Stepbrother Soldier: A Forbidden Military Romance Novel (19 page)

“First off, you ain’t gonna lose, since my brother has been a grade-A
shit-licker since the day he was born, and what goes around comes around. I
know that as much as I know my hair is red. You stick on this earth long as I
have, you learn that. If he
don’t
get it now, he’ll
get it later.

And second off, even if you did, that don’t change a damn thing about
who you are. No court gonna go back in time and change what happened, so you
just gotta know you’re right, even if no one else thinks so.

Honey, this is the thing you don’t seem to be gettin’. You ain’t
different ‘cause of what happened. You’re better. And you ain’t gonna be
different no matter what happens in that courtroom, whether it goes your way or
it don’t. The minute you start lettin’ other people tell you who you are, how
good you are, what you can do…well, that’s the minute you stop bein’ you and
start bein’ someone else. Flip ‘em the bird. Other people gonna think their
thoughts, don’t let ‘em start thinkin’ your thoughts for you.”

Jane was staring at me as though she was trying to give me a shot of
courage, an immunization against the pressure and stress and fear. And it was
working. Her weathered, age-worn face, ringed round by her flaming red hair,
those piercing eyes…Jane was the exactly sort of woman I wanted to be. And she
was right. It was natural for me to start caving, doubting myself, doubting
everything. But just because it was natural didn’t mean I’d have to let it
happen without a fight.

I stood up, straightening out my wrinkled clothes, feeling those same
embers burning inside me that had inspired me to start this epic quest for
justice in the first place. Jane stood up beside me, reached out and grabbed my
hand.

“We’re gonna take ‘em down,” she said.

I nodded. Of course we were.

22

Here’s another thing about the American justice system: trials are
boring, and long. A day of nit-picking, a day of building a case. Hours with
your ass going numb as you sit on a wooden bench, breathing the stilted air,
wondering when – if ever – it’d be your turn to talk.

That first day of trial, I was all aflutter, less with fear and more
with anticipation. Having Jane on my side was a major boon, and it made me
confident, ready to tell my story and defend myself from whatever the Admiral’s
lawyers could throw at me.

Since I had not actually been the one to press charges, and it was a
case of the People vs. Admiral Walsh, I sat a cordoned-off section of the
general public reserved for those who’d be providing testimony. Ashton and Jane
sat on either side of me. It didn’t give me a great view of the aisle where the
Admiral would march his way to – I hoped – his comeuppance.

I craned my neck, wanting to stand up to see better, as the doors
swung open. I stayed seated only out of a sense of respect for the legal
process; I thought it would be rather uncouth of me, and possibly damage my
ability to sway the jury, to draw attention to myself.

My breath caught in my throat when I finally got a peek of him. Tall
and broad, in his Navy uniform, medals gleaming, the Admiral looked as proud
and sure as ever. My blood boiled. It was my first time seeing him since he’d
attacked me. I’d imagined this moment so many times (though, in the past, my
fantasies had included him in a full orange jumpsuit and handcuffs).

He didn’t see me. He didn’t look for me. He didn’t look at anyone, or
anything, kept his eyes straight ahead. As though he didn’t have something to
answer for. As if this whole thing was a sham. As though…

as though he were angry to even have to deal with such a nuisance.

Or, at least, that’s what I saw, though admittedly I had my own biases
and knew I was projecting at least
some
of
that onto him.

As he and his legal team took their places at the defense stand, and
the lawyers who would be representing the other women, myself, and the American
people as a whole took their place opposite, the trial began in earnest.

Like I said – a lot of it was boring. Not for me, per say, since I was
already heavily invested in everything going on, but for the common person I
imagine it held a lot less titillation than you might imagine.

But things started to get very, very interesting when the prosecution
began to present their evidence. The struggle between the FBI and the U.S. Navy
over the evidence and files on the seven uniformed women who had brought claims
against the Admiral had been long, and much publicized, but the military must
have known that they were losing ground the more they fought against
transparency. What, after all, were they hiding, if they were so vehemently
against making those files public?

Well, it quickly became apparent that they were
hiding a lot.

A veritable fuck ton, if you’ll pardon my
language.

When it came down to it, the Navy had managed to bury scads of
evidence against the general – from fingernail scrapings to semen to blood to
physical evidence of his vicious attacks on the once-young and beautiful ladies
who had been lured into his office on false pretenses.

