Law America, the Devil's Agent

Link walked up to Ella, but didn't get too close, and began to ask her questions directly.

Please state your full name.

"My name is Ella Winthrop."

"Are you currently residing in the Winthrop family's residence voluntarily?"

"It was my own choice."

"Where did you live before? And with whom?"

"Kingston Gardens, North End. And the defendant, Desean Washington."

"What is your relationship with the defendant?"

"He made me say I was his wife."

"Let me tell you—did you marry him willingly at the time?"

"No. I was told to marry him. Nobody asked me if I wanted to."

Link picked up several documents from the plaintiff's seat and walked to the witness stand one by one, presenting them to the witnesses.

"This is your birth certificate. Your real name is Ella Mary Winthrop, and you were born in Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia."

"This is a DNA paternity test report, confirming that you have a biological parent-child relationship with the Winthrop family."

"This is a statement you signed, which records the specific facts of how you were restricted in your personal freedom in the defendant's home, deprived of your right to use communication tools, and subjected to long-term physical violence."

He placed the last document on the witness stand railing, not in a hurry to continue speaking, but simply looked at her calmly.

"Ella, do you remember what I told you? From today onwards, no one can tell you who you are anymore. You can tell me your own name."

Tell me, tell me what happened!

The courtroom was so quiet that you could hear someone in the back row breathing heavily.

Ella looked at Link, then slowly turned her head to look at the audience.

She saw Margaret, the gray-haired woman who was covering her mouth with her hands, tears silently sliding down her cheeks.

She saw Samuel, the silent man who nodded slightly to her, his eyes red-rimmed, but he did not look away.

Then she saw DeShawn.

The man sitting in the defendant's seat was staring at her.

His eyes held anger, disbelief, and something she had seen countless times before:

  

Threat.

That silent intimidation that had driven her to cower in the corner of the bed countless nights by that gaze.

Her lips trembled slightly.

Hesitation. Fear.

But he had been tormented by these two things for far too long.

She turned around and met Link's dark eyes.

Encouragement. Expectation.

Ella, close your eyes, something is slowly but steadily rising.

When she opened her eyes again, she was incredibly calm.

She turned to the judge, then to the jury, her voice trembling but not breaking:

"I was stolen from my biological parents when I was eight months old."

I was told my name was Nancy Washington when I was a child, and I was forced to marry the defendant.

He hit me. He threatened me with my child.

He told me that if I dared to run, he would find me, kill me, and kill my child.

Her voice suddenly tightened, like a string stretched to its limit.

"But I am not Nancy Washington."

My name is Ella Winthrop.

This is my son, Malcolm.

He chose to stay on his own.

He and I, we belong to no one.

At that moment, the air in the entire courtroom seemed to freeze.

The judge remained silent for a moment.

The jury was completely silent, countless people were immersed in Ella's accusation, moved by her tragic emotions.

But at that moment, DeShawn suddenly stood up: "Nancy! What are you doing?"

Bitch! What are you talking about?

Tell the judge, tell them this isn't true! This isn't true!

His roar exploded in the courtroom like a stone thrown into still water, along with his selective gaze.

The bailiffs immediately stepped forward and grabbed his shoulder.

The defense attorney's expression changed drastically. He lowered his voice and tried to get him to sit down, but DeShawn shook off the attorney's hand.

He stared intently at Ella, his chest heaving violently.

"You are my wife! You said you loved me! We loved each other freely!"

"I never said that."

Ella's voice was quiet and clear.

She stood before the man who had once made her tremble, and no longer lowered her eyes.

I have never said I love you.

You just used me as a tool for venting your frustrations, someone who bore your children.

She paused, and the expression on her face slowly changed from tense to a release of long-suppressed emotions.

"From now on, you can never hurt me again."

DeShawn's face contorted.

His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but the bailiff had already pressed him back into the chair and did not release his hand from his shoulder.

The judge, with a cold expression, slammed his gavel down:

"Defendant, please maintain order in the courtroom. If you speak without permission again, I will order your temporary removal from the courtroom."

DeShawn's shoulders trembled slightly under the bailiff's hand.

That was fear, that was anger.

It is the rage of a beast after everything has been taken away from it.

Just as the opposing lawyer was preparing to begin his rebuttal on this point.

Link waved his hand, indicating the court's request, and the clerk and judge nodded.

"Call the plaintiff's witness, Gloria Washington."

DeShawn's pupils contracted sharply.

The side door opens.

When Gloria Washington walked in, the air in the courtroom seemed to freeze for a moment.

She wore an old sweater and walked slowly but steadily.

There was no panic or evasion on her face, only a calmness honed by the passage of time.

As she walked through the audience, acquaintances who had known her for decades stared at her with disbelief.

She didn't look at them.

She walked straight to the witness stand, placed her hand on the Bible, and read the oath along with the clerk.

