Lawyer!Sevika x Assistant!Reader ✧Chapter Fourteen: That could've been you. Previous Chapter ✧ 3.0k words **MMDNI**
For the first time since entering the courthouse, a deeply uncomfortable thought entered your mind. The man seated beside her may very well have killed someone. Whether intentionally or not, a person was dead because of choices he had made.
And yet Sevika had chosen to stand beside him.
You watched her profile from the back row and found yourself wondering where the line existed between defending a client and believing in one. More troubling still, you wondered whether that distinction mattered to her at all.
But then another thought slipped into your mind, quiet and unwelcome.
Your gaze drifted back toward the defendant seated beside Sevika. He sat with his shoulders slightly hunched, his hands clasped together atop the defense table as though he were afraid to move them. Every few seconds his thumb rubbed nervously against his wedding ring. He looked exhausted. Pale. Frightened. Most unsettling of all, he looked ordinary.
Three years ago, that could have been you.
The realization settled heavily in your stomach.
You lowered your eyes to the coffee cup resting between your hands and found yourself remembering that night with uncomfortable clarity. You and Harper had only intended to play a few games of pool. That had been the entire plan. You could still remember standing in your apartment while she searched for her lighter and you searched for your shoes. You had been the designated driver. She had reminded you of it twice before either of you even left the house.
Neither of you had intended to get drunk.
Neither of you had intended to touch cocaine.
Neither of you had intended to ruin the night.
Plans had always come easily to the two of you.
Following them had been another matter entirely.
The drinks had started almost immediately. One became three. Three became six. Somewhere along the way somebody offered cocaine, and somebody else offered more. The details blurred together now, but you could still remember the burn of it sliding into your nose and the chemical bitterness dripping down the back of your throat afterward. You remembered laughing too loudly. Remembered feeling invincible. Remembered believing you were having the best night of your life.
By the end of the evening, your nose had bled so badly that you spent most of the next day with tissues stuffed against your face.
The memory made you wince.
Somewhere between the drinks and the cocaine, you had slipped away with a woman whose name you never learned. Harper had discovered exactly where you went and exactly who you were with. The argument that followed had been spectacularly public. People had stared. People had listened. Someone had laughed. Harper had screamed. You had screamed back.
Then, because neither of you knew how to leave well enough alone, she had retaliated by spending the next hour draped across some man whose girlfriend happened to know her. The entire evening had dissolved into jealousy, anger, alcohol, and wounded pride.
After that, your memories became fragmented.
The pounding bass of music.
Colored lights flashing across sticky floors.
The smell of stale beer soaked into carpet.
Cigarette smoke clinging to clothing and hair.
Harper shouting your name across a crowded room.
The slam of a door.
Your car keys in your hand.
The certainty that you were perfectly capable of driving.
Then nothing.
The next clear memory came hours later. You remembered waking with your head throbbing and your mouth tasting like blood. You remembered cold metal digging into your wrists. You remembered the flashing lights. The police officers. The confusion.
Most of all, you remembered seeing your car.
The vehicle had wrapped itself around a tree so completely that it hardly resembled a car anymore. The hood had folded inward. Glass covered the road. One of the headlights hung uselessly from twisted metal. An officer had looked at you and told you that you were lucky.
At the time, you hadn't understood what he meant.
Now, sitting in the courtroom, you finally did.
Nobody else had been involved.
No family had been driving home from dinner.
No pedestrian had been crossing the street.
No cyclist had been riding along the shoulder.
No one had died.
The only thing waiting for you afterward had been a court date, a revoked license, and consequences severe enough to feel life-ending at the time but laughably small in comparison now.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the coffee cup.
When your gaze returned to the front of the courtroom, the grieving family remained exactly where they had been. The mother still clutched the photograph against her chest. The father stared ahead with hollow eyes. The young man beside them had buried his face in his hands and had not looked up once.
The difference between your story and the defendant's suddenly felt terrifyingly small.
