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Cherish

By AJ Avila

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This would be one of the greatest moments of her life, the moment that would lead to everything she desired.

Absolute silence reigned in the courtroom. Candice Boulanger, Assistant District Attorney for the county of Sacramento, smoothed her navy blue skirt and, exuding confidence, rose from her chair, pulling her matching jacket taut. A white silk blouse with a large bow hanging at the neckline completed the outfit. Her attire, along with her striking red bouffant hair, gave her the patriotic colors she hoped to subliminally display not only for the jury but for everybody.

Her co-counsel, Margo McIntire, swept a lock of straight brown hair behind her ear and flashed her a smile. Candice acknowledged the gesture with a nod, and, high heels clicking on the floor, strolled into the well of the courtroom, the open space between the counsels' tables and the judge's bench. Television cameras, following her movement, beamed her image live coast to coast. She glanced at the defendant, Mr. Bogart Borden Falcon, commonly known as B.B. Falcon. His square cut jaw, sandy blonde hair, and mostly his incredible home run record had made him baseball's latest Golden Boy.

The fact that Falcon had been accused of rape by a number of women had not diminished his stratospheric status. Not even the savagely beaten body of a fourteen-year-old girl, Miss Paula Larkin, found in his bedroom, had done much to tarnish it, at least not among his die-hard fans. Throughout the trial Candice had known that, despite the evidence, getting a murder conviction was going to be an uphill battle. Falcon was not only defended by his attorney; on the popular ZealSpiel social site, his fans had defended him too.

But in one swift stroke the tide had turned. Accusations arose that Falcon had paid somebody to drug pertinent members of opposing teams before game time. Nothing had been proven and no charges had been filed, but the rumor posted all over ZealSpiel was sufficient to knock this superstar off his pedestal. Rape a few women? Murder a child? So long as you could consistently hit a ball out of a park, nobody seemed to care a great deal—that is, until you started messing with America's Favorite Pastime.

Amazing how things could go from good to bad or from bad to good in a single instant.

Falcon glared at her. Candice merely swiveled on her heel and approached the eight women and four men who would decide his fate. Of course when the rumor about drugging other players had broken, the jury had immediately been sequestered, but it was too late. The damage, fortunately, had been done. Gossip was one genie that would never go back into its bottle. The defense counsel, seeing the writing on the wall, had tried for a plea bargain which she had turned down flat. She would get her guilty verdict. The evidence was overwhelming. But now she would get that verdict with momentous approval from a grateful public.

This closing argument had been practiced for hours, down to the hand gestures. It was of the utmost importance that it be perfect not only for the courtroom but for the TV audience. Already the scuttlebutt around the internet was that she should run for office, maybe in the next senatorial race, maybe the gubernatorial. Senator Boulanger. Governor Boulanger. Either had a nice ring to it. The nobody from the small mountain town of San Cyprian was about to make a big splash politically.

Granted, this closing argument was merely a baby step in that direction, but it was a crucial one. This speech—now—was her big chance to make a definite impression on the American public.

Candice paused before beginning, partly for dramatic effect and partly because she had promised herself she would savor this moment. The solitary sound was a stifled cough from the gallery. In her mind's eye, she could almost see the trial spectators and TV viewers lean forward to catch her every word. She folded her hands gently, drew in a breath, opened her mouth to speak . . . and got slammed with a thunderbolt of pain.

She gasped. Agony like a rope around her chest squeezed tighter and tighter. The rehearsed gestures were ruined by a hand clasped to her sternum. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her breath panted as if she had run for miles.
Oh dear God! she thought. Not now!

The doctor had warned her to slow down, had said the pressure of this trial was setting her up for a heart attack. Because so much was at stake in her career, she'd forced herself to keep going anyway.

Why did it have to happen at that precise moment?

Struggling to stay on her feet, she grabbed the rail of the jury box. But her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the floor.

Now it was everybody else in the courtroom who was gasping.

A woman screamed "Call 911!"

Within seconds Margo's concerned face hovered over hers. "Candice, you all right?"

Somewhere in the back of her mind Candice heard, above the uproar, the judge ordering the TV cameras turned off. She gazed up into Margo's brown eyes before her own slipped shut and she sank into darkness—
—for a split second. Surprisingly, the pain cut off completely.
What a relief. "I'm okay," Candice griped, irritated that not only was her treasured moment gone but she'd just made an idiot of herself on national television.

She pulled herself up. Eyes widened at the impossibility of what she saw.

The courtroom was empty.

The pain was gone, but so was everybody else.

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