From the front row, I watched the bailiffs bring Noah and Lily to the defendant’s table. The cameras were gone. So were the stylists, rented dresses and publicists.
Noah’s prison jumpsuit hung loose from his shoulders. He kept turning toward me until his attorney told him to face the judge. I met his eyes once, then opened the evidence summary on my lap.
Lily had bitten her nails to the quick. Her knee bounced under the table while she whispered to herself.
My watch sat in a sealed evidence bag on the prosecution table.
My legal team projected the watch timeline onto a screen for the jury. The red line showed my heart rate falling from the first alert to the point when the medical team reached me.
Then they played the audio.
*“Keep rolling. Don’t you dare cut the cameras.”*
A juror