A different road.
A different tree.
A different second.
A different victim.
That was all.
The thought made your throat tighten.
For the first time since entering the courtroom, you found yourself understanding something about Sevika that had previously felt impossible to grasp. It wasn't that she believed what had happened was acceptable. It wasn't that she thought the grieving family deserved less sympathy. It wasn't even that she necessarily believed the man sitting beside her was innocent.
It was that human beings were capable of catastrophic mistakes.
One terrible decision could fracture dozens of lives. One moment of recklessness could become the dividing line between the life a person had lived before and the life they would be forced to live afterward. The distance between tragedy and criminality was far smaller than most people wanted to believe.
You swallowed hard, lowered your eyes to your coffee, and took a careful sip while the proceedings continued around you. The voices of attorneys and court officials drifted through the room, but your attention remained fixed upon that uncomfortable realization. It lingered beneath your ribs long after the memory itself had faded.
You lowered your eyes to your coffee and took a careful sip while the proceedings continued around you. The drink had already begun to cool, the vanilla sweeter now that the ice had melted. Around the courtroom, papers shifted softly and chairs creaked beneath nervous bodies. No one spoke above a whisper. Even grief seemed quieter here, forced into neat rows beneath polished wood and fluorescent lights.
Judge Medarda reviewed several pages from the file before lifting her gaze toward the attorneys. Her expression remained impossible to read.
"Counsel, are there any preliminary matters before opening statements?"
The prosecutor rose first. He was an older man with silver hair and a voice that carried easily throughout the courtroom without ever becoming loud. He briefly adjusted his glasses before informing the court that the State had no preliminary motions. When he sat, all eyes shifted toward the defense table.
Sevika rose smoothly.
You found yourself watching her immediately.
She buttoned the front of her suit jacket with practiced ease before addressing the bench. There was nothing theatrical about her movements. Nothing designed to draw attention. Yet somehow she commanded the room all the same.
"No preliminary motions from the defense, Your Honor."
Judge Medarda nodded once.
"Very well. The State may proceed."
The prosecutor moved toward the center of the courtroom and stopped before the jury box. You realized then that you had spent so much time watching Sevika that you'd barely noticed the jurors. Twelve ordinary people sat in those seats. A retired teacher. A young office worker. An older woman with silver hair. A mechanic still carrying grease beneath his fingernails despite the suit he'd clearly purchased for court. None of them looked particularly remarkable. Yet by the end of the trial, each would help decide the fate of the man seated beside Sevika.
The prosecutor folded his hands together before speaking.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this case is about choices."
The words settled over the room.
He spoke calmly, never raising his voice. Somehow that made the statement feel heavier.
"You will hear evidence that on the evening of May seventeenth, the defendant chose to consume alcohol before operating a motor vehicle. You will hear testimony regarding his level of intoxication. You will hear testimony regarding the collision itself. Most importantly, you will hear how those decisions resulted in the death of Daniel Mercer."
The woman holding the photograph lowered her head.
Her shoulders trembled.
The prosecutor paused briefly before continuing.
"Daniel Mercer was twenty-two years old. He had plans for a future that no longer exists because of what happened that night."
A knot formed in your stomach.
Twenty-two.
The same age you had been during your DUI.
You looked away.
The prosecutor continued speaking, carefully outlining the evidence the State intended to present. Blood alcohol tests. Accident reconstruction. Police reports. Witness testimony. Nothing dramatic. Nothing emotional. Just facts arranged one atop another until they formed a story that felt difficult to escape.
When he finally returned to his seat, the courtroom remained silent.
Judge Medarda turned toward the defense.
"Ms. Morgan."
Sevika stood.
The room seemed to shift its attention toward her automatically.
For a moment she simply remained where she was, one hand resting lightly against the edge of the defense table. Then she walked forward and stopped before the jury. Her expression remained composed, though you knew her well enough now to recognize the faint concentration behind her eyes.
