Chapter 3 - The Witness
Hayden sat in the sterile, fluorescent-lit interrogation room, the hum of the ventilation system drilling into his skull. The lawyer, a man named Elias who smelled of stale coffee and defeat, sat opposite him, rubbing his temples. "We have a lead," Elias said, his voice low. "It’s a long shot, Hayden. But it’s the only one left."
The lead was Mrs. Eleanor Ogle, an eighty-year-old widow who lived two doors down from the Stanton residence. Elias laid out the evidence: she had been awake late, watching television when she heard a commotion. According to her, she looked out the window and saw a man in a military uniform standing over Sabrina. She claimed the man kicked her, then grabbed her by the hair and threw her down the concrete stairs. The belief took root instantly in Hayden’s mind. It had to be the Rosales brothers. They were the ones who hated him enough to break his legs.
But the lineup was a disaster. Hayden watched from behind the one-way glass as Mrs. Ogle stared at the three Rosales brothers. They were all there—big, tattooed men with greasy hair and cruel smiles. They looked nothing like soldiers. They looked like the mobsters they were. Mrs. Ogle shook her head at all three, her eyes darting nervously from face to face. The defense attorney argued that the Rosales men were trying to frame him, but the judge ruled the lineup admissible.
Then came the photo.
Elias slid a polaroid across the table. It was Hayden’s mugshot, taken three days after the assault. He looked gaunt, his eyes hollowed out by sleeplessness and rage.
Mrs. Ogle squinted at the grainy image. She traced the edge of the photo with a trembling, arthritic finger. The silence in the room stretched until it felt like a physical weight. Hayden held his breath, praying she would say no. But she didn't.
"It’s... it’s him," she whispered, her voice cracking. "The uniform... it’s him."
Doubt, cold and sharp, pricked at the back of Hayden’s mind. How could a frail old woman pick him out of a photo of three men who looked nothing like him? But before he could voice the question, the judge banged his gavel. "Hypnosis session is granted. Proceed."
The hypnosis room was dim, lit only by a single lamp that cast long, dancing shadows. Hayden lay on a vinyl couch, staring at a swinging pendulum. The hypnotist was a woman named Dr. Aris, her voice a monotonous drone. "You are safe. You are relaxed. Look at the wrist, Hayden. What do you see?"
Hayden’s eyelids fluttered. The world narrowed to the swinging light. "I see... a scar," he murmured. "A jagged line. Stitched up. Right wrist."
"Describe the man," Dr. Aris commanded.
"He’s tall... but not as tall as me. He wears the uniform. He’s angry. He... he threw her."
The session lasted an hour. When it ended, Hayden sat up, sweating, his head pounding. He felt like he had been run over by a truck, but he felt a strange sense of clarity. He had the proof. He remembered the scar. It was a distinct mark. He would look at his own wrist right now and see it, and then he could show it to the police and clear his name.
He stood up, shaking off the grogginess. "I need to see him," he said to Dr. Aris.
"See who?" she asked, checking her watch.
"The man. The attacker. I remember him."
Dr. Aris hesitated, a flicker of alarm crossing her face, but before she could speak, the door opened. Two officers stood there, flanking a young man who was walking briskly down the hallway. It was the youngest Rosales son, the one who usually stayed in the shadows, working in the family’s logistics business.
May you like
Hayden froze. The man looked up, his expression bored, then shifted slightly as he passed the office door, exposing his left arm to the corridor light.
Hayden’s blood turned to ice. He stared at the boy’s wrist. There, branded into the pale skin, was the jagged, stitched-up scar he had described under hypnosis.