There were records of the struggles the women dealt with to even have
their stories heard in the first place; document after document revealed that
they met resistance at every level, with the officials they should have trusted
to fight for them insisting, sometimes threatening, that the women shut up and
forget about it.

Some of them did, and their official records maintained by the Navy
held that “no charges were formally filed”; meaning, in short, that the girls
were scared off from ever even getting to military court.

Those who did get there…well, we know what
happened at those trials.

Nothing much.

As for the first civilian the Admiral had allegedly attacked, who had
come forward to the police but, when told she would have to settle the matter
in military court, dropped the charges, the prosecution had discovered her rape
kit, which had sat, untested and ignored, for twenty years in the closet of an
evidence room in Dover, Maryland.

The mood in the courtroom grew increasingly agitated as reams of
documents and evidence were distributed to the judge and jury; no one could
have predicted just how bad it would all look once you had it all out in the
open, clear as day.

No wonder the military had been so loathe to give
it up, under the pretense of national security.

It was a national security issue, alright…who could feel safe knowing
that a man accused of so much, who’d hurt so many, would not only be protected
but promoted by the very agency responsible for keeping evil away from
America’s shores?

By the time the second day wound down, the nation was in a state of
shock. Live reporting, as well as our old friend social media, meant that every
moment of the trial, every spectacular, scandalous new tidbit, was streaming
through the smartphones, TVs, and computers of Americans from coast to coast.

And I hadn’t even testified yet.

From the looks of things, they wouldn’t even need
me to.

But I wanted to.

Mostly, because I wanted that smug bastard to have to look me right in
the face while I told the whole world what he’d done and exactly who he was.

23

The third day of the trial, my chance came. So, though, did Ashton’s.
I have to admit; I’d been pretty selfish when it came to my anxieties in those
days leading up to the trial. But I only needed to look at Ashton’s face that
morning as we filed into court to know that he was having second thoughts about
standing up before his father and testifying.

“You don’t have to do this,” I’d whispered to him
as we took our seats, his face pale and drawn.

“Yes, I do,” he’d whispered back.

He was scheduled to testify before me. As he took the stand and said
the oath, my heart yearned to stand beside him. It had been a long, long time
since we’d even really talked, never mind been able to find comfort in each
other’s arms. And we needed it more than ever now.

“Do you swear to tell the whole truth and nothing
but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do,” Ashton said.

“Mr. Walsh, your father, Admiral Joe Walsh, stands accused of heinous
acts against both your stepsister, Christy Starling, and seven other women. Do
you believe your father to be capable of such acts?”

There was a long pause. Panic, then sadness, fell
over Ashton’s face.

“I do. And more,” he said.

“More? Please, elaborate.”

“He’s a monster,” Ashton said. “I watched him torture my mother for
half my life. She was in and out of hospitals for the things he did to her. I
never spoke up about it before. I was only a child. It’s not…it’s hard, for a
son to speak out against his father. But I regret, every day, that I never did.
He should not have been able to walk these streets all these years. No one has
been safe.”

Throughout the rest of his testimony, Ashton’s eyes were lowered, not
meeting the Admiral’s eyes. When it was all said and done and he’d been
cross-examined by the prosecution, he came away as clean as could be expected.
Actually, he shined. He was untouchable. His military background, his stellar
record, made him the perfect person to speak against the Admiral.

And then it was my turn.

As I stood, shaking, I closed my eyes, knowing that when I opened them
again I’d be face-to-face with the man who’d made my world come crumbling down.
Would I keep crumbling? Would it break me in two, having to see those eyes
looking back at me? When could I finally rest?

Soon,
I remembered.

I kept my eyes closed as I walked up the aisle, not even caring if I
stumbled or banged into anything. I could feel all the eyes in the courtroom on
me, even with my own eyes closed. I allowed the prosecution to help guide me to
the witness stand. I stood, still as a statue, listening to the hushed murmurs
of the crowd, a grumbling that seemed to be the perfect soundtrack to my own
heart as it bounced recklessly in my chest.

