87

---

The next few weeks are a dizzying whirlwind of legal maneuverings and nonstop preparation. After my jaw-dropping conversation with Mrs. Gibson about the NSRA’s obstructionist behavior, it’s like a dam bursts and suddenly I’m swept up in a raging river of procedures, deadlines, and enough legalese to make even my Mom’s head spin, and ‘wading through linguistic garbage’ is, like, her job description.

One minute I’m being whisked away in that sleek black Bentley for another round of testimony prep sessions, the next I’m cooling my heels in a stark waiting room while Mrs. Gibson handles some emergency motion or other. Everywhere I go, there’s a palpable sense of urgency underpinning every interaction.

First there was the logistics nightmare of Mrs. Gibson trying to get me officially on the witness list. Thanks to the NSRA’s world-class stalling tactics, that process didn’t conclude until over a month after she’d initially reached out to them about securing my testimony. Apparently she had to file an emergency motion just to compel them to cooperate, then anxiously await the judge’s ruling granting her an extension on the discovery deadlines.

“Discovery” – that’s one of those legal terms I’ve become painfully familiar with over the past few weeks. Basically, it refers to the whole process of gathering evidence, documentation, and witness testimonies before a trial actually begins. Kinda like the pre-game warmup, I guess, except vastly more complicated and mind-numbingly tedious. “Apologies for the short notice, but Judge Bennett granted my request for more discovery time this morning.”

I blink owlishly at her, already hopelessly lost. “Uh, okay? And that means…?”

Mrs. Gibson’s mouth tightens ever so slightly. “It means we have additional runway to comb through any evidence or materials the NSRA is compelled to provide. Crucial in a case with as many moving parts as this.”

Right. Evidence and materials. Got it. I resist the urge to ask her to dumb it down for me, cognizant of how little patience she likely has for ignorance when the stakes are so high.

Instead, I simply nod along as she lays out the revised timeline. New deadlines for submitting witness lists and exhibits. An extended discovery period pushing well into late July. A tentative trial date still on August 15th, provided nothing else goes haywire in the meantime.

“We’ll need to get your deposition on the books ASAP,” she continues, making a note on her ever-present legal pad. “Hopefully soon, if the judge can accommodate it on short notice.”

There’s that word again – deposition. I worry my lower lip, feeling a flicker of trepidation. “You, uh, you’re gonna have to walk me through what exactly that entails. I’m still a little fuzzy on the prep work involved.”

To her credit, Mrs. Gibson doesn’t so much as blink at my admitted cluelessness. “Of course. A deposition is essentially a question-and-answer session conducted under oath. Both the prosecution and defense will have an opportunity to pose questions and hear your testimony in advance of the actual trial. But I’ve already asked you most of what I need from you.”

She leans back in her chair, steepling her fingers. “Think of it as a dress rehearsal, of sorts. A chance for them to get a preview of what you’ll say on the stand and adjust their strategies accordingly.”

“So… no pressure or anything,” I joke weakly.

One perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches. “Quite. Which is why we’ll be devoting every spare moment to ensuring you’re properly prepared.” Her stern expression softens, just a fraction. “I realize this is an immense burden to place on someone your age, Sam. But your role in these proceedings is pivotal. We cannot afford any missteps.”

And just like that, the weight of responsibility comes crashing back down on my shoulders, forcing me to sit up a little straighter. Mrs. Gibson is right – there’s no room for error here. Illya’s fate, not to mention the integrity of the entire justice system, hangs in the balance. Or at least, that’s how it seems to me from the outside looking in.

I give her a solemn nod, squaring my shoulders. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this. Just tell me what I need to do.”

A ghost of a smile flits across her lips. “That’s what I like to hear.”

What follows is a crash course in legal proceedings that makes my high school education look like preschool in comparison. Mrs. Gibson coaches me relentlessly, drilling me on everything from courtroom etiquette and body language to anticipating potential lines of questioning from the defense.

“They’re going to try and poke holes in your credibility at every turn,” she warns me one afternoon, rapping her knuckles on the desk for emphasis. “Paint you as an unreliable witness, either because of your age and inexperience… or because you might hold certian biases or ulterior motives when it comes to Illya Fedorov.”

I frown at that. “Why would I have ulterior motives? The guy nearly killed me! Well, he did kill me, temporarily at least.”

“Precisely. Which is why we need to be prepared to counter any accusations of a personal vendetta on your part.” She shakes her head grimly. “Lord knows the kinds of ugly insinuations they’ll try to make about your conduct and moral character.”

My jaw clenches at the thought. As if being a teenage superhero wasn’t hard enough, now I have to worry about smarmy lawyers trying to drag my name through the mud? This whole situation is getting more ludicrous by the minute.

Still, I force myself to remain calm and focused, leaning in as Mrs. Gibson continues outlining potential defense strategies and how best to counteract them. I take meticulous notes, determined not to drop the ball.

