The prosecuting attorney was agitated. Angry. Who was this teenager to make a fool of him? He was Alfred Morningside! A style icon some said. A top-notch prosecutor, destined for amazing things. Plus, his shoes! Always buffed for court. “What happened after Betsy murdered your father?”

“Betsy did not murder my father.” Johnny paused and stared right at the jury. “I did.”

Betsy shook her head at him as her eyes welled with tears.

“No!” Alfred shouted at him, his pin-striped suit straining. “You didn’t. Betsy did. You stood by and let it happen. You planned it together.”

“No,” Johnny said. “I killed him. My prints are on the knife.”

The prosecutor seethed. “That’s because you lived at the house. The knife came from the kitchen. Her prints are on the knife, too. Betsy herself even told the police that she did it.” For effect the prosecutor turned and pointed a finger at Betsy. Oh, how he loved to point! “That she was the guilty one.”

“I told the police I did it,” Johnny said. “She lied to protect me, but I’m telling the truth.”

Chaos again.

“Your Honor,” the prosecutor said, sweating, his perfectly coiffed hair coming loose from his hair gel, “Johnny did not wield the knife, Betsy did. He’s trying to put doubt in the jurors’ minds. He’s deliberately trying to turn all evidence over to cause confusion and a mistrial, which will serve his agenda. He’s trying to get them both off! This is an attack on the court and our system of government and justice itself and the United States of America and our Constitution!” he pontificated, wielding his pointer finger in the air like a pinwheel.

The judge told him to sit down now and yelled for “order in the court!”

Amidst the raised voices and the astonishment from everyone in the courtroom, Johnny winked, ever so slightly, at his beloved Betsy. She saw it through the tears streaming from her eyes.

* * *

Betsy was on the stand the next day. She was grilled and drilled by the prosecutor.

“What happened the day that Peter Kaminsky was killed?” Alfred was wearing a different pin-striped suit and had a crisply ironed purple handkerchief in his pocket. He had practiced in front of his mirror again the night before to polish his image and was satisfied with his performance. Drama classes had truly helped him over the years. Maybe he should have been on the stage as a Broadway actor? But no. He liked to win, at all costs.

“I ran to Johnny’s house after work.” She twisted her hands in her lap, in the same blue suit as the day before.

“Why?” said the prosecutor, but he knew. He’d seen the police reports.

“Because I . . .” Betsy stopped, swallowed hard. She knew no one would believe her, but she had to say it. “Because I knew that Peter was going to kill Johnny.”