Her voice was aged yet clear.

Please state your full name.

"Gloria Angela Washington."

"Ms. Washington, do you know the plaintiff, Ira Winthrop?"

Gloria's lips trembled slightly.

She turned her head and glanced at Ella.

The two women's eyes met again under the cold light of the courtroom.

Gloria's eyes were slightly red, but she did not look away.

"know."

"What is your relationship with her?"

silence.

After a long while, Gloria lowered her head, then raised it again, her voice hoarse but steady.

"I am her adoptive mother. But not legally."

Eighteen years ago, my husband Marcus bought her from a human trafficker.

'

These words plunged Deenshaw's side into utter despair.

A commotion broke out in the gallery.

The judge struck the gavel.

"quiet."

Link let the commotion subside on its own, without urging anyone, and then said:

"Ms. Washington, please tell the court how Illa married the defendant, Desean Washington."

"It was Marcus who arranged it."

Marcus said that this way she could truly become a member of the Washington family.

DeShawn is Marcus's distant nephew.

Marcus believed that this marriage would strengthen family ties.

No one asked Ella if she wanted to.

I didn't... I didn't stop him.

Are you aware of the way DeSean treats Ella?

Gloria closed her eyes and whispered:

"He hits her, he hits her often."

He's become increasingly outrageous since my husband died.

She dared not tell anyone, nor did she dare to go out.

Her phone was given to her by DeShawn, but he would check it at any time.

If she stayed in the supermarket for even ten minutes longer, she would get beaten when she came back.

Did you ever try to help her?

Gloria was silent for a moment, then looked up at Ella in the audience.

Ella was looking at her, her eyes filled with no hatred, only a quiet, indescribable waiting.

"No. I'm afraid of DeSean. I'm also afraid of losing her; she's my only child."

Her voice finally broke, her lips trembling violently: "I bought a child. I raised her. I watched her be ruined. I didn't save her."

I am a criminal, and a coward.

The courtroom was so quiet it was as if the air had been sucked out; everyone was listening to the old woman's confession.

Listen to him display his bloody wounds to everyone.

Link waited a moment, then stepped back, his voice regaining its lawyer-like calmness.

"Your Honor, the plaintiff's direct questioning of Ms. Washington is now concluded."

The judge paused for a moment, then turned to the defense.

"Did the defense ask any cross-examination questions?"

The defense attorney stood up, glanced at Gloria's face, which was soaked with guilt and tears, and then at the solemn face of the jury.

Then he gave up on cross-examination.

Because he knew that any questioning of the old woman would only give her words another chance to be scrutinized by the jury.

Because this is absolutely genuine emotion.

As Gloria was led away from the witness stand, she slowed her pace slightly as she passed Ella.

Her lips moved silently, as if to say "I'm sorry".

Ella watched her walk away, her fingers gently clenching the hem of her skirt above her knees.

She didn't know whether to cry or laugh.

……

……

When Link stood up again, the lights in the courtroom had dimmed by one degree.

It was already afternoon, and the final stage of the trial—the closing statement—had finally arrived.

"Your Honor, jurors."

A baby was stolen eighteen years ago.

Over the past eighteen years, someone gave her a fake name, taught her a fake identity, and then put her into a fake marriage, telling her that this was her life.

She did nothing wrong; she was the most innocent victim.

He turned to the defendant's dock.

"Then she met Desean Washington."

What did this person give her?

What did he take from her?

Freedom, a name, the right to choose, and the most basic human dignity.

Ladies and gentlemen, this case is not only a trial of the personality of the felon Earnshaw, but also a trial of his morality.

It was Ella Winthrop appealing the trial of a criminal who had stripped her of her dignity.

His gaze swept across the faces on the jury bench.

"The law cannot compensate for the eighteen years that were stolen. But the law can do one thing: it can end it."

He gently placed the pen in his hand on the table.

"I beg you to deliver that verdict. Let this case end completely, today, here!"

……

The jury's deliberation time was shorter than anyone expected.

Forty-seven minutes.

When the jury and other court members returned to their seats and the judge stood up, the courtroom was so quiet that only the faint hum of the air conditioning system could be heard.

He unfolded the folded review sheet and cleared his throat.

"Regarding the charges against defendant Desean Washington for violating the federal Controlled Substances Act and the Gun Control Act by trafficking illegal drugs and firearms across state lines, the jury found him guilty in all counts!"

Regarding the marriage of the defendant, DeSean Washington, to Ira Winthrop, the jury found:

The marriage was invalid from the outset due to the lack of free consent!

"Clap clap clap—"

Everyone in the courtroom gasped, then burst into enthusiastic applause, celebrating the arrival of justice!

Margaret Winthrop buried her forehead in her husband's shoulder, trembling silently.

Samuel gently patted her back, and his own eyes finally welled up with tears that he had been holding back for so long.