We talk through every aspect of my interactions with Illya, from my initial battlefield observations to our various violent confrontations. I describe the brazen attacks, the harrowing chase scenes, the heated dialogue where he outlined the NSRA’s betrayal of his trust. All while Mrs. Gibson listens with rapt attention, occasionally interjecting to clarify a point or suggest another angle to explore.

By the time we finally break for the day, my brain feels like an overstuffed suitcase, fit to burst. But I can’t afford to let the exhaustion and stress show. Not with so much riding on me getting this right. Mrs. Gibson is a tenacious one, I’ll give her that. Once she finally got the green light from the judge, she kicked her prep into overdrive. Suddenly I was being summoned to her palatial office every day, it seemed, grilled for hours on end about every minute detail of my encounters with Illya.

At first, it was mostly just rehashing the basics – that fateful first meeting at the refinery, the subway station brawl, the final confrontation that landed me in the hospital. Easy enough to recount, although the memories still stung every time I relived them out loud.

But then came the real interrogation portion, where Mrs. Gibson started dissecting my stories like a frog in biology class. Poking and prodding, demanding clarification on the most seemingly inconsequential aside or turn of phrase.

“When you said Fedorov claimed the NSRA was using him to generate emergency power reserves, were those his exact words?” she’d ask, eyes boring into me from across the desk.

The days blur together in a kaleidoscope of motions, orders, extensions, and neverending legal paddywhackery that makes my head spin just trying to keep up. There are hushed conversations with stone-faced federal marshals about security protocols for my deposition day. Pointed reminders about keeping my personal affairs in order, as if this were some high-risk covert op rather than just telling the truth under oath.

In many ways, it’s a bizarre form of mental whiplash, ricocheting between the mundane routines of my normal teenage life and the stakes of an international legal firestorm. One minute I’m agonizing over summer reading assignments, the next I’m huddled with Mrs. Gibson’s elite team of prosecutors, poring over satellite images and analysis of Illya’s battlesuit capabilities. It’s enough to leave anyone feeling unmoored.

Mercifully, Jordan and my other friends provide much-needed moments of levity throughout the chaos. Jamila whisks me away for movie nights and late-night Wawa snack runs, gently chiding me for letting this case consume my every waking thought. Connor delights in gleefully reenacting his most outrageous stunts for my amusement, while Maxwell occasionally pops by my place to visit with well-timed words of wisdom. I know he’s looking out for me, it’s just weird to have him always show up exactly when he’s needed.

“Just remember, they can’t un-superhero you,” Jamila tells me one evening as we stroll along the riverfront, enjoying a rare moment of tranquility. “No matter what those shysters on the defense team might try to imply, your integrity as a person and as a hero doesn’t get erased just because you clash with the legal system sometimes.”

I give her a weary smile, shoulders slumping a little under the weight of everything. “I know you’re right. It’s just… I’ve never been under this much scrutiny before, you know? It’s like the whole world is watching, waiting for me to screw it all up.”

And just like that, I feel a tiny flicker of my usual self-confidence rekindling in my chest. She’s right – I can’t let the pressure and high stakes psyche me out. This is just another challenge to overcome, another gauntlet to run.

The mantra becomes my lifeline in the days leading up to the deposition as Mrs. Gibson marches me through one final, grueling round of preparation. I hold on to that defiant core of determination, hardening my resolve with every mock cross-examination she throws my way. “They’re going to ask you to swear an oath to tell the truth on the record,” Mrs. Gibson warned me one afternoon after a particularly miserable session. “But don’t let that rattle you. You’ve been telling the truth all along, so there’s nothing to worry about there.”

Easy for her to say. I couldn’t shake the nagging voice in the back of my mind screaming that I was hiding things, sugar-coating details, shielding Illya from the full weight of justice he might receive – or that I was shielding the rest of the world from the justice he deserved.

I tried to explain that fear to Mrs. Gibson once, in a rare moment of vulnerability. She just fixed me with that signature penetrating stare and said, “Your version of the truth, Sam, is the only one that matters here. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will all become.”

Sure, no big deal. Just the weight of an entire case resting squarely on my teenage shoulders. No pressure or anything.

Then there was the issue of trial scheduling to contend with. See, thanks to the NSRA’s world-class obstructionism, we were now operating on a severely compressed timeline. Mrs. Gibson had requested an extension on the original August 15th start date, but the judge evidently wasn’t inclined to push it back too far. Not with the circus this case was already shaping up to be.

“We’ll have the pre-trial conference sometime in the first week of August, assuming my request for an August 8th hearing date gets approved,” Mrs. Gibson explained during one of our last prep sessions before D-Day. “That’ll be our final opportunity to get all our ducks in a row before the madness begins.”

“This part wasn’t the madness?” I asked.

She looked at me and laughed a little bit.

My brain was practically leaking out of my ears by that point. I’m pretty sure if you cracked open my skull, you’d just find a tiny hamster wheezing away on one of those cylindrical running wheels, valiantly trying to keep up with the deluge of information being hurled its way.

