offered to help with my career.”
“And how did the relationship progress?”
I described the gradual shift—how Marcus’s “suggestions” about my clothes became demands, how his “concerns” about my friends turned into isolation, how his “financial assistance” became complete control of my money.
“He’d check my phone constantly. If I received texts from friends, he’d respond pretending to be me, declining invitations. Eventually, people stopped reaching out and I had no one but him to rely on.”
Victoria nodded. “And the physical abuse? When did that begin?”
“About six months in. Small things at first—grabbing my arm too hard, pushing me against a wall during arguments. He always apologized after, said it wouldn’t happen again.” I paused, remembering. “But it always did. And it got worse.”
“Can you describe the events of September 17th of this year?”
The courtroom seemed to still. Even the usual shuffling of papers ceased.
“Marcus found my sketchbook. I’d gone to a park without telling him, drawn some cityscapes. He was furious that I’d left the apartment without permission.” The words tasted bitter. “He beat me badly that night. Pinned me to the floor and raped me. I had broken ribs, internal bleeding. I ended up in the hospital.”
“And after the hospital?”
“I ran. Lived in my car, then cheap motels, changing locations frequently. But he kept finding me.”
Victoria moved to her table, picking up a plastic evidence bag. “I’d like to enter this into evidence as Exhibit 14. Can you identify this item?”
She handed it to me—a cat collar with a small bell, the tag reading “Buster.”
My throat tightened. “It’s my cat’s collar. Marcus left it on my car windshield with a note saying if I wanted to see Buster alive, I needed to come home.”
“And did you return to Mr. Delaney’s residence?”
“No. I filed for the protective order instead.” I took a deep breath. “That’s when I met my attorney, Damian Richards.”
Victoria guided me through the civil trial, the mistrial, and finally to the night at the Parkview Motel. My voice wavered as I described waking to Marcus pounding on my door, his drunken rage when he broke in.
