annashay 
This story is by aj snowdon and was part of our 2025 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
Marcus Webb, fifty-two, sat ramrod straight at the defence table.
His suit was crisp, his notes in perfect order. He was known for this—meticulous prep, unshakeable calm. But inside he was a hollow drum, resonating to nothing but routine. This dull mini-mart store murder trial was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
He watched the accused, Danny Reardon, answer prosecution questions. The eyewitness account was weak—no fingerprints, no DNA. Celia Donnelly was convinced Danny had been in the store. The killer wore a hoodie and sunglasses during a petty robbery. But Donnelly had mental health issues, including hallucinations during a sanatorium stay three years ago. Furthermore, she had been involved romantically with Reardon years earlier. There were no other witnesses.
Assistant Prosecutor Patricia Chen stood up and was methodical. It was clear that she was struggling with this case.
She grilled Danny on rent—three months overdue—yet he paid £1,200 cash on 25 March. “Where did the money come from?” Danny mumbled about selling jewellery at a pawn shop called Argent. A receipt was produced as evidence.
Quiet confidence glinted in Marcus’s eyes. They would win. His junior colleague had handled the interviews, tied up the alibi witnesses neatly. Marcus’s part was procedural. No emotion required.
Chen continued questioning Reardon. Marcus kept focussed, catching the slight tremor, the accidental blurt. Victory was in sight, but you never knew how your man would perform under questioning.
He made a note: “Check timeline again—security cam.” Muscle memory. He already knew there was no decent footage. The camera showed the wrong aisle, timestamp off by an hour. But cataloguing details, real or redundant, was habit.
Finally, his turn. He stood, pen in hand, leaning towards the dock.
“Mr Reardon, on 15 March last year, between 10 PM and 12 PM, where were you?”
“At a nightclub downtown. Can’t remember the name. Stayed until they closed—around 2 AM.”
“Anyone who can corroborate that?”
“Yeah, my mate Harry. We were together all night.”
“You’re sure it was 15 March 2024?”
“Yeah, Harry’s birthday. Definitely.”
“And for the jury’s benefit, the full name of your friend is Harry Jamieson?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
Marcus turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Jamieson is scheduled to testify later in this court that he was present with the accused at all times that evening.”
Harry, like Danny, had previous convictions—not a perfect witness. But better than what the prosecution had.
Even Sir Miles Beaufort, the chief prosecutor, was shaking his head, wondering why this case had been brought to him by the Crown Prosecution Office.
“It would be helpful Mr Reardon, if you could try to remember the club’s name. That way we can corroborate with Mr Jamieson’s testimony.”
“Erm, yeah; erm, I think it was called Echo. Yeah, The Echo. “
Marcus’s pen dropped. His jaw clamped. His breath shallowed. The name landed like an ice pick in his chest.
15 March—why hadn’t he connected?
A flash seared through him: yellow police tape, the smell of rain-soaked rubbish, a narrow alley.
“Thank you, Mr Reardon. No more questions,” he mumbled, before almost collapsing in his chair.
The judge called recess. Marcus rose on autopilot. “I need air,” he whispered to Julia, his junior.
In the gents, he gripped the porcelain sink. His reflection—greying temples, hollowed eyes—stared back.
Sarah!
His nineteen-year-old daughter. Found beaten to death in the alley behind The Echo on 16 March at 3 AM. Fourteen months ago. The case went cold. No cameras. No witnesses. The detective said, “It was most likely a robbery that went wrong. These cases almost never get solved.” Sarah’s antique silver bracelet had vanished, as did her phone and wallet.
He’d been at the office. Working late. Sarah texted at 11:47 PM:
“some creep won’t leave me alone.”
He didn’t see it until dawn, when police called. His world had crashed that morning.
He took simple cases afterwards to feel competent again. Mindless defence and procedure.
But Danny Reardon was at The Echo that night. Coincidence? Was he clutching at straws again?
He splashed water on his face and returned.
Argent!
Sarah’s phone hit a pawn shop on Argent eight days after her death. Security footage corrupted. Dead end. The timeline clawed at him: 16 March, Sarah dies; 20 March, Sarah’s autopsy: wounds on her forearms, skin under her fingernails; 24 March, Sarah’s phone surfaces; 25 March, Danny pays his rent. 22 April, Danny’s arrest for the store murder on 15 March, the same night but earlier; faint scratch marks can be seen on his mug shots.