But hey, no rest for the weary when you’re weeks away from the trial of the century, right? Which brings us to today – Saturday, July 21st, 2023. The eve of my deposition, where I’ll have to regurgitate every sordid detail of my sordid encounters with Illya under heat-lamp scrutiny, lest anything slip through the cracks that could jeopardize this entire case.

“Stick to the facts. Don’t get flustered. Remain calm, no matter what curveballs they try to throw at you.” Her rapid-fire instructions have become so familiar at this point, they’re practically seared into my brain. “Remember, the truth is on our side no matter what obfuscation or sleight of hand the defense attempts. They cannot distract from the core of your testimony.”

The night before the big day, I hardly sleep a wink. I toss and turn restlessly, my mind spinning as I replay every possible line of questioning a hundred times over. What if I freeze up under the pressure? What if I slip and say the wrong thing, tainting my entire testimony?

By the time my dad knocks on my door at the ass-crack of dawn, I’ve already been up for hours. He takes one look at my haggard, disheveled appearance and gives me one of his lopsided grins.

“You look like you got hit by a truck, kiddo.”

I manage a weak chuckle. “Gee, thanks Dad. Exactly the pep talk I needed.”

He settles on the edge of my bed, expression turning serious. “Hey, I’m just messing with you. You know how proud your mother and I are, right? To see you stepping up like this, doing your part to make sure the truth comes out…” His voice catches ever so slightly. “Well, it’s a lot to ask of anyone, let alone my little girl.”

I scoot across the mattress to lean against his side, soaking up the comforting warmth and familiar smell of his old ratty bathrobe. “I’m trying not to think about it too much. You know, the whole weight of justice and human decency resting on my shoulders.”

Dad snorts, wrapping an arm around me. “That’s probably for the best. Although…” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles down at me. “Between you and me, I think you’ve got the constitution to handle just about anything at this point, Sammy. You’ve stared down threats most adults can’t even fathom and walked away standing tall. I’m proud of you and your superheroing. Don’t ever think I’m not.”

His unwavering confidence in me is almost enough to chase away the last lingering tendrils of doubt and anxiety swirling in my mind. Almost.

“Thanks, Dad,” I murmur, resting my head against his shoulder as he gives me one last, fierce squeeze. “I just hope Mrs. Gibson feels the same way after today.”

Showering and dressing is a blur. Every mundane task takes on a strange, dreamlike quality, like I’m not fully in control of my body’s motions. Just going through the motions on autopilot while my mind races ahead, trying to anticipate every possible question or curveball that might get thrown my way.

By the time I make it downstairs, I’m practically vibrating with nervous energy. Mom’s in the kitchen, spatula in hand, whipping up a batch of her famous ‘power pancakes’ – a secret recipe heavy on protein powder and assorted superfoods meant to fuel you up for a big day. The rich, syrupy aroma does a decent job of snapping me back to the present moment, at least temporarily. Even if the pancakes are a strange, non-pancake color and taste more like bananas, oats, and blueberries than pancake batter.

“There’s my girl,” Mom says with a warm smile as I plop down at the kitchen table. “Hungry?”

I open my mouth to respond, but what comes out is more of a croaked garble than actual words. Mom just chuckles.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got something that’ll perk you right up.” She grabs a glass from the cupboard and fills it with a generous splash of Tanner Brothers chocolate milk before sliding it across the table. “Drink up, kiddo. Today’s going to be a doozy and you’ll need your strength.”

I take the offered glass with a grateful nod, downing half of it in one greedy gulp. The sweet, creamy liquid doesn’t so much ‘perk me up’ as temporarily dull the hammering of my pulse.

“Thanks, Mom.” I meet her warm gaze levelly. “So, uh… you ready to see your little girl get grilled like a Char Pit cheesesteak?”

Her answering laugh is hearty and genuine, the kind that crinkles the corners of her eyes. “Not the most appetizing metaphor, but yeah, I’m ready to watch you knock ’em dead out there.” She sets a plate stacked high with pancakes in front of me. “Just stay strong, stay honest, and let that Gibson lady handle the rest. Remember – she may act like a real hardass sometimes, but she’s on our side.”

I can’t help but scoff around a mouthful of pancakes. “Is she, though? Are we really on the same side here?”

Mom’s expression softens as she settles into the chair opposite me. “I know things are… complicated right now. More than I could ever fully understand, I’m sure. But at the end of the day, you both want the same thing – for the full truth to come out, no matter how messy that truth might be.”

Something in her words hits me squarely in the chest, stealing my breath away. Is that really all I want? Just to unmask the tangled web of deceit and shatter the pretty lie the world has willingly bought into? No… no, that’s not quite it. Not entirely, at least. There’s something else driving me – a burning need for justice, but not merely of the legal variety. Some deeper, more primal reckoning that I can’t yet put words to. Something more animal than truth.

It’s enough to make me a little dizzy.

“Just take it one step at a time,” Mom says, as if reading the turmoil wafting off of me in waves. “You don’t have to have all the answers today. Just tell your truth, clear and simple. Everything else will sort itself out in the end. It always does.”

