Complete Me(17)

Or did he inherit that first million from the coach who had trained him? Nurtured him? Doted on him?

And how did Damien repay that attention and affection? He saw dollar signs—and he killed Merle Richter. That first million was blood money, the prosecutor is arguing. Blood money for which the German people now want Stark to pay.

That is the story, and without Damien testifying in counter to it, I am afraid that it is a good one.

The prosecutor seems to speak forever. I watch the faces of the judges. They do not look sympathetic.

When it’s over, I realize that I have drawn blood on my knees. I don’t remember taking a pen out of my purse, but I must have, because I have been digging the point into my flesh.

“Nikki?” Ollie’s voice is sharp beside me.

“I’m fine,” I snap. I lick my finger and try to rub out the spot of blood and ink. Damien will see it, and he will worry about me more than he worries about himself.

As I watch, I see Maynard whisper to Herr Vogel, who is reputed to be one of the best defense attorneys in Bavaria, if not Germany. He’s a polished, practiced man, and I have been impressed with him so far, but now that we’re in court, I’m going in blind and I’m nervous. He rises, readying himself for his chance to speak, when the tallest of the professional judges accepts a piece of paper from his clerk.

He reads it, frowns, and then speaks in rapid-fire German before standing. He aims a hard look at the prosecutor and then at Herr Vogel. Maynard turns to face Damien, and from where I sit I can see the deep lines of his frown.

I have absolutely no idea what is going on, and I don’t think Damien does, either. As if he can feel my thoughts upon him, he turns. What? I mouth, but he only shakes his head, not in dismissal, but in confusion.

At the bench, the professional judges stand and the lay judges follow suit. They don’t look happy.

The tall judge points to Herr Vogel and the prosecutor, and says a few more words in German. Again, I’m left clueless, but considering how quickly the two move to follow him through the heavy wooden door to the court’s inner sanctum, I can tell that something important is going on.

Tense moments pass. Maynard leans over and says something to Damien. Damien shakes his head. The observers in the courtroom shift and mumble, and I know that all eyes in the gallery are on Damien. I am clutching the bench upon which I’m sitting, terrified that if I don’t hold on I will go spinning off into space. And equally afraid that I will dent the wood from my fingers pressing in too tightly.

Time has no meaning to me until the door finally opens again. The bailiff steps out. He speaks to another of the German attorneys, who then bends and whispers something to Maynard. I try to read his lips, but of course I cannot. I see Charles stiffen, though, and my own body tightens as well. Charles reaches for Damien, his hand closing over his elbow. He speaks low, but I am only one row behind and I make out the words. “They want to see us in chambers.”

I swallow as Damien stands, and without thinking, I reach for him. I don’t see him move. I don’t see him reach for me. But for the briefest of moments, his fingers close over mine. Electric shocks whip through me. He squeezes my fingers, his eyes meet mine.

I open my mouth to speak, but I don’t know what to say. I am scared, so scared. But I don’t want Damien to see that. He knows it, of course, but I want to be strong. I need to be as strong as he believes me to be.

And then he is walking away, moving through the heavy wooden door to the judges’ chambers. Going where I cannot follow into a world I don’t understand.

All I know is that trials are not usually interrupted in this way.