"The prosecution is correct about one thing," she began. "A young man died."
The statement surprised you.
Several members of the victim's family looked up.
Across the room, even the prosecutor appeared momentarily caught off guard.
Sevika allowed the silence to linger before continuing.
"No verdict delivered in this courtroom will change that fact. No ruling from this bench will return Daniel Mercer to the people who loved him."
The victim's mother pressed a handkerchief against her mouth.
Sevika did not look at her.
She looked only at the jury.
"What you have been asked to determine is not whether a tragedy occurred. Everyone in this room already knows that it did. Your responsibility is to determine whether the State can prove every element of every charge beyond a reasonable doubt."
You watched several jurors straighten in their seats.
"The evidence will not ask you to decide whether you feel sympathy. It will not ask you whether this situation is heartbreaking. It will ask you to evaluate facts. Evidence. Testimony. Nothing more."
She spoke without emotion.
Without dramatics.
Without attempting to make the defendant seem innocent.
Yet somehow that made her argument feel stronger.
By the time she returned to her seat, you found yourself understanding why she was so successful. She wasn't trying to convince people what to think.
She was teaching them where to look.
Judge Medarda waited until Sevika had returned to her seat before turning her attention back toward the prosecution. The courtroom had settled into an uneasy stillness, the sort that seemed to accompany discussions of death.
For a moment, only the rustle of papers and the distant hum of fluorescent lights filled the room.
"You may call your first witness."
The prosecutor rose immediately. As he stood, he buttoned his suit jacket and stepped away from the counsel table. "The State calls EMT Juanita Dominguez."
A side door opened near the front of the courtroom, and a woman entered. She appeared to be somewhere in her forties, with dark hair pulled into a severe bun and the tired eyes of someone who had spent years witnessing other people's worst days. Deep lines framed her mouth and brow. Though she wore professional civilian attire rather than a uniform, a small emergency medical services pin fastened to her blazer identified her occupation before she ever reached the stand.
She crossed the room with quiet confidence. Not arrogance. Familiarity. The sort possessed by people who had spent years walking toward emergencies while everyone else ran from them.
After being sworn in, she settled into the witness chair and folded her hands neatly in her lap.
The prosecutor approached. "Please state your name and occupation for the record."
"My name is Juanita Dominguez," she replied. Her voice was steady. Professional. "I'm a licensed emergency medical technician with this townships Emergency Services. I've been employed there for sixteen years."
The prosecutor nodded. "Were you working on the evening of May seventeenth of last year?"
She nodded quickly. "Yes."
"And were you dispatched to a motor vehicle collision on East River Road at approximately 11:42 p.m.?"
"I was."
The atmosphere in the courtroom seemed to tighten.
You noticed the victim's mother clutch the photograph in her lap more tightly.
The prosecutor paced slowly before the jury box. "Ms. Dominguez, can you describe what you observed when you arrived at the scene?"
Juanita inhaled slowly. It was the sort of breath people took before revisiting something unpleasant.
"When my partner and I arrived, we encountered two vehicles involved in a head-on collision. A pickup truck and a sedan. Based upon the positioning of the vehicles and information later gathered by law enforcement, the pickup truck had crossed the center line."
"And the occupants?" The prosecutor asked.
"The driver of the pickup truck was conscious." Her eyes flickered briefly toward the defense table. "The driver of the sedan was not."
A heavy silence settled over the gallery.
You found yourself leaning forward slightly.
"What happened next?" the prosecutor asked.
"My partner and I approached the sedan first. There was extensive front-end damage. The driver was trapped inside the vehicle."
The victim's mother lowered her head.
Beside her, the victim's father closed his eyes.
Juanita continued speaking with the calm detachment of someone trained to discuss trauma without allowing emotion to interfere.
"We assessed the victim for breathing and pulse."
The prosecutor paused. "And what did you find?"
"There was neither."
A small sound escaped the victim's mother.
Not loud enough to interrupt proceedings.