I nod shakily, forcing myself to accept her reassurance at face value. Because honestly, what other choice do I have at this point? No matter how much my brain churns and writhes, searching for loopholes or escape clauses, I’m locked into this course now. The wheels are in motion, barreling me towards an inevitability I can’t fully grasp yet.

All I can do is hang on for dear life and have faith that when the dust settles, I’ll recognize the path forward. Even if I can’t see it.

So I keep eating, keep sipping my chocolate milk and trying to ignore the thundering of my pulse. The deposition is just another step in the journey, not the final destination. But no matter how much I prepare myself, no amount of reassuring pep talks can shake the deep, visceral sense of trepidation clawing at my gut.

The Bentley pulls up in front of the federal courthouse later that morning, with me inside. Everything between then and now sort of smooths over into a watercolor blur.

Here we go. It’s deposition day.

---

The conference room is small and stuffy, generic in a way that makes it feel almost purposefully devoid of character. Just four bland walls, a battered folding table, and an array of uncomfortable-looking chairs arranged in a tight semicircle.

I try not to squirm as I take my assigned seat, resisting the urge to fidget with the omnipresent legal pad and pen that have become permanent accoutrements over the past few weeks. Beside me, Mrs. Gibson exudes an aura of unflappable calm and confidence, back ramrod straight as she lays out her materials with crisp, practiced motions.

Across the table, the defense attorney offers me a disarming smile, all gleaming white teeth and carefully cultivated affability. “Samantha Small, I presume? Jerry Caldwell, it’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

His handshake is firm, enveloping my much smaller hand in a warm, calloused grip. Despite his evident size and strength, there’s nothing overtly intimidating about him. If anything, the vibe he gives off is more ‘overgrown fratboy’ than ‘soulless legal shark’.

“Uh, hi. You can just call me Sam,” I reply, doing my best to match his easy demeanor.

Mrs. Gibson clears her throat meaningfully. “Shall we get started, Mr. Caldwell? We’re on a rather tight timeline here.”

“But of course, of course.” Caldwell releases my hand and settles back into his chair with an easy grace. “We’re all professionals here, no need for undue ceremony. Although…” He flicks a glance towards the court reporter, who has been watching our exchange with a suitably bored expression. “I do believe the young lady needs to be sworn in before we proceed.”

The court reporter – a pinched-looking woman in her fifties – nods curtly and pushes a battered legal tome across the table towards me. “Place your left hand on the book, please.”

I do as instructed, feeling a twinge of apprehension as my palm comes to rest on the age-softened leather binding. This is it – the point of no return. No matter how ‘casual’ Caldwell tries to make this whole proceeding seem, swearing that oath is what separates my testimony from idle chit-chat.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” the court reporter intones, her nasal voice lending the words a weighty gravitas.

I take a breath to steel my nerves. “I do.”

“Excellent, excellent,” Caldwell interjects with a broad grin, as if we’ve just commenced some light-hearted parlor game rather than engaged in solemn legal proceedings. “Then let’s not dally any longer, shall we?”

And just like that, the tone is set – conversational, almost chummy, yet underscored by an undercurrent of intensity that belies the stakes at play. Caldwell leans back in his chair, fingers steepled in front of him as he regards me with those intelligent dark eyes.

“Now Sam, I’ll start us off with a somewhat broad query – can you please describe your history with the individual known as Illya Fedorov, codename ‘Chernobyl’, in your own words?”

His phrasing is carefully neutral, providing no hints about where he might try to steer the narrative. I shoot a sidelong glance towards Mrs. Gibson, who gives me an infinitesimal nod of encouragement. Right, just stick to the facts. The truth and nothing but, plain and simple.

Sucking in a breath, I launch into my well-rehearsed account. “My first encounter with Mr. Fedorov was back in early December of last year. I was part of the emergency evacuation efforts when he arrived in Philadelphia, though my specific role at the time was focused on search and rescue rather than direct confrontation.”

“I ended up breaking protocol, however,” I continue in as even a tone as I can manage. “After Liberty Belle – Diane Williams, director of the Delaware Valley Defenders – confronted Illya alone, I disobeyed orders to pursue them against the advisement of my team leader.”

Caldwell’s eyebrows rise. “Breaking protocol is a serious matter, Miss Small. What compelled you to take such a reckless course of action, in your own words?”

Mrs. Gibson interjects, “Objection, counsel is leading the witness. Please rephrase the question.”

Caldwell nods. “My apologies. Miss Small, can you explain what motivated your decision to pursue Liberty Belle and Chernobyl that day?”

There it is – the first subtle jab, probing for potential cracks in my credibility or judgement. I shoot another glance towards Mrs. Gibson, but she remains perfectly stoic and impassive. No help there, it seems.

“I was… concerned for Liberty Belle’s safety,” I reply carefully. “She and Illya had a complicated history from what I could gather. I worried she might be in over her head confronting him alone.”

“But that was purely speculative on your part, wasn’t it?” Caldwell presses, his eyes intense. “You had no direct knowledge of their prior dealings, correct?”