And then I couldn’t keep them closed anymore. Fluttering open, my
pupils landed directly on their target. Our eyes locked. He was steely, cold, a
mask of hatred. I suddenly visualized myself punching that mask, shattering it,
revealing the hideous, worm-infested man inside, breaking his cold visage into
a million pieces so the whole world could do nothing but gawk and point, cover
their children’s eyes, scream in shock and horror at what had been living all
that time under the guise of a respected war hero.

He was going down, alright. There might not be a heaven, and there
might not be a hell, but if it took until my last breath, I would make sure
that Admiral Joe Walsh suffered for everything he’d taken from me, from every
woman he’d used his power to ruin. For my mother. For Ashton. For me.

“Do you swear to tell the whole truth and nothing
but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do.”

“Ms. Starling, you’ve claimed that Admiral Walsh attempted to rape you
in your home. Is he here today?”

“Of course,” I said, well aware that this was all
part of the usual court rigmarole.

“Can you point him out for the jury?”

I held up my hand, finger pointed straight
forward, not a single tremor in my movement.

“He’s right there,” I said, our eyes still locked, as though this war
would be decided by a staring contest.

“And what relation is Admiral Walsh to you?”

“He’s my stepfather. He married my mother,” I said, lowering my arm,
again not breaking contact or shaking or belying any of the intense hatred
burning in my gut.

“And on October 14
^th
, 2014, Admiral Walsh attempted to
pursue unwanted sexual relations with you, correct?”

“Yes. He tried to rape me. In our home. In my mother’s home. On her
couch,” I said, finally breaking my eye contact with him. He wasn’t even
important anymore. Nothing he could say or do from this point on would change
the fact that I’d finally gotten to say it, in front of a judge and jury.
Saying it in interviews, at rallies, was one thing. This was different. This
was on the record, forever, and it could change everything.

I turned to the jury, their interested faces
gazing back at me.

“Admiral Joe Walsh attacked me in my home, and would have raped me if
my stepbrother hadn’t stopped him.”

Even if we lost the trial, even if he walked free, one thing happened
then that almost made it all worthwhile. It was minute, almost invisible,
barely perceptible. A man in the middle of the jury box, who was looking at me
intently, leaning forward, brow furrowed, nodded. Just ever so slightly. Just
enough to tell me that someone in that courtroom was listening, and was willing
to believe me. That was all I needed.

That slight nod.

In all, the trial took six days. Six days of testimony and
cross-examination, of presenting evidence, explaining military judicial
policies, federal laws. Six days of interminable, endless speeches. And then a
day of deliberation.

A long, long, long day of deliberation.

I could barely contain myself as I sat in the audience on the day the
jury filed back into court, one after another, each poker-faced and solemn. The
crowd fidgeted and murmured en masse, feeding on the tension.

Thumbs were at the ready to see who could be the first to tweet or
blog about the verdict. Ashton and Jane sat at my side, still as statues, as
was I. There were no more butterflies in my stomach, though the perpetual
sickness I’d been feeling hadn’t calmed down in the slightest. If anything, it
was worse.

The judge called the court to order.

“Ladies and gentleman of the jury, have you
reached a verdict?”

The jury foreman rose, hands folded before him.

“We have, your honor. The jury finds the
defendant to be guilty.”

There was an audible sigh in the courtroom as those who were poised
with their thumbs on their phone’s keyboards tapped out those six little
letters and hit “send.” The sigh turned into a dull roar as the gallery came to
life, some people even applauding their approval of the verdict.

As for me, I was showered with hands: patting my shoulders, my hands,
my head, every inch of me seemingly covered by supportive touches from Ashton,
from Jane, from people sitting behind me and in front of me.

The prosecution turned around, beamed at me. I was flushed,
overheated, my mouth hanging open, tears prickling in my eyes. The judge called
for order over the din, but to no avail. In a different circumstance, you could
say that the crowd was going wild. In this case, the crowd was going rather
mild, but in the solemnity of a courtroom it seemed like a total uproar.

It was over.
It was all finally, finally over.

Except it wasn’t – not really. There was sentencing, first off. I
couldn’t tell you what the immediate sentencing was: there was prison time, and
reparations to be made to the victims, myself included.

But, I knew, this verdict wasn’t just about me and the Admiral. It was
going to shake the whole system, from the highest officer to the lowest
private. Task forces would be commissioned, bills drafted, demands for
transparency at the highest levels streaming from every which way.

For some people, this was just the beginning.

But for me, and for Ashton, at last, it was over.