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Territorial Bonds

Chapter five

“Hey Jazzy, ready to go?”

Jazz paused as he was about to leave the bathroom to look in the mirror, frowning at his appearance. He was wearing a smart long sleeved, grey shirt and black slacks with his best shoes on. He’d even brushed his hair into a semi-normal style instead of his usual messy spikes.

He didn’t like it, it made him feel so fake. Still, he didn’t think they would appreciate him turning up in court in jeans and a t-shirt.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” Cleo asked from the main room where she was watching the news. There was a story about the trial on the TV and she was watching to see how things were progressing thus far. She turned as he left the bathroom, chewing his fingernails in the way he did when he was nervous.

“Stop that,” she fussed, flicking off the TV. “It’s going to be fine.”

After leaving the apartment, Jazz followed Cleo down to her car. He couldn’t drive himself, so was happy to sit while she did the driving. He was far too nervous to even think about anything other than the trial anyway.

Due to work, he had been unable to be there at the start of the trial, and when they had played the recording of Ethan’s interview. He had been deemed too young to be interviewed on the stand and was left at home with the babysitter while Jazz’s aunt and uncle attended the trial.

He found both of them in the lobby of the courthouse when he and Cleo entered and his aunt fussed over him, smoothing back his hair and straightening his tie.

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright, Jazz honey?” his aunt Meredith asked, a concerned look on her face.

Jazz nodded stiffly. “I’ll be okay, Aunt Meredith.”

“Ah. Mr Monroe.”

David Stedman, the prosecution lawyer approached the small group briskly. He was about forty years old and very experienced, but from what Jazz had seen, was no match for Sam Taylor.

The lawyer took hold of Jazz’s arm loosely, leading him away from the others without a word to them. They would go through to find seats in the courthouse, watching the goings-on of the trial.

“Alright, Jazz,” Stedman said as they moved through the corridor to where he was supposed to wait, “You know what to expect, hm? I’m warning you now, Mr Taylor is brutal.”

Jazz nodded grimly. “I noticed.”

They talked for a short while longer before Stedman left him to prepare himself for court. Jazz sat in a chair in the corridor, staring at the floor and wishing he was somewhere else until he was called into the courtroom, onto the witness stand.

They made him swear on the bible, but he didn’t believe in all that, especially since the incident. If there was a God, then he hated Jazz with intensity.

The young man’s eyes darkened when his gaze fell upon Deacon Grady, sat with a smug look on his face as if he just knew he was never going to get prosecuted. Next to him, Sam was sat, leafing through some papers, but after a time, he rose, crossing the room until he stood in front of the witness stand.

“Mr Monroe,” he began, a smile spreading slightly across his face, “You are related to the deceased, am I correct?”

Jazz met Sam’s gaze. He wanted to yell out, tell the man that of course he was related to them, Sam knew that. Instead, he simply nodded.

“How old were you at the time of the murders?”

“Eighteen.”

Sam nodded, giving Jazz another irritably smug smile that no one else seemed to see.

“Were you a student at the time, Mr Monroe?” Jazz nodded. “Would you say you were a good student?”

The young man shrugged. “Not exceptional.”

“According to your school reports-,” the lawyer moved over to the table where Deacon sat, leafing through some papers until he came up with the correct one, “- your teachers often said that you had a lot of potential and that you are very naturally intelligent. Perhaps you could tell me why your grades at school were so…average?”

Jazz sighed. He could already tell what route of questioning Sam had decided to go down. He had to wonder if the man really thought it would affect the trial, or if he was just being maddeningly awkward.

“I used to spend almost every night out instead of studying.”

“And what would you be doing every night?”

He knew. No doubt Sam had done extensive research before the trial, especially where Jazz was concerned. He would probably know every detail of Jazz’s private life, everything he had done both before and after the incident.

“Answer the question, please.”

Sam’s voice cut through his thoughts and Jazz frowned down at him, hating him more than he had done already.

“I was out…drinking,” he replied finally and Sam raised an eyebrow.

“Just drinking? I’ve been told you were also to be found going home with different people every night and staying out until the next morning. Is that true?”

“Objection.”