I hesitate, realizing the logical trap. Claiming ignorance would undermine my justification, but elaborating on my suspicions would only invite further scrutiny.

“Objection,” Mrs. Gibson says, letting me breathe a sigh of relief. “Calls for speculation.”

Caldwell rephrases. “Miss Small, did you have any direct knowledge of the nature of Liberty Belle and Chernobyl’s prior relationship?”

I take a breath. “While my direct involvement with Mr. Fedorov was limited prior to that December incident, I was aware of certain unconventional aspects of his history from Liberty Belle’s case notes, which she shared with me before her death.”

I breathe out a half-lie. Most of what I knew about him was her warning me to not get involved, or I would die.

I hear her voice in my ears.

I served my time.

You need to stay away.

Caldwell’s expression shifts into something approaching grudging respect. “I see. Well, that certainly recontextualizes your supposedly rash decision in a new light, does it not?” He leans forward, elbows braced on the table. “So you believe this prior… entanglement, for lack of a better word, had given Chernobyl an unhealthy degree of leverage or influence over Ms. Williams? One that might cloud her judgement when confronting him?”

For a moment, I’m almost lulled into a sense of ease and camaraderie, like we’re two scholars debating ethics rather than a witness and a defense attorney squaring off.

I consider my response carefully. “I don’t think ‘leverage’ is the right word, Mr. Caldwell. More like… I don’t know, some sense of obligation or complicity, maybe? Like she felt beholden to see things through. Because of Professor Franklin.”

He nods slowly, absorbing my words. “A fair assessment, I’d say. And one that no doubt weighed heavily on Ms. Williams’ psyche as things escalated to their tragic conclusion.”

The temperature in the room seems to dip by several degrees as the weight of his statement settles over us. I find myself tensing involuntarily, the hairs prickling on the back of my neck. Up until now, we’ve been dancing around the true crux of the matter in an almost academic sense. But there’s no avoiding it any longer – we’ve arrived at the heart of darkness.

Liberty Belle’s death.

Caldwell must sense my sudden unease because he presses on without mercy. “Which brings us to the crucial piece of evidence you’ve submitted as part of these proceedings.” He produces a ziplock baggie from his briefcase and slides it across the table to me. Inside is a very familiar object – my battered old iPhone, complete with the cracked screen and scuffed blue case I know so well.

“You contend that the contents of this device contain an audio-visual recording of the final confrontation between Ms. Williams and my client on the night of December 18th, 2023?” It’s not phrased as a question, but a statement of fact. Still, he regards me expectantly, dark eyes glittering with intensity.

I swallow hard, steeling myself as I lift the baggie and give it a tentative shake. My phone rattles almost forlornly, as if pleading to be left out of all this nastiness.

“That’s correct,” I reply, keeping my tone as measured and even as I can manage. “I… kept recording throughout the entire incident. It captured everything from Illya’s discussion with Liberty Belle to the… the fight itself, and its ultimate conclusion.”

The words feel like shards of glass in my throat. I chance another glance towards Mrs. Gibson, searching for any hint of support or reassurance. But her expression remains as inscrutable as always, revealing nothing. I’ve shown her the file before. Always stopping before it gets bad.

Caldwell lets the weighted silence linger for several seconds, regarding me shrewdly. When he finally speaks again, his voice is soft and deceptively gentle.

“I can only imagine how traumatic that entire experience must have been for you, Sam. Watching someone you clearly admired meet such an unfortunate end, despite your valiant efforts to intervene.” He shakes his head slowly, feigning a somber remorse that somehow seems entirely genuine.

It’s almost enough to disarm me completely, to pull me into his emotional rabbit hole. Almost, but not quite. There’s still that keening sense of wrongness screaming at the edges of my consciousness, urging me to keep my guard up.

“Which is why I must ask,” he continues, “are you confident your recollection of these events is entirely objective? Free of any unconscious embellishments or omissions shaped by personal biases?”

Mrs. Gibson speaks up. “Objection. Argumentative.”

Caldwell raises a placating hand. “I’ll rephrase. Miss Small, have you reviewed the audio-visual recording in its entirety to ensure your recollection aligns with the objective evidence?”

I take a breath. “Yes, I have. Multiple times.”

“And in your opinion, is your memory of the incident consistent with what the recording depicts?”

“Yes, it is.”

Caldwell nods, seeming to accept this. “One more question, then. Considering the understandably traumatic nature of the events captured in this recording, do you feel you’re able to testify about its contents in an impartial, fact-based manner?”

I meet his gaze steadily. “Yes, Mr. Caldwell. I’m fully prepared to testify to what I witnessed, both in person and as documented on that recording.”

I take a moment to gather myself, shoving aside the thunderous roar of memory that threatens to swamp my senses. Then I meet his probing gaze with a level look of my own.

