Testimony of Mr. J. Stanley

As such, refuse to disclose any information about the contents.

"I hope not."

A low-hanging rain cloud briefly appeared in the distance, rolled quickly northward, and disappeared in time to plague the upper Normandy area before nightfall.The path became steeper and led them over a ledge and disappeared into a patch of rock on the flat plateau.

The lighthouse was hit by shells during the war and has not been repaired for 40 years. bone.There are some salt-alkali plants scattered on the gravel ground around the lighthouse, but inside the tower, where the damaged roof can still cover, weeds are as deep as thighs.There were snakes in it, or so they had heard, but for the moment the idea only excited the four young adventurers more.Food stolen from the kitchen was wrapped in newspaper, and everyone was too hungry to mind the day's headlines printed on the ham slices.The sea breeze was mild, and Stanley sat against the wall, listening to Jason and the older sister chatting—at least at first, as their voices trailed off, turned into snickers, turned into kisses.Stanley looked away as a thin weed swayed from side to side in the crevice between his feet.

"You're the quiet one, aren't you?"

Stanley tilted his head and saw his sister looking at him, and now he was sure it was his sister, her headband was white, her freckles were very visible in the sun, a school of brown herring.They talked a few times, mostly over dinner, and she didn't seem particularly interested in Stanley.

"Yes," he replied, not sure if she meant the silence in a pejorative sense, "I guess I am."

"Okay." She nodded, took his hand and stood up, "I don't like talking too much."

They walked around to the back of the lighthouse and looked up at the huge gap in the wall. The girl still took his hand and led him in. Stanley followed obediently. Because of surprise and nervousness, he couldn't think of asking her what she wanted to do. .The weeds rustled, and a few pale beams of sunlight filtered in through the narrow windows and gaps in the brick walls.It smelled like damp moss, and the stairs to the second-floor landing barely retained their original outlines, but the wood was as fragile as paper, snapping off brown pieces easily.The girl took Stanley's other hand and folded his hands together as if playing some kind of guessing game. "So?" she asked.

Stanley looked at her blankly.

"You don't think Jason brought us all here because he admired the sea view?"

He really thought so.Stanley opened his mouth to answer, but the girl's lips covered his.She smelled like raspberries and beeswax, and Stanley stood there stiffly, trying to remember how to breathe.The kiss didn't last long, maybe because neither of them knew how to make it last.The girl let go of his hand, brushing away a strand of brown hair that fell in front of his eyes.

"Not quiet," she said, "timid."

She walked away, crawled out of the gap, and out into the harsh sunlight.

-

"I haven't seen Jason very much since then. As you can imagine, he is always with the twins. After the summer, our contact is completely cut off-thank you." Stanley took the cup from the agent , took a sip of water, "My parents separated at the end of that year, and I spent most of the summer vacation in my bedroom. My father was not a person who particularly liked vacations."

"This is all very interesting," said the agent, in a tone that made it clear that she thought it was a waste of time. "Mr. Stanley, I need your attention to tell me what happened a week ago between you and Jason Cole. What happened after Hermann got to Saint-Malo, did he take notes?"

The door of the ward opened, and they all looked up, watching the unexpected guest walk in. "I hope I interrupted the conversation between the two of you in time," said the visitor, removing the empty vase on the bedside table and putting the laptop and folders on it. "Don't answer any of her questions, Mr. Stanley, unless I'm there, understand Well, this is your right. Detective, please leave the ward, I need to speak to my client."

The agent stared at the new character for a moment, put the notebook back in his pocket, and left the room.It wasn't until the footsteps disappeared that the new visitor turned his attention to Stanley. "Maud Gibson," she held out her hand to Stanley, "I am your defense attorney."

"Defend what?"

Gibson examined him, weighing something secretly, and it took him a long time to come to a conclusion.Her hands folded over her knees, like a black panther retracting its paws. "Mr. Stanley," she said in a single word, "you have been charged with the murder of Jason Coleman."