Stedman rose to his feet, looking to the judge.

“What does any of this have to do with the trial?”

The judge- a man in his fifties with a wrinkled face and small glasses on his nose- looked at Sam. He was known as one of the toughest judges around, despite his appearance, perfect for the case it had been said, due to his unbiased nature.

“Mr Taylor,” he said with a slightly bored tone, “You had better be going somewhere with this.”

Sam nodded. “Yes, your honour. I am merely trying to understand the witness’s state of mind before the incident.”

There was silence for a few moments and then the judge gave a slight nod. “Very well. Proceed.”

When Sam turned back to Jazz, he found the young man watching him with a dark hatred in his eyes. It seemed he would have to work even harder to get him after the trial.

“Is it true that you were…promiscuous?” he asked, the smile passing his lips once more.

“Yes.” Jazz stated, his mouth set in a firm line. It seemed that Sam would go to all lengths to humiliate him, perhaps in an attempt to force him into giving in.

“Did you ever take any drugs, Mr Monroe?”

“Yes.”

Sam nodded, moving to set down the paper he had picked up, seeming to think for some time before he spoke again. Perhaps he was deliberately delaying things to make Jazz’s experience even harder.

“Mr Monroe,” the lawyer began again, “I’d like to ask you about the night of the murders. You were at a club, is that correct?” Jazz nodded. “Had you had a lot to drink that night?” Again, a nod. “Taken any drugs?” Jazz paused before nodding once more, lowering his eyes from Sam’s gaze. In truth, he felt ashamed admitting in front of the court how he had been before the incident. How willing he had been to spread his legs for anyone interested, how he had taken or drunk anything and everything people gave him.

“What was your state of mind when you left the club?” Sam asked, noting the expression of shame and sadness on the young man’s face. But there was worse to come.

“I don’t know…” Jazz half mumbled in reply, “I was drunk…”

“Do you remember arriving home clearly?”

In truth, it was all a bit hazy. The images of the bodies were clear in his mind, they had stuck with him through the three years, but the walk home and the arrival at the house were difficult to remember.

“Perhaps you had a little too much to drink that night, Mr Monroe,” Sam continued without waiting for an answer. “Perhaps you were a little buzzed, perhaps a little angry, as you had an argument with your parents earlier that day, hm?”

An argument. Yes, he remembered it. His parents had confronted him about his grades at school, yelled at him about not trying hard enough when he had the potential to better himself.

“Perhaps you were in a rage, Mr Monroe, a rage elevated by the drink, the drugs at the atmosphere. Perhaps…you needed a way to vent that anger and your family just happened to be in the way.”

Jazz’s head snapped up, his eyes locking with Sam’s across the short distance that separated them. The lawyer could see the emotions bubbling up within him and he was surprised to see more sadness in his mismatched eyes than anger. Perhaps he had gone too far.

Instead of having Jazz break down or have an outburst in the courtroom, Sam turned to the judge.

“I would like to request a short recess, your honour.”

The man nodded. “Granted. We will meet back here in twenty minutes.”

As soon as he could, Jazz escaped to the nearest bathroom, heading for the sink quickly. He splashed water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror, wondering why his eyes looked so tired and his skin so pale.

He couldn’t believe Sam’s audacity. How could the man so blatantly accuse him of murdering his own family? As if he would turn on the people that loved him, leave himself all alone in the world.

Jazz was about to leave when the door opened and Sam stepped into the bathroom. He walked slowly, crossing to the urinal to relieve himself before moving to the sink next to where Jazz stood. The young man glared at his reflection in the mirror.

“Such a hateful look.” Sam commented with a slight smile that only made Jazz’s frown deepen. “What’s that about, little Monroe?”

“You know damn well what it’s about,” the young man fumed, “You just accused me of murdering my own family when you know damn well that I didn’t.”

The lawyer smiled his infuriating smile.

“It could have been anyone. You had time to do it and you had taken drugs, had too much to drink. Perhaps you just don’t remember it.”

Jazz clenched his fists, trying to resist just turning and punching the man. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Why the hell would I kill my own family?!” he yelled, bringing his fist down on the smooth marble counter. It hurt, but he didn’t care. “Why would I kill the people I loved so much it hurt?”

