Chapter 2 - The Finger on the Third Row
Every head in the courtroom whipped around, following the trajectory of Oliver’s outstretched finger.
The rows behind the prosecution were filled with Whitmore family associates, corporate attorneys, and high-society sycophants who had spent the morning whispering behind their hands. But as Oliver’s finger locked onto a specific target, the murmurs died down into a suffocating, dead silence.
He wasn't pointing at a stranger. He was pointing directly at Victoria Whitmore.
Charles’s sister froze. Her manicured hand, which had been lifting a silver-capped fountain pen, hovered awkwardly in mid-air. For a split second, her icy composure slipped, revealing a flash of sheer, unadulterated panic in her eyes before she plastered a brittle, patronizing smile across her face.
“The boy is clearly delusional, Your Honor,” Victoria said, her voice smooth and dripping with fabricated concern as she stood up in the gallery. “The smoke inhalation from the fire caused permanent cognitive lapses. He doesn't know what he's saying.”
“Sit down, Ms. Whitmore, unless addressed by the bench,” Judge Harrison ordered sharply, his eyes narrowing as he looked from Victoria down to Oliver, and finally to the pale, sweating face of Charles Whitmore. “The boy has the floor. Bailiff, ensure no one interferes with the witness.”
Oliver climbed awkwardly down from the spectator bench, ignoring the protests of the court officers as he walked resolutely toward the center aisle. He didn't look at his father. He looked only at the judge.
“I was awake,” Oliver said, his voice echoing clearly through the courtroom microphones. “Before the smoke woke everybody up, I heard voices downstairs in the library. Dad and Aunt Victoria were arguing. Aunt Victoria said that if the estate didn't sell by the end of the quarter, the company would go bankrupt because of the bad investments in the overseas shipping ports.”
Charles slammed his hands onto the defense table. “Your Honor, this is absurd hearsay! A child’s imagination—!”
“It wasn't imagination,” Oliver interrupted, turning to face his father with eyes that looked entirely too old for an eight-year-old. “And then Aunt Victoria said, ‘If we collect the insurance payout on the east wing, we can cover the debt. But Maria knows where the audit files are kept in the study. We have to get rid of both of them.’”
The courtroom erupted into a chaotic wall of noise. Journalists in the press box scrambled for their phones and notebooks; the bailiff slammed his gavel repeatedly, shouting for order; and Maria covered her mouth, her eyes wide with shock as the terrifying puzzle pieces finally fell into place.
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Judge Harrison’s expression darkened into a scowl of deep judicial fury. He looked down at the prosecution table, where the district attorney looked as though he had just been struck by lightning.
“Mr. Whitmore,” Judge Harrison said slowly, each word dropping like a lead weight. “Do you care to explain what your son is talking about?”