“You’re right, Mr. Caldwell – Liberty Belle’s death was extremely traumatic for me to witness.” My voice doesn’t so much as waver, a product of Mrs. Gibson’s tireless drilling more than anything else. “She was a friend, a mentor, someone I looked up to and strived to emulate. So yes, emotions were undoubtedly running high in those final moments, especially when…”

I have to swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat. “Especially when she died in my arms after being so brutally overpowered by your client’s weaponized suit. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t affect me.”

Caldwell’s brow furrows ever so slightly.

The memory surges like a tidal wave, but I don’t flinch away from its blistering intensity. Instead, I ride the crest of the recollection, channeling all that bottled pain and anguish into an almost clinical recitation. “I have it all recorded – the taunts, the combat, the fatal blows he inflicted without mercy or hesitation. So believe me when I say there’s no room for bias or embellishment in my account. Just the raw, horrific truth of what your client is capable of unleashing when left to his own devices.”

The echo of my words hangs in the air like a suffocating miasma. Caldwell shuts his eyes thoughtfully, the barest flicker of discomfort seeping into his veneer. Even Mrs. Gibson looks faintly taken aback by my vehement response, her carefully curated mask of impassivity slipping for a split second. Silence reigns for a handful of agonizing heartbeats. Then Caldwell rallies, straightening in his chair as that glint returns to his eyes.

“Well then,” he says, the ghost of a smirk playing about his lips now. “I can certainly appreciate your passion and conviction on the matter, Miss Small. Which is precisely why I believe we should examine this pivotal piece of evidence more thoroughly, wouldn’t you agree?”

His hand darts out with serpentine quickness, snatching the baggie containing my phone from the table before I can react. In one smooth, practiced motion, he extracts the device and thumbs the cracked screen to life.

And just like that, the world seems to judder and blur around the edges as the video begins to play. There’s my own muffled breathing, the sound of rubble crunching underfoot as I creep towards the ruined refinery. Then Liberty Belle’s voice cuts through the darkness like a scythe, dripping with righteous fury.

Sure enough, the contents bear out exactly as I’ve described to this point. Chernobyl offers Liberty Belle the chance to walk away, to abandon her righteous crusade against him in order to avoid further bloodshed. His insinuations about some larger conspiracy, some shadowy ‘system’ manipulating them both, bleed through like venom.

Belle’s fists clench, tendons straining as she struggles to maintain her composure in the face of such blatant provocation. When she finally finds her voice, it’s a strangled rasp of outrage. “You’re trying to manipulate me. To make me doubt. I won’t fall for it.”

“I am not your enemy, Diane. I never was.”

My breath catches in my throat, sharp as shattered glass. The viciousness of Liberty Belle’s voice, removed from her lifetime, hits me like a thunderbolt. From an objective eye, this looks like Liberty Belle showing up to murder Illya in cold blood, for revenge. The sounds of battle erupt with shocking abruptness after his monologue – the whickering screech of high-velocity blows, metallic clangs as Chernobyl bats them aside with almost contemptuous ease.

The melee is even more harrowing to witness now than it was in the moment, devoid of any kind of context or justification. Just two juggernaut forces pitted against each other, one wielding overwhelming destructive power while the other desperately attempts to reason, to show mercy.
Caldwell’s fingers dance across the screen, advancing the video with deft precision. My stomach knots with dread as the confrontation careens towards its inevitable conclusion, a sick feeling of premonition curdling in the pit of my gut.

Sure enough, there it is – the decisive moment where I can no longer stay on the sidelines, where my youthful selfishness and hero-worship compel me to act against all better judgement. I watch in mute horror as my ghostly avatar charges forward, pipe-spear in hand, heedless of the danger.

The impact of the strike is visceral, a bone-rattling crunch that sends an involuntary shudder ripping through me. Caldwell pauses the video, freezing the frame on my crumpled form as I’m sent hurtling backwards by Chernobyl’s retaliatory swat.

“Miss Small, I must address a curious detail in this footage,” he says, his tone measured. “It appears you intervened directly in the confrontation between my client and Ms. Williams, despite your earlier testimony indicating you were solely an observer at that juncture.”

I brace myself, steeling my nerves to meet his gaze. “Yes, that’s correct. I couldn’t stand by and watch, not with Diane in such peril.”

Caldwell nods thoughtfully. “And what precisely motivated that decision? I understood your designated role that evening was to provide search and rescue support, not to engage Chernobyl directly.”

His words carry no judgment or accusation, only genuine curiosity. This isn’t the blistering cross-examination I anticipated, but a measured, almost gentle inquiry into my rationale.

“I was worried for Diane,” I admit, the honesty surprising even me. “She and Mr. Fedorov had a complex, adversarial history. I could see she was struggling to gain the upper hand. I thought if I could just tip the scales, provide an opening…”

My voice trails off, the memory of Liberty Belle’s final, agonizing moments still too raw to recount dispassionately. Caldwell nods, his expression almost sympathetic. I keep expecting Mrs. Gibson to interject, to redirect me or correct my account.

“A commendable impulse, certainly. The desire to aid someone you care for is understandable, even admirable.” He pauses, his eyes boring into me. “However, as an objective observer, I must ask – did your actions meaningfully alter the outcome? Or did they, perhaps, exacerbate an already volatile situation in unforeseen ways?”