It could be coincidence. But the pieces clicked: same club, same alley, broadly same pawn shop timeline. Marcus rechecked the evidence stating the sale of jewellery. Sure enough, 24 March.
Privilege bound him. He had to stay silent.
In the stairwell, his hands trembled. Duty versus vengeance. He was a criminal law barrister. But he was a father. He’d failed Sarah that fatal night.
He returned to the courtroom. The judge asked, “Defence, your next witness?”
Julia mouthed, “Harry Jam….” but Marcus stood. “Your Honour, brief redirect of the accused.”
Julia gasped. What was he doing?
He strode towards the stand where Danny had re-entered, very confused. Marcus locked eyes on Danny.
“Mr Reardon, you were at The Echo until approximately 2 AM on 16 March?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“When you left—did you leave through the front entrance?”
Danny shifted. “Er no, the back.”
“The back? You mean the alley?”
“Yeah.”
“And what happened in that alley?”
Patricia Chen stood. “Objection. Relevance?”
“I’m establishing my client’s movements, Your Honour.”
“Overruled. Get to the point, Mr Webb.”
Danny paled. “Nothing happened. We just walked through.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“I don’t remember. Don’t think so.”
Marcus stepped closer. His voice dropped to a whisper that carried through the silent courtroom. “16 March 2024. Approximately 3 AM. A young woman was beaten to death in that alley. Did you see her, Mr Reardon?”
The courtroom erupted. The judge’s gavel cracked. “Mr Webb! This is highly irregular—”
But Marcus couldn’t stop. “You sold jewellery on 24 March to Argent. What was that jewellery? Be specific please!”
“Er, a silver bracelet.” Danny was now in a state of utter confusion and panic was etched on his face.
“This bracelet?” Marcus produced the photos on his phone.
“Dunno. Think so, maybe.”
Julia grabbed his arm. “Marcus, what are you doing?”
“This was stolen from my daughter just 8 days earlier. Did you murder my daughter, Sarah Webb?”
The words hung like smoke after a gunshot.
“Order!” the judge exclaimed.
The bailiff moved towards Marcus. But Danny’s face crumbled into something raw, terrified, and utterly guilty.
“I didn’t mean—” Danny clamped his mouth shut.
“Your Honour,” Chen said, “I request an immediate recess and full investigation.”
The judge’s face purpled. “Mr Webb, my chambers. Now!”
Marcus gave him one last venomous glare. How many times had he sat across from Sarah’s killer?
Julia rang him the following day. She told Marcus that within hours of the collapse of the minimart case, detectives descended upon the homes of the pawn shop; footage was re-examined. A clerk made a tentative identification. Harry Jamieson admitted he’d left the club at 1 AM—alone. The bracelet was traced to Argent, sold 24 March.
“We have found eyewitnesses in the club who saw Reardon pestering a girl for a couple of hours that night. The girl’s description fits Sarah and new DNA tests on the skin found, but Reardon is confessing now. He’s asking for a plea deal, but given the facts including premeditation…” She paused. “He will not see daylight maybe ever.”
Marcus nodded. “Thanks Julia.”
“What will you do now?”
“I don’t know. Tomorrow’s problem.”
He knew he would be struck off the Bar. At least criminal proceedings were not being brought.
Marcus sat in Sarah’s old bedroom. On her desk, a framed photo: Sarah laughing, bracelet glinting, her whole life ahead.
His mobile rang. Patricia Chen. She confirmed many of the details.
“What you did was wrong. Legally and ethically.”
“I know. But I’d do it again tomorrow.”
Patricia was silent for a moment and then sighed.
“But personally…” her voice softened. “I completely understand.”
After she rang off, Marcus sat in silence. He’d sacrificed everything-career, reputation, the procedural armour that had kept him upright through fourteen months of grief.
Sarah’s bracelet would be returned soon. Her killer would be convicted. The cold case would finally close.
He picked up the photo, traced his daughter’s smile.
“I’m sorry I didn’t see the text,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. But I saw this. And I didn’t look away.”
Marcus Webb was no longer a lawyer but also was no longer strained. He sat in his daughter’s room and let himself feel everything he’d buried.
The truth was out.
For the first time in fourteen months, he wept.