If he had hoped for the slightest emotion from Sam, or the smallest bit of sympathy, then he was sorely disappointed. The lawyer just shrugged.

“The motive is unclear.” Sam moved a little closer, looking down at Jazz, who stared back with anger. He liked that. Humans usually regarded him with fear, admiration, lust, but Jazz’s hate was so pure and intense that it made him smile.

“Don’t worry,” he continued, “If you do get arrested, I’ll be happy to take the case and defend you in court.”

And with that, Sam exited the room, leaving Jazz standing at the sink with clenched fists and hatred in his eye. He had to force himself to leave the bathroom and make his way back into court, where he sat in the witness box with his head down. So many emotions ran through him, now coupled with a fear that he would be the one blamed for the slaughter. It was true that he didn’t remember much about that night, but there was absolutely no way that he would have done what Sam had accused him of.

When the trial resumed, and Sam once again stood before him, Jazz expected the man to continue his line of questioning and accusation, but instead he looked at the young man, all traces of his smile vanished.

“Mr Monroe,” he began, “Can you think of anyone who would have a vendetta against your family?”

Jazz stared at him for a while, wondering why he had changed his mind about the questions. Perhaps he had found a heart after all.

He didn’t answer. Was he supposed to know about everyone his family met? About everyone they might have angered? He simply met Sam’s gaze, his brows furrowed slightly and the lawyer stared back for a brief moment before moving on.

“Your father was a businessman, is that correct?”

Jazz nodded. Jacob Monroe had been a very hardworking and successful businessman, and a good father. He had managed to juggle his work life and home life quite expertly and was generally an exceptionally kind and rational man. But, Jazz supposed, there must have been limits. No one could go through life without making enemies.

His father’s success had been part of the reason that the trial had become so well known. A successful businessman couldn’t get murdered without people knowing about it.

“Mr Monroe?”

It seemed Sam had caught his mind wandering and he drew his gaze back to the man, who had a strange, almost soft look on his face. His pale eyes searched Jazz’s face briefly before he continued.

“Did you father make any enemies while doing his job?”

Jazz shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him much…”

In the silence that followed, the young man could have sworn he saw Sam sigh, and then the lawyer turned to look at the judge.

“I have no further questions, your honour.”

Jazz watched with lidded eyes as Sam sat down beside Grady, wondering what the lawyer was playing at. It seemed he couldn’t make up his mind about the trial, torn between wanting to pursue Jazz and wanting to get Grady off. It would have been so easy to further the implication that Jazz had done it, but something had pulled him from that line of questioning.

Later on, when the trial had dispersed for another day, Sam was thinking about Jazz.

He sat in a room, across the table from Grady who was sipping a cup of hot coffee and smiling like he hadn’t a care in a world. But in a second, his face grew serious.

“Why did you stop blaming the kid, Sam?”

The lawyer raised his head to look at him across the table. He was truly beginning to detest this man. He had never obeyed the rules, thought he could go through life doing what he wanted and that someone else would take the fall for him. It was only obligation that was making him represent Grady in court.

When he didn’t reply, Grady continued. “He would have been a perfect scapegoat,” he said, setting down his coffee and lounging back in his chair, “Could have killed his family out of anger, or money. He still hasn’t gotten his hands on his dad’s money yet, has he?”

Usually, Sam would have taken his comments and shrugged them off, but something felt different. It was Jazz, and the horror that came with the fact that he was falling so unnaturally into obsession with him. He wanted him. Every day that he didn’t have him made him want him more, and he couldn’t work out why. Jazz seemed ordinary, at least more ordinary than most people he knew, but who he was, how he was, was fascinating.

Sam stared at Grady, then suddenly rose to his feet, a frown darkening his face.

“You already broke the rules, Deacon,” he began, his voice dripping with malice, “I don’t need to explain anything I do to you ever again. Just be happy that I chose to help you, but this is the last time. Next time you break the rules, you’re on your own.”

He left the man staring after him, watching his retreating form with a deep confusion. The next time he broke the rules, Sam wouldn’t be there to save him from it.

He had had enough.

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