"Cien, Cien!"

Cien snapped to the persistent, gentle prodding of Sally's voice. It was a worried sound that seeped into his still hazy consciousness. He was there yet absent. His mind was a mush and the pain in his right arm didn't even stand much.

Sally's face swam into focus, her brow furrowed with concern. "Cien, you with me?" she asked softly, her hand hovering near his bandaged arm but not quite touching.

He nodded slowly. "Yeah," his voice rasped, the words scraping against his dry throat. "Just...processing."

Processing was an understatement. The last coherent memory was a blur of anger, a sharp, tearing sound, and then blinding pain. Now, the damp environment of the Mr. Martin's bedroom had been traded for the sterile, formal atmosphere of a courtroom. The transition felt abrupt, dreamlike though one whole day had passed, yet the aches in his body were brutally real.

He hadn't still registered the past few hours. Much to his dismay it was blurry, not that he couldn't point it out if he wanted to, but he chose to ignore it.

Ms. Albright was currently addressing the judge, a stern-faced man perched high on his elevated bench, his gaze sweeping over the courtroom with an air of detached authority.

But it wasn't just the defendant who commanded attention. Seated in the witness box, his usual steely gaze narrowed with barely concealed anger, was Detective Cien Morris. And directly across from him, at the defence table, stood the reason for the electric tension in the room: Carlos Morris, Cien's estranged brother.

Cien's jaw was clenched so tight a muscle twitched in his cheek. He'd seen the defence roster before the session, his own name printed starkly beneath "Witness for the Prosecution." But seeing Carlos here, on this side, representing him, the man who had tried to end his life just weeks ago... it felt like a betrayal that went deeper than any estrangement. Years of unspoken resentments, of paths diverging and hardening, culminated in this bizarre, public confrontation.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," her voice resonated, clear and strong, cutting through the tension. "We are here today not merely to understand an act of violence, but to unveil a chilling truth. We are here to prove that Mr. Arthur Martin, sitting right there," she indicated a gaunt man with haunted eyes, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, "attempted to murder Detective Cien Morris."

"We will demonstrate beyond a reasonable doubt that on the night of July 12th, Mr. Martin lunged at Detective Morris with a concealed blade, aiming for his heart. Only the swift and courageous intervention of Officer Fannigan prevented a tragedy." Ms. Albright paused for effect, letting the gravity of her words sink in. "But this is not just about a sudden outburst of aggression. This act was steeped in a motive so dark, so deeply rooted in the past, that it compels us to look beyond the immediate crime."

She swivelled, her gaze laser-focused on Mr. Martin. "We will also prove, conclusively, that Mr. Arthur Martin is the father of Eleanor Vance."

The woman who, five years ago, had been sentenced to death for the unspeakable crime of killing ten innocent children. The case that had defined Detective Cien Morris's career, a case that had left an indelible scar on the city.

"Detective Morris was instrumental in bringing Eleanor Vance to justice. He meticulously gathered the evidence, he tirelessly pursued the truth. And now, years later, the father of that convicted killer attempted to exact his twisted revenge."

Ms. Albright called her first witness: Officer Fannigan. A young officer, still bearing the fresh-faced look of someone not entirely hardened by the job, Fannigan recounted the events of that July night with nervous clarity.

"We were at Mr. Martin's home, investigating the case he had reported to us," Fannigan testified. "Detective Morris was questioning Mr. Martin. But the light suddenly went off. Then Mr. Martin started telling some fantasy story and before we could register Mr. Martin made a move. It was fast. He lunged forward, his hand reaching into his jacket."

"And what did you see, Officer?" Ms. Albright prompted gently.

"I saw the glint of metal. A letter opener. He was aiming... he was aiming right at Detective Morris's chest." Fannigan's voice tightened. "He had almost pushed Morris to the ground but I reacted instinctively. I pushed Detective Morris out of the way, just as Mr. Martin's hand came up. The letter opener... it grazed Detective Morris's arm instead."

Carlos Morris rose for his cross-examination. His demeanour was calm, almost languid, a stark contrast to Ms. Albright's intensity. He possessed a different kind of power, one that relied on subtlety and the art of insinuation.

"Officer Fannigan," Carlos began, his voice smooth and conversational, "you said Mr. Martin 'lunged.' Could it not have been a stumble? The room was slippery, right?"

"Yes, sir. But it was a deliberate movement. An aggressive one."

"And you saw a 'glint of metal.' Are you absolutely certain it was a letter opener? Could it not have been a metallic object, perhaps a key chain, that caught the light?"

"I saw the opener, sir. I'm sure of it."

Carlos continued, his line of questioning aimed at creating slivers of doubt. He probed Fannigan's vantage point, the lighting conditions, the speed of the events. He expertly chipped away at the edges of Fannigan's certainty, but the core of his testimony remained intact.

Then came the moment the courtroom had been subconsciously bracing for. Ms. Albright approached the bench, her posture radiating purpose. "Your Honor," she announced, her voice ringing with conviction, "the prosecution would now like to present evidence directly linking the defendant, Mr. Arthur Martin, to Eleanor Vance."