The author has something to say: "The Wolves of Willoughby Chase", The Wolves of Willoughby Chase, 1962, a pair of sisters against an evil governess

"Black Cotton Field", Roll of Thunder Hearme Cry, 1976, Little Black Girl vs Racism 【← The summary is too simple and crude

3.

"your full name."

"Jasper Stanley."

"No middle name?"

"No."

"Today's date."

"Does this really help? As far as I know, you're not a PhD in cognitive neuroscience."

"I'm the best lawyer you can dream up, and I decide what issues help and what don't," said Gibson, her tawny hair cut short enough to cover her ears, as she tapped her pen on the folder." Date, Mr. Stanley."

He closed his eyes and turned his head to one side, as if to listen to the footsteps of a cat in the dark, "July 2010, a certain day."

"On August 8, you can't imagine how many reporters wanted to blast a hole in the wall and crawl in to interview you when you were lying here with a breathing tube inserted."

"No offense, Miss Gibson, why did you take this case?"

She smiled, and Stanley guessed that if there was a more cautious, dry version of the Cheshire Cat, it would look like this, "I have a polite answer and an honest answer."

"An honest answer."

"Exposure rate." The lawyer dug out a few copies from the folder and handed them to Stanley. Some newspaper clippings, arranged by date, published photos of Jason and sensational headlines, "Famous Scientists Missed for More than a Week", " Missing scientists may have been murdered”; others even dug up photos of Stanley taken for the brochure in the early days of the IG Foundation. The headline hanging on his head was concise: “Murderer? "

He could feel Gibson's gaze, like a solid metal probe, trying to penetrate his skull.The lawyer put two numbered photos on the small folding table attached to the hospital bed, a Glock 17, taken from two different angles. "The inevitable question," she pressed her fingers over the two photographs as if they would flee, "did you do it, Mr. Stanley?"

-

The crowd exclaimed. On the long table in the center of the hall, stacked wine glasses fell down in a row. A small explosion mixed champagne and broken glass. There were strange screams. The students applauded and laughed. The music continued, and the band must have I've seen far more chaotic situations than this.Stanley wondered who was going to pay for it, maybe the College, it was a graduation party after all, and Dean Wellock must have been livid when he had to sign the expense approval form.Unable to find a place to put down his glass, he held it in his hand and pushed his way through the crowd to escape the Robert Memorial Hall, which was being trampled by a group of half-drunk young students.

He put the goblet between the open marble fingers of a statue, tugged at the lapel of his suit with the mirror mounted on the wall, and walked to the front hall. The double doors at the end of the corridor were blocked by red ribbons, and a There was a virtual blockade, and a piece of cardboard standing on the table at the reception indicated that this was the 1994 graduation party, and an invitation letter was required to enter.The blue and white boutonniere that the waiter had handed him hours earlier was gone, and given the state of the party, he should be thankful that all the buttons were still there.A glass of assorted fruit sparkling knocked over the already smooth floor, and Stanley stepped over the soggy canned pineapple chunks and maraschino cherries, pushing open the last door that separated him from the fresh air.

It was a damp, sluggish summer night, the air wringing water and smelling of earth and fig leaves.He tore off his tie, lit a cigarette, took a deep breath, and exhaled the smoke toward the street lamps that dotted the bushes.Sasha would have yelled at him for it, she made Stanley quit smoking for half a year, but Sasha was gone, the plane the day before yesterday, London to New York, she needed a transfer, it should have been twelve hours ago Landing in San Francisco, I haven't called him yet, and I'm afraid I won't call him again.If that wasn't the end, Stanley didn't know what was.

The door opened again, and Stanley stepped aside to avoid being bumped.Another deserter, a big stain on his shirt, probably champagne, a crumpled blue and white paper flower in his buttonhole.He saw Stanley and nodded as a greeting.Stanley smiled perfunctorily, leaned against the brick wall, and continued to inflate the nicotine-laden smoke into his lungs.

"Can I borrow a fire?"

Stanley took another look at him and took out the lighter.The other party put the cigarette between his lips, leaned closer, bent slightly, and let the cigarette get closer to the flame, "Thanks, buddy," he said with