Episode 140
Mr. Benson looked back at Sasha. Sasha was looking up at the magistrate’s pallid face. Sir Bradshaw now wore an openly sickened expression.
Despite the declaration of recess, not a single person rose from their seat. Even the young prosecutor stared in bewilderment at the magistrate’s sudden change in attitude, as if finding it strange.
Unable to stand it any longer, the court clerk was just about to announce the recess once more, as if to confirm it.
This time, there came a knock at the door. When no one answered, the person seemed not to mind and knocked twice more. Three courteous knocks in total.
“Court is in session!”
“My apologies. I come from the royal court.”
When the court clerk shouted with an irritated look, a soft young man’s voice sounded from beyond the door.
The door opened, and a man in a black legal robe entered. As soon as he stepped inside, he bowed respectfully to Sir Bradshaw.
“My greetings to Judge Bradshaw. I am William Cleveland, legal secretary to the Crown.”
The man looked straight at the magistrate’s bloodless face and continued in an utterly composed tone.
“I sincerely apologize for interrupting while court is in session, but as you are aware, this case involves grave charges and is further entangled with the ecclesiastical court, making it not merely complex but exceedingly serious. Accordingly, Her Majesty is taking a particularly solemn interest in this matter.”
The man spoke as he looked directly at Sasha, who was seated in the dock, his face expressionless. Sir Bradshaw, whose face had gone as white as a sheet, soon looked at the young legal secretary with an expression of relief, as though nothing had happened. The judge had now returned to his former stiff expression, chin raised.
“Continue.”
“Therefore, may I have your permission to observe for a while?”
The young secretary spoke with the utmost politeness, but in truth, if one looked at the substance of it, it was merely a notice wearing the thin shell of a request. Sir Bradshaw’s eyebrows twitched as if irritation were rising in him again at the young secretary’s blatant face, but in the end, unable to do otherwise, he answered, “Permission granted.”
However, even after the judge’s permission had been given, the secretary did not immediately head to the gallery. Instead, he stood there and turned around.
“And…”
Following the secretary, everyone in the courtroom looked toward the place his gaze had turned. It was the door he had just opened and entered through. The door was still open, and a certain man in a suit stood there, looking haggard.
The moment Sasha saw him, her eyes widened in disbelief. The court guards standing on either side of the door were looking this way with troubled expressions, as if wondering whether or not they should let in the man who had suddenly appeared after the secretary.
Was he some secretary’s assistant? No, if that were the case, he too would be someone who came and went from the palace, yet the state he was in was far too…
“Your Honorable Lordship. I am Turner, Doyle Turner. I am the attorney and executor of the late Lady Rosalyn Grayson.”
His swollen face, which looked to anyone as though he had been beaten savagely by someone, was covered here and there in dark blue bruises. It was a shocking sight in every respect.
The two or so people sitting in the gallery—men who were clearly agents sent by the ducal house—began whispering among themselves in obvious panic the moment they saw Mr. Turner.
“The core of this case lies in impersonation and the unlawful appropriation of an inheritance. I believe proceeding with the trial without the attendance of a key witness related to that issue could leave serious doubts as to the legitimacy and fairness of the verdict.”
As though he knew what Sir Bradshaw would say, the secretary, who had just been about to sit in one of the gallery seats, opened his mouth and spoke clearly. In essence, he was saying that he had accompanied and brought him in for that very reason, and that he should be allowed to attend even now. At first glance, he spoke with an indifferent face, as if keeping his distance, but that was the nuance.
Then Mr. Turner, as though he had been waiting, looked at Sir Bradshaw and spoke politely.
“…Your Honorable Lordship. I ask that you permit me to appear as a witness.”
At this point, anyone who was not a fool would know. They would know who stood behind that seemingly insignificant defendant.
Sir Bradshaw unconsciously rolled his lower lip inward and hurriedly wet it with saliva. It was an involuntary expression of anxiety. The complexion of the judge, who had intended to deal with this case summarily at his own level one way or another, whether because of the ducal house’s under-the-table money or some unavoidable secret circumstance they held over him, began to twist in a number of ways worth watching.
Was the queen openly taking that woman’s side? Even if one were to be exceedingly generous and say it was a remarkable coincidence that the secretary had encountered the attorney and brought him in, look at that state. That ominous appearance, bruised all over as if he had been beaten to within an inch of being reduced to a bloody pulp.
…He truly did not want to get involved. Like all those who had an appropriate amount of dirt behind them, Sir Bradshaw too had always lived by drawing back at decisive moments, and he could not hide his sense of being cornered.
Soon, the magistrate opened his mouth.
“…How can we confirm that this man is truly an attorney?”
As though he had been waiting, Secretary Cleveland answered.
“We compared him against the roll of barristers at Lincoln’s Inn. The verification has already been completed, so you may be at ease.”
“…”
Whether Sir Bradshaw remained silent or not, the secretary continued without concern.
“Of course, accepting a witness is within Your Honor’s authority. However, as Her Majesty considers the charges in this case to be grave…”
“…The attorney is accepted as a witness.”