The question lands like a punch, stealing my breath. It’s a question I’ve asked myself countless times over the past eight months. Did my reckless intervention make a difference, or did it only prolong Belle’s suffering? Mrs. Gibson’s voice rings out over me like cannon fire. “Objection, calls for speculation and argumentative.”

Caldwell inclines his head. “Of course. Miss Small, in your opinion, did your intervention materially change the course of events that evening, or would the outcome have been the same regardless of your actions?”

I take a deep breath, considering. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’d like to believe I made a difference, but… it’s possible my involvement only complicated an already chaotic situation.”

But it doesn’t come. Instead, Caldwell’s voice is gentle, almost soothing. “I understand, Sam. Believe me. When faced with a loved one in mortal peril, it’s natural to react with every fiber of our being, heedless of potential consequences.” He shakes his head, a rueful smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “The heart often overrules the head in such dire circumstances.”

I chance a glance back up at him, momentarily stunned by the unexpected empathy radiating from him. This isn’t the ‘soulless legal shark’ I’d been bracing myself for, the implacable adversary bent on tearing me down. No, this is something else entirely – a man who, for all his professional obligations, seems to genuinely understand the anguish and desperation that drove my actions that fateful night. I see no fire or glass in his eyes.

Mrs. Gibson clears her throat. “Mr. Caldwell, is there a question for the witness?”

Caldwell inclines his head. “Of course. Miss Small, in your own words, please describe your thought process and emotions in the moments leading up to your decision to intervene.”

I take a deep breath, gathering my thoughts. “In that moment, all I could think about was saving Diane. The fear, the desperation… it overrode everything else. I knew it was reckless, but I couldn’t just stand by and watch her die. I had to try, even if it seemed hopeless.”

Caldwell nods, a faint glimmer of approval in his eyes. “An admirable quality, that singular focus in the face of adversity. Though I must admit, it does raise some… procedural concerns when it comes to the testimony you’re providing here today.”

Ah, there it is – the other shoe dropping. I brace myself, steeling my nerves once more as I prepare to weather the incoming storm. But Caldwell’s next words catch me completely off guard.

“You see, Sam, the fact that you actively engaged with my client during that confrontation introduces a certain… complexity to your testimony. It’s important that we understand the full context and motivations behind your actions, so that we can present a clear and accurate picture to the jury.”

I frown slightly, not entirely sure where he’s going with this. “I’m not sure I follow. I’ve been completely honest about what happened and why I did what I did.”

Caldwell nods, his expression neutral. “I don’t doubt that, Sam. But you have to understand, in a case like this, every detail matters. The jury will be looking at all the evidence with a critical eye, trying to piece together a complete understanding of that night’s events.”

He leans forward slightly, his gaze intense but not unkind. “That’s why it’s so important that we thoroughly explore your recollection and thought process here today. So that when you take the stand, there are no surprises or inconsistencies that could potentially undermine your credibility.”

I feel a flicker of unease in my gut, but I do my best to keep my expression neutral. “I understand. I’m here to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I have nothing to hide.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Sam.” Caldwell sits back in his chair, his posture relaxing slightly. “Let’s continue, then. Can you walk me through what happened immediately after you intervened in the confrontation between Liberty Belle and my client?”

As I begin to recount the chaotic, painful moments that followed, I can’t quite shake the feeling that Caldwell is probing for something specific – some weakness or inconsistency he can exploit later on. But I push the thought aside and focus on telling my story as clearly and accurately as I can.

Beside me, Mrs. Gibson listens intently, her pen scratching across her legal pad as she takes notes. Every so often, she interjects with a clarifying question or a gentle reminder to stay on topic. But for the most part, she lets Caldwell lead the examination, her expression inscrutable.

As the minutes tick by and the questions keep coming, I feel a growing sense of exhaustion and emotional fatigue. Reliving that nightmarish experience in such exacting detail is taking a toll, and I find myself longing for a break, a moment to catch my breath and regroup.

I turn to Mrs. Gibson, my voice trembling slightly. “I’m not sure I can keep going. What if I freeze up on the stand? What if my testimony isn’t enough to convict Illya?”

Mrs. Gibson places a reassuring hand on my forearm, her touch firm and grounding. “Sam, listen to me. You’ve faced down unimaginable horrors with unwavering courage. This is no different.” She squeezes my arm gently. “The truth is on your side, and we’re here to support you every step of the way. Trust in yourself and the strength of your convictions.”

I meet her gaze, drawing resolve from the unwavering faith I find there. Taking a deep breath, I nod. “Okay. I can do this.”

Caldwell clears his throat, drawing our attention back to him. “If I may, Sam, I’d like to ask about your decision to intervene that night, despite the clear risks to your own safety. What compelled you to act?”

I consider his question carefully, weighing my words. “I couldn’t stand by and watch Diane’s life be put in danger, Mr. Caldwell. Not when I had the power to help. It’s not who I am.” My throat tightens as memories of Diane’s lifeless form flash through my mind. “I’ve always tried to do the right thing, even when it gets me in trouble. And it has.”