Link stood motionless in front of the plaintiff's seat.

After a moment, he lowered his hand, picked up the glass of water that had gone cold from the table, and took a sip.

He didn't celebrate, he didn't smile.

The devil's advocate never celebrates in court; he only smiles in front of his clients.

But the moment he lowered his hand, he felt a slight, subtle tremor in his fingertips.

That was tension, that was excitement.

This is because he was very successful in his first court appearance!

The judge's gavel fell. The case was closed.

The bailiffs began walking down the aisle toward the defendant's dock.

DeSean Washington sat in the dock with his hands hanging at his sides, his fingers twitching slightly.

His lawyer was frantically tidying up documents and whispering something to him, but DeShawn didn't hear a word he said.

His eyes were fixed on the other side:

Staring at Ella, staring at Link.

He stared at the person who ruined his life, the person who betrayed his family.

Then he heard a metallic scraping sound coming from the waist of the bailiff on his left.

He turned his head slightly.

The bailiff on the left—

A slender white male is adjusting the holster on his waist.

The safety lock on the sidearm had been accidentally rubbed open, and the handle was tilted outwards, pointing directly at him.

He could pull out the gun right under everyone's noses if he just reached out.

The thought flashed through his mind, and his body moved at the same time.

The bailiffs were a beat too slow in reacting...

DeShawn was a former gang leader, and his exposure to alcohol and drugs had created muscle memory.

He twisted his body abruptly, grabbed the bailiff's wrist with his left hand and twisted it outwards, while simultaneously drawing his pistol from its holster with his right hand.

The safety was off, and his finger was already on the trigger.

"Go to hell—"

His roar echoed throughout the courtroom the moment the gun was raised.

The audience erupted in chaos!

Someone in the back row screamed, someone fell to the ground, and someone stood up from their seat and rushed out.

Margaret was pushed against the wall by the crowd, and Samuel struggled to shield Ella and Malcolm behind him.

Daniel jumped up from his seat, but the distance was too great, with four rows of seats and two walls of people between him; it was impossible for him to make it in time.

DeShawn pointed his gun at Link.

His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was contorted in a deathly rage.

He didn't need to aim; at a distance of less than six meters, he only needed to pull the trigger to kill his enemy right there in the lawyer's seat.

"boom--"

"boom--"

A shot rang out.

But not one shot, but two shots.

The first shot rang out from DeShawn's gun, the bullet grazing Link's left shoulder and shattering the jury box partition behind him.

Wood chips flew everywhere, and someone let out a second scream.

The second gunshot followed immediately, so close that it was almost indistinguishable to the human ear!

The shot came from the back row of the gallery.

The ATF federal agent who had been sitting quietly in the corner had stood up.

No one noticed when he drew his gun.

His movements were so fast that while the surrounding crowd was still instinctively shrinking back in shock from the first gunshot, he had already completed the entire process from identifying the threat to aiming and firing.

One shot, right in the chest cavity.

Marksmanship doesn't lie. It's an instinct honed through countless tactical training sessions.

DeShawn's body felt as if it had been shoved hard from the front by an invisible hand.

He staggered and looked down at the growing dark circular spot on his chest.

His rage turned into confusion, and then into fear.

Then his knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the bars of the defendant's dock like a bag of sand, then slid down and crashed onto the floor, face up.

Chaos erupted in the courtroom.

Some people were shouting for an ambulance, some were yelling to lie down, some were crying, and some were being pushed and shoved toward the exit.

The bailiffs rushed toward the defendant's dock from several directions and kicked away the still-smoking pistol.

A bailiff in a dark blue uniform squatted down next to DeSean, tore open his shirt, and tried to stop the bleeding and then perform CPR, but stopped after pressing once.

He looked down at the blood on his palm, then looked up and shook his head toward the judge's bench.

He was shot through the left atrium.

Twenty seconds, thirty seconds at most.

Federal agents stepped forward, handing their identification and service weapon to the arriving U.S. Marshals officer, and began undergoing standard law enforcement scrutiny.

He didn't look at DeShawn lying on the ground, but merely nodded slightly as he passed Link.

That was arranged by Klaus beforehand.

Link stood still, his hands hanging down.

He glanced down at the scorch mark on his left shoulder, where a bullet had grazed his suit jacket, then looked down at DeShawn on the ground.

He walked over, his steps steady, and slowly knelt down beside DeShawn.

DeShawn's eyes were still open, his pupils were beginning to dilate, but he still had a last shred of consciousness.

His lips moved slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but only muffled bubbling sounds came from his throat.

Link lowered his head and whispered in his ear in a voice only the two of them could hear:

"You still stepped into such an obvious trap."

It seems that the knowledge that a bailiff's first shot is a blank still needs to be taught by someone.

Well then, learn your lesson and see you in the next life, DeShawn.

May you go to hell.