PART 2
Jason Mitchell had always been a man who believed silence could be purchased.
A silent receptionist could be given a bonus. A silent accountant could be promoted. A silent doctor could be invited onto the board of a charitable foundation and reminded how much his research depended on Mitchell Medical Technologies’ generosity.
A silent wife, he had thought, could be kept that way with fear, isolation, and the slow erosion of her confidence until she no longer remembered what her own voice sounded like.
But that morning, in Courtroom 4B, silence belonged to me.
It stretched over the polished wooden benches, over the reporters who had stopped whispering, over Madison Brooks, whose hand had slipped from Jason’s arm as if she had touched something suddenly cold. Even the clicking cameras seemed to pause, held back by the weight of what everyone had just seen.