Caldwell nods, his expression thoughtful. “I understand, Sam. And that’s an important point to emphasize during the trial. Your actions that night, while undeniably brave, were also deeply personal. The jury needs to understand the emotional context behind your testimony, and how the trauma you experienced may color your recollection of events.”

I swallow hard, a wave of nausea rising in my gut. “So, what does that mean for my testimony?”

Caldwell leans back in his chair, his expression neutral. “It means that when you take the stand, the jury will need to weigh the credibility and reliability of your recollection against the other evidence presented. My job, as the defense attorney, will be to ensure they have all the information they need to make that assessment.”

I nod, feeling a growing sense of unease. I glance over at Mrs. Gibson, seeking reassurance, but her expression remains inscrutable.

Caldwell presses on. “So, Sam, I need you to be as clear and specific as possible in your answers today. If you don’t remember something or aren’t sure about a detail, just say so. Don’t try to guess or speculate. Do you understand?”

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “Yes, I understand.”

Caldwell offers me an encouraging nod. “Good. Because make no mistake, this trial is going to be a battle royale, Sam. One that will require every ounce of your resilience and conviction to weather.” He pauses, the ghost of a rueful smile flickering across his lips. “But I have faith that you’re more than up to the challenge.”

I manage a watery chuckle, some of the tension bleeding from my shoulders. “Thanks, Mr. Caldwell. I… I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Of course.” He gestures towards the forgotten phone still clutched in his hand. “Now, shall we continue with the remainder of this rather… illuminating footage?”

I nod, bracing myself as he presses play. The scenes that follow are every bit as harrowing as I remember, a sickening maelstrom of violence and tragedy that leaves me reeling. But this time, I force myself to watch, to bear witness to the full, unvarnished truth – not just of Illya’s actions, but of my own futile, reckless attempt to intervene.

By the time the video ends, I’m shaking, my breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. Caldwell, to his credit, simply waits patiently, allowing the silence to linger as I struggle to regain my composure.

“I… I’m sorry,” I finally manage, hating the raw, ragged edge to my voice. “That was just… so hard to watch again.”

“Quite understandable,” Caldwell replies evenly. “Trauma has a way of sinking its claws in deep, even when we think we’ve moved past it.”

He sets the phone down on the table, fixing me with a level stare. “But you’ve weathered it before, Sam. And I have every confidence you’ll continue to do so, regardless of what I might throw at you during the trial.”

I nod shakily, a weak smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “Well, I appreciate the vote of confidence. Lord knows I’m gonna need it.”
Caldwell inclines his head, his expression professional but not unkind. “Of course, Miss Small. I believe I’ve covered all the questions I have for you at this time.” He turns to Mrs. Gibson. “Counsel, do you have any follow-up?”

Mrs. Gibson shakes her head. “No further questions at this time. We reserve the right to continue this deposition at a later date if necessary.”

Caldwell nods. “Understood. With that, I think we can conclude for today.” He rises from his seat, gathering his materials. “Miss Small, thank you for your time and cooperation. Counsel, we’ll be in touch regarding next steps.”

Mrs. Gibson stands as well, smoothing her skirt. “Likewise, Mr. Caldwell. I look forward to seeing you in court.”

A flicker of a smile crosses Caldwell’s face. “As do I, Counselor. It’s always a pleasure to match wits with a worthy adversary.”

Mrs. Gibson allows a faint smirk. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Caldwell. Save it for the jury.”

Caldwell chuckles, shaking his head as he makes his way to the door. He pauses, glancing back at me. “Remember, Miss Small, the truth is your greatest weapon. Wield it wisely.”

With that, he departs, leaving a palpable shift in the room’s atmosphere. I slump back in my chair, feeling the tension drain from my muscles.

Mrs. Gibson turns to me, her expression softening a fraction. “You did well today, Sam. I know it wasn’t easy, but you held your own.”

I exhale slowly, offering a weak smile. “Thanks to your guidance and prep work. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

She waves a dismissive hand. “You have an innate strength, Sam. Don’t sell yourself short.” She gathers her own files, nodding to the court reporter. “Thank you for your diligence today. We’ll be in touch regarding the transcript.”

The reporter nods, already packing up her equipment. “Of course. I’ll have it to you as soon as possible.”

Mrs. Gibson turns back to me. “Take the rest of the day to rest and regroup. We’ll reconvene tomorrow to start preparing for trial.”

I nod, pushing myself to my feet. “Sounds good. And… thanks again, Mrs. Gibson. For everything.”

A rare, genuine smile flickers across her face. “We’re a team, Sam. Never forget that.”

She departs, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the quiet bustle of the reporter finishing her packing.

With that, the tension seems to bleed from the room, replaced by a solemn sense of purpose. As I gather our belongings and head for the exit, I can’t help but feel a cautious sense of optimism taking root in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe it’s nausea. They both feel sort of the same to me now.

---

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