Only enough to make several people glance in her direction.
Juanita looked down briefly before continuing. "We initiated resuscitation efforts while fire personnel worked to extricate the victim from the vehicle."
"Were those efforts successful?"
"No."
The answer seemed to linger in the room long after she finished speaking.
Juanita swallowed once. "Daniel Mercer was pronounced deceased at the scene."
The prosecutor gave a small nod and clasped his hands together before him.
"Mrs. Dominguez," he said gently, "can you describe for the jury the condition the victim was in when you arrived?"
For the first time since taking the stand, Juanita looked uncomfortable.
Her gaze drifted briefly toward the floor before returning to the prosecutor. She drew in a slow breath through her nose and seemed to choose her words carefully.
"Yes."
The courtroom had become completely silent.
Even the jurors appeared to lean forward slightly.
"When we reached the vehicle, the victim had sustained catastrophic injuries from the collision." She swallowed once. "His right leg had become trapped during impact. The force of the crash had caused extensive damage to the limb."
The victim's mother lowered her eyes.
Juanita continued.
"There was also severe facial trauma. The impact had caused multiple fractures to the jaw and surrounding bones."
The prosecutor allowed the statement to settle.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
The details painted a far clearer picture than any photograph could.
You found yourself staring at the witness stand while your coffee cooled forgotten between your hands.
Juanita shifted slightly in her seat.
"The steering column had collapsed inward. The dashboard had been pushed back into the driver's compartment. The amount of damage made access difficult for both emergency personnel and firefighters."
She paused.
"When we arrived, it was immediately apparent that the collision had occurred at a significant speed."
A muscle jumped in the victim's father's jaw.
The young man seated beside him lowered his head further.
The prosecutor nodded solemnly.
"Based on your training and experience, Mrs. Dominguez, was the victim conscious when you arrived?"
"No."
"And did you observe any indication that he had regained consciousness at any point following the collision?"
"No."
The prosecutor glanced briefly toward the jury. "Did the victim appear to have suffered?"
Sevika's head lifted immediately. "Objection." The word cut cleanly through the room.
Judge Medarda looked toward the prosecutor. "Rephrase."
The prosecutor inclined his head. "Based on your observations, were you able to determine how long the victim survived following impact?"
Juanita folded her hands together. "No. I cannot say with certainty."
The prosecutor nodded and returned to his table for a document.
While he searched through his file, your eyes drifted back toward Marcus Reed.
He still hadn't looked toward the victim's family.
Hadn't looked toward the witness.
Hadn't looked toward anyone.
His stare remained fixed on the tabletop before him.
The expression on his face wasn't defensive.
It wasn't angry.
If anything, he looked sick.
Like each detail pulled from Juanita's memory was something he had already imagined a thousand times on his own.
The prosecutor returned to the podium.
"Mrs. Dominguez, after assessing the victim, did you have contact with the defendant?"
"I did."
"What was his demeanor?"
Juanita hesitated.
The pause was brief.
Just long enough to be noticeable."He appeared intoxicated."
The prosecutor nodded. "And emotionally?"
This time her hesitation lasted longer.
When she finally answered, her voice had softened. "He appeared distraught."
The prosecutor waited.
Juanita looked down at her folded hands. "He was crying."
The statement lingered in the courtroom.
Across the room, Marcus Reed closed his eyes.
Not dramatically.
Just for a moment.
As though hearing it spoken aloud was somehow worse than remembering it.
The prosecutor thanked the witness and returned to his seat.
Judge Medarda turned toward the defense table.
The prosecutor's examination had been emotionally brutal. By the time he'd finished questioning Juanita Dominguez, the jury had heard about catastrophic injuries, failed resuscitation attempts, and a twenty-two-year-old man who never made it home.
The victim's mother had cried openly. The victim's father looked as though he'd aged ten years during the course of the testimony.
If it's not flowing like actual court erm... idk how to say this... i am not a lawyer
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