Sir Bradshaw said it almost as though chewing the words and spitting them out, glaring at Mr. Turner.
“Come to the witness stand.”
With a rigid face, Mr. Turner began walking toward the witness stand. Even from a distance his appearance had been unusual, but the closer he came, the more clearly the bruises all over his face could be seen. Sasha heard the attorney seated beside her, Mr. Benson, let out a groan of shock.
Sasha looked at the attorney approaching them with a coldly hardened face. He was an attorney she had seen every other week, and at least once a month without fail. That attorney who, every time he saw Sasha, would adopt an attitude so neutral it bordered on infuriating and seemed to enjoy throwing her mood into the mud, had become such a sight.
For an instant, Mr. Turner’s eyes met Sasha’s. But Mr. Turner naturally pulled his gaze away and continued walking. Dragging one leg along the floor as he limped.
As soon as he reached the witness stand, the attorney irritably pushed up the spectacles perched midway down his nose with his palm. They were a spare pair he had brought in haste, and since they were not yet broken in, they were truly uncomfortable.
“Your Honorable Lordship. And to everyone in this court, I speak.”
Mr. Turner took documents out of his bag. His office had burned down overnight, and he himself had been beaten in places badly enough to be covered in dark bruises, but the documents, at least, were intact.
“Lady Rosalyn prepared one important legal procedure during her lifetime.”
No sooner had Mr. Turner opened his mouth than the prosecutor, who had remained silent all this while, sprang to his feet as if coming to his senses.
“Objection. Documents of unknown origin…”
The magistrate, now looking sickened in more than one sense, cut off the prosecutor’s words.
“Overruled. The authenticity of the documents will be confirmed directly by the royal legal authorities, who are watching this matter closely.”
Sir Bradshaw spoke with a glance toward the secretary seated in the gallery. His face looked utterly fed up, and his tone was half-resigned, as if saying, Fine, if anything goes wrong, you people take full responsibility.
The young secretary nodded as though he would gladly do so.
The prosecutor looked between the two of them in disbelief, but soon had no choice but to sit back down.
Sir Bradshaw let out a deep sigh and said, “Continue, witness.”
Mr. Turner held the documents and continued speaking.
“Your Honor, the late Lady Rosalyn Grayson intended during her lifetime to formally adopt the defendant.”
…What was that supposed to mean, all of a sudden?
Attorney Benson whispered something in Sasha’s ear.
She could not hear a single word.
“These are documents the deceased had prepared as early as five years ago. They are evidence that the deceased had long regarded and raised the defendant as her adopted daughter.”
The prosecutor sprang to his feet, but Mr. Turner paid him no heed and continued.
“I submit as evidence letters proving the deceased’s intentions during her lifetime, along with witness statements. The adoption documents will take effect the moment the defendant herself signs them. They have already been notarized, and I, as an attorney, attest to that fact.”
Mr. Turner was now looking straight at Sasha.
“These adoption documents were originally intended to be delivered after the defendant completed all the tasks left to her by the deceased. Furthermore, the moment the party in question signed the documents, the defendant would legally acquire the inheritance left to her in the deceased’s separate will. The mansion left by the deceased, the foundation managed by the deceased, and…”
Mr. Turner’s distinctive baritone sounded completely blurred. Sasha was looking at him now without knowing what expression she wore.
Suddenly, at a throbbing pain, she lowered her head. Only then did Sasha realize that she had clenched both fists so tightly that blood had pooled in her palms.
‘…How utterly absurd.’
That was the first raw impression that came to her.
“It is not true that the defendant unlawfully appropriated the deceased’s inheritance. Furthermore, the will was not written in favor of the deceased’s granddaughter, but in favor of Miss Sasha Grayson, the deceased’s adopted daughter. The letters I have submitted prove that fact. I ask that they be examined carefully.”
So you knew everything.
Sasha glared at Mr. Turner with eyes now gone cold. At the same time, heat rose to her head with all its might and her hands trembled, but she did not know what emotion it was that had given rise to this.
Was she moved, after all this time? No, it absolutely was not that.
A sense of betrayal and rage, enough to make her want to strangle him to death at once, boiled within her, yet seeing how meticulously everything had been prepared now, as though they had anticipated this very outcome, left her dumbfounded.
…Truly dumbfounded.
“Your Honorable Lordship. If you would dare permit it, I would like, even now, to deliver these documents to the defendant here and complete the intention the deceased resolved upon during her lifetime five years ago.”
Mr. Turner spoke. Just like the secretary earlier, his tone was not truly one of asking permission.
Mr. Turner looked straight at Sasha again. With his bruised face here and there, wearing the same calm expression that was infuriating enough as when she had first seen him.
“Defendant. Your will matters most.”
And in the midst of it all, the fact that this truly was the only way to survive infuriated her. Heat gathered at the tip of her nose, making it sting.
So tears could come even when something was simply too preposterous. That was what Sasha thought.
Regardless, Mr. Turner asked her.
“Do you, accepting the wish of the late Lady Rosalyn Grayson, desire to be formally adopted as the deceased’s daughter?”