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Chapter One Hundred-Seventy-Eight
Point of View: Nick



"All rise," called a guy in the corner. A door behind the tall judges' desk opened and a woman entered the room, wearing black robes and thick glasses. She was carrying a stack of manila envelopes and had a pinched, impatient look on her face. Her long blonde hair was roughly tied back into a tight bun, giving what could've been sexy features the sharp contrasted look of an uptight librarian.

"You may be seated," she announced and she arrived in her - well I can only think to call it a pulpit, I guess. My extent of legal knowledge is like, uh, zero. This is Howie's department... he's the businessman of the group. A general shuffling ensued following her permission to sit, and she cracked open the envelopes and spread out her notes across the desk in front of her. At the edge of the desk was a placard that announced she was Judge Brenda Heath. She picked up a pen and started gnawing on it. After a long pause, she looked up and scanned the crowd.

"I now call to order case number eight-six-five-seven-five, the State of California against one Nickolas Gene Carter for the murder of one Krystal Elisabeth Armaletto." She hit the little wooden judges hammer against the whacker-base thing, and a feeling of finality entered the room.

My stomach sank into my toes and I stared down at my cuffed hands. Somehow having heard my name in the case summary like that shed a whole new light on what was happening, what I was facing. I swallowed and tried to think of other, better things, but my mind was a perfectly blank slate.

Dirk reached over and nudged me under the table. I glanced at him. "Keep eye contact," he mouthed.

I looked up, turning to the judge.

Judge Heath announced, "Jury, what you are about to hear are the opening statements of the lawyers. The opening statements are not evidence. The purpose of these statements is to foreshadow the evidence, which shall begin with the testimony of the first witness. I caution you that what you are about to hear is not evidence." She turned in her seat to a man with white hair, big rings and a light grey suit at the other table - the table on the left side of the courtroom. "Mr. Walters, you may begin."

I nudged Dirk. "What's happening?" I asked.

Dirk leaned toward me, "We're going to present the case by summarizing for the jury what happened, and then we're going to start calling witnesses and presenting evidence," he answered. I nodded, and we both turned to watch Mr. Walters present his case.

Mr. Walters straightened his dark green tie and stood up and moved towards a bunch of people sitting in seats on my right. He was carrying a sheet of paper. He cleared his throat, "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," he said, "This is Krystal Armaletto." He held up an 8x10 of Krystal - a photo that I'd taken of her once, actually, that she'd posted on her official website. In it, she was smiling and the sun was making her hair gleam. She'd looked so happy and normal and - for once - dressed respectably. Mr. Walters put the 8x10 on the jury's desk and allowed them to pass the photograph around. He paced a couple feet away so that he was standing in front of me, one hand on our desk, but still looking at the jury. "She was a beautiful girl with a passion for making music. She stunned many of us with her talent," he added.

"But on a warm Summer night two months ago, she was killed in a high speed car chase by the recklessness of her boyfriend." Mr. Walters looked at me, right in the eyes. "Nick Carter, who you know as a Backstreet Boy," he said, "Murdered Krystal Armaletto by forcing her BMW off the road." His eyes were steely, beady.

Dirk glared at him.

Mr. Walters smirked discreetly at Dirk, then turned back to the jury. "Krystal's career and, indeed, her life were cut short that night because of this man," he said, waving a careless hand back at me. "Don't think of these people as pop stars, musicians that you have no doubtedly grown up listening to. Don't think of them as celebrities whose stories you have heard discussed on every news station and Hollywood gossip circuit there is. Rather, think of them as a beautiful woman and her boyfriend. Normal, everyday people, like you and me. Think of Krystal Armaletto, not as a famous singer, but rather as a beautiful woman whose life ended before it had really even begun... because of this man."

With a final gesture, Mr. Walters directed the jury's eyes to me, and I could feel their heavy stares resting on my face. I squirmed in my seat. My eyes were misted with unshed tears. To hear him talk about me like that... to hear him so eloquently and fluidly put the blame of Krystal's death on my shoulders... It brought forth every feeling of guilt and shame and pain that I'd been harboring since that night, when I pulled open Krystal's door and knew she was gone already...

Mr. Walters sat down and Dirk stood up as the judge called for him to. "Krystal Armaletto did, indeed, die at the culmination of a high speed chase, and yes, my client, Nick Carter, was behind the wheel of the second vehicle. But Nick did not kill Krystal Armaletto. What happened the night that Krystal died was not a murder - but nor was it particularly an accident..." Dirk walked over and picked up the 8x10 that Mr. Walters had given the jury from their desk. He looked at it, and frowned sadly. "Miss. Armaletto's eyes," he said, "Tell a story... a story that perhaps you may be familiar with..." he handed the photograph back to the first juror. "Those eyes hold pain, do they not? Krystal Armaletto was hospitalized less than a month before her death after attempting suicide in Santa Fe during her last concert tour... Krystal was what you call a tortured artist..." Dirk sighed. "It is tragedy, to be sure, that such a beautiful woman's life could be cut so short. Krystal still had so much to give and to learn and experience... but my client did not kill her. The only crime my client committed that night was trying to stop Miss. Armaletto from hurting herself."