Ms. Albright presented birth certificates, school records, and an old photograph – a faded image of a young Eleanor Vance standing beside a man whose features, though younger, were undeniably those of Arthur Martin.

Ms. Albright turned to Mr. Martin, "Mr. Martin, isn't it true that Eleanor Vance was your daughter?"

Mr. Martin remained silent, his eyes fixed on the floor. The silence itself was an admission.

Carlos, recovering swiftly, launched into a passionate defence. "The prosecution is attempting to paint Mr. Martin as a monster by association," he argued, his voice rising in indignation. "They are exploiting the tragic memory of the Vance case to prejudice the jury. What does the fact that Mr. Martin is Eleanor Vance's father have to do with the alleged assault on Detective Morris? Are we now punishing people for the sins of their children?"

He turned to the jury, his expression earnest. "There is no concrete evidence that Mr. Martin intended to kill Detective Morris. Officer Fannigan's testimony, while well-intentioned, is based on a fleeting observation in a chaotic situation. Is it not plausible that Mr. Martin, distraught by the years of grief and the relentless scrutiny he has faced because of his daughter's actions, simply lashed out in anger? Anger, not murderous intent."

Ms. Albright, however, had anticipated this line of defence. She called her next witness: Mrs. Evelyn Reed, a former neighbour of the Vance family. Mrs. Reed, her voice trembling slightly, recounted instances of Arthur Martin's volatile temper and his unwavering belief in his daughter's innocence, even after her conviction.

"He used to say," Mrs. Reed testified, her gaze fixed on a point in the distance, "that the police had framed Eleanor. That Detective Morris had twisted the evidence. He held onto that belief, fiercely. He often spoke of revenge, his volatile temper. But I never thought..."

Ms. Albright rested her case momentarily, a faint smile playing on her lips. Carlos rose, adjusting his tie. "Mrs. Reed," he began, his voice smooth but edged with scepticism. "You mentioned Mr. Martin's... 'volatile temper.' Could you give us specific examples? When did you witness these outbursts?"

He leaned forward, his voice smooth but laced with steel. "Mrs. Reed," he began, his eyes narrowed slightly, "you mentioned these... pronouncements of Mr. Martin's occurred some time ago, is that correct? Years, in fact?"

Mrs. Reed nodded slowly.

Carlos paused, letting his words hang in the air. "Did Mr. Martin ever threaten anyone directly, Mrs. Reed? Or is this simply your interpretation of a grieving father's distress? Wouldn't you agree that a father would naturally believe in his daughter's innocence? Is it responsible to twist a parent's heartache into some revenge murder plot?"

Ms. Albright was on her feet before he could finish. "Objection, Your Honor! Counsel is badgering the witness and attempting to introduce speculation about her cognitive abilities without any evidentiary basis."

"Objection sustained."

"Thank you, your honour." Ms. Albright shifted her focus, "I would like to present two crucial pieces of information that shed light on Mr. Martin's motivations and state of mind. This is the clinical diagnosis report for Mr. Arthur Martin, dated six months prior to this incident. It clearly states that Mr. Martin was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

Ms. Albright didn't leave the question hanging for long. "The diagnosis, Your Honor, stems directly from the aftermath of his daughter, Eleanor Martin's, death penalty conviction. A conviction, I might add, that was secured by the tireless work of my client, Mr. Cien Morris. The psychiatrist even mentioned his murderous intent but this was kept confidential for the sake of patient safety."

The pieces slammed into place, forming a horrifying picture. Mr. Martin's haunted eyes, his barely contained words, his accusations – it all made a warped, terrifying sense. He hadn't been accusing Cien of a new crime; he was revisiting an old wound, seeking vengeance for his daughter's fate.

"Your Honor," Ms. Albright's voice was now laced with steel, "it is evident that Mr. Martin concocted this entire scenario. He lured my client, Mr. Morris, under false pretences. He initiated the physical altercation, resulting in serious injury to Mr. Morris. And, crucially, he knowingly and maliciously made false police complaints, with the pretext of a lone old man staying alone. He knew the law would always support such scenarios, luring Detective Morris inside. He also orchestrated the load-shedding giving him ample amount of time to attack Cien in an attempt to kill him."

The judge leaned forward, his expression unreadable. He addressed Mr. Martin directly, his voice firm and devoid of emotion. "Mr. Carlos, do you have any response to the evidence presented by the defence?"

Carlo's composure finally cracked. His face flushed; his hands clenched into fists. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but no words came out. He looked from the judge to Cien, a flicker of something – regret? Hatred? – in his eyes.

"No, your honour." Then, he simply closed his mouth, his jaw tight.

The foreman rose, "In the matter of the State versus Arthur Martin," he announced, his voice clear and steady, "on the charge of attempted murder in the first degree, filing false report... we, the jury, find the defendant... guilty."

_________