Dirk came back to the desk and I thought he was going to sit down, but instead he rested his hands on my shoulders as he stood behind me. "This man has been falsely accused of a killing the woman he loved..." Dirk's voice almost broke with emotion, "I cannot imagine -can you?- how he must feel having been there when she died... much less being blamed for that death?" Dirk sighed, "The evidence speaks for itself... Nick Carter did not kill Krystal Armaletto... but Krystal Armaletto killed herself."

A heavy, ringing silence filled the room, and Dirk's shoes clicked as he sat down in the seat beside me.

Judge Heath paused for just a moment, then she looked at Mr. Walters, "The court recognizes the State of Calfornia to begin presenting evidence and calling witnesses to the stand," she said.

Mr. Walters stood up and smiled at me. Then he announced, "The State of California would like to call to the stand Mr. Roland Causwell."

A nervous looking guy stood up and went to the front and got sworn in. Mr. Walters had him introduce himself and it turned out he was one of the guys that had examined my Camaro's tread against the markings on the road where Krystal had died. Roland Causwell discussed how he had thoroughly examined the treadmarks on the roadway and compared them using a complex, scientific computer program that mathematically proved the marks on the roadway were identical to those which my Camaro would have left. Mr. Walters sat down and the judge called on Dirk.

Dirk approached the witness stand. "Hello Roland," he said, "So tiretread forensics, huh? How long have you worked with treads?"

"For twenty years," Roland answered proudly, only stuttering a little bit over the T in twenty.

"Very cool," Dirk nodded. "How old is the science exactly?"

"Tire treading goes back to the 1930's when a researcher named David Chapman here in Los Angeles actually discovered that every tire makes different marks."

"How does that work exactly? Like a fingerprint?" Dirk asked.

Roland thought a moment. "I suppose. But it's more because of the ware and tear on the tire. Like for example, as the tires are driven on their treads get worn in a certain way depending on things like the car's alignment, the driving style of the owner, that sort of thing. Plus they treads they leave can be altered by pock marks and small cuts made by stones."

"Very interesting," Dirk mumbled. "So the science can prove that a particular vehicle was at a particular place by looking at the markings left on the ground," he said.

Roland nodded.

"Not that I'm arguing that Nick Carter was there - we're all in agreement that Nick was present when Krystal died - but, for the sake of learning," Dirk said, "Can one tell from treadmarks who was driving a vehicle?"

I glanced at Mr. Walters, who was scowling.

"N-No," admitted Roland Causwell. "Not beyond a doubt. I mean there are certain driving styles and techniques that people frequently use so those tend to come up a lot in patterns created by them, but you'd have to know the person's driving style and have quite an extensive sampling of their treads to determine with any kind of finality who was driving."

"Similar to handwriting?" Dirk asked.

"I suppose."

"Now I have an interesting question for you," Dirk said thoughtfully. "If you can't tell who was driving... can you tell what their intentions were when the marks were created?"

"N-No," stammered Roland.

"So from the marks on the roadway... you can't tell if Nick Carter intentionally swerved into Miss. Armaletto's lane for the purpose of pushing her BMW off the road... can you?"

"N-No... but..."

"Can you prove that Krystal's BMW was, in fact, running side by side with Nick's Camaro at the time that the treads cross into her lane?"

"Well evidence proves that both treads were made within seconds of each other--"

"But when two vehicles are driving at such high speeds, their treads would be within seconds of each other, would they not?" Dirk questioned, "Isn't it possible, Mr. Causwell, that Krystal's BMW was already several feet ahead of Nick's Camaro before he swerved into her lane?"

"Objection!" Mr. Walters stood up, "The defense is leading my witness."

"Strike the defendant's last question from the record," stated the judge.

Dirk shrugged, "No further questions, your honor."

Roland Causwell practically frolicked back to his seat once he was freed from the witness stand.

An endless array of people with evidence danced before us like a revolving door. Another forensics guy backed up the claim that it was my car. Another logistically proved that the crash was what killed Krystal. One was a policeman who described the state of my house when he arrived to assess the damages Krystal had caused. Another talked about the blood-alcohol content, another about Krystal's pregnancy and yet another about the photographic evidence of Krystal's relationship with Desi.

Even I had to admit, everything they were saying was true. The only difference between what they were saying and what we were saying was that what happened wasn't intentional. I felt sick.

Then it happened.

"The State of California would like to call to the stands Nickolas Gene Carter."