They Framed My Dead Grandfather,But I Had the Last Laugh

Blood smeared across my entire face, the metallic taste filling my mouth.

I trembled with rage, my gaze locking onto the man in the crowd.

Michael Young glared at me with undisguised hatred, still whipping everyone into a frenzy.

"My father served his country honorably his whole life and never wronged a soul. Nobody expected that in his old age he'd suffer something like this. He's still lying in the ICU, unable to get up!"

"I'm begging all of you, help us get justice. Make sure the person responsible pays for what they've done!"

The crowd's fury swelled. I was trapped in the center, and someone kicked me hard from behind where no one could see. Then again. And again.

Officer Chavez arrived just in time, pushing through the mob and dispersing them before pulling me free.

My face was a patchwork of bruises, my clothes stained with splotches of yellow. Up close, the stench was unmistakable.

"Just you wait. I trust the court will give my father the justice he deserves!"

Michael shot me one last venomous look before turning on his heel and leaving.

Once he got home, he uploaded a wildly exaggerated account of the whole incident online.

Countless strangers sneered at me and my grandfather. The comment sections were a wall of hate, every last one cursing us.

With the trial date approaching, not a single lawyer was willing to take my case.

In the end, the court had to appoint one for me before the trial could proceed.

Abner Finch had no intention of so much as speaking to me. He swept a sour look over my face and rolled his eyes.

"A guaranteed loss. What's even the point of going to trial? Defending someone like you is an embarrassment to my reputation."

I ignored his snide remarks and settled calmly into the defendant's seat.

Because I knew the truth.

This case?

I was going to win.

What I hadn't expected was that just before the proceedings began, Michael suddenly wheeled in an old man.

The old man had a tube running from his nose, his cheeks gaunt, his expression dazed and vacant.

This had to be the father he kept going on about, the one my grandfather had supposedly hit.

I glanced at him with a flicker of contempt. Michael really was pulling out all the stops to win this case. His father hadn't even left the ICU and he'd already wheeled him into the courtroom.

Once the trial began, Michael struck first, jabbing a finger at me and snarling through clenched teeth:

"My father is old. His legs aren't what they used to be. He was just walking down the street, minding his own business, when that reckless old bastard came barreling out in his car."

"The wheels rolled right over my father's legs. Both of them shattered. Broken ribs punctured his lungs. It took two days of emergency surgery to bring him back!"

His words, paired with the old man's empty pant legs dangling from the wheelchair, struck a nerve with everyone in the room.

The story had already gone viral online, and the trial had drawn a crowd of spectators eager to watch in person.

The gallery was packed. People pointed at me, shouting their accusations.

"That poor old man, at his age he should be living out his final years in peace. Instead he runs into these monsters."

"The one who actually did it doesn't even have the guts to show his face. What, is he planning to let his granddaughter rot in prison for him?"

"Maybe she's happy to take the fall. She still won't give him up. How touching. What a devoted little granddaughter."

Their curses cut into me like knives, but I set my jaw and fired back without flinching.

"You keep saying my grandfather hit him. So which one of you actually saw my grandfather behind the wheel?"

"You're going to condemn someone based on a license plate number alone? Don't you think that's a little reckless?"

The plaintiff's lawyer, clearly well-compensated for his enthusiasm, argued back fiercely.

"Our investigation has confirmed that the vehicle registered under plate number 0817 belongs to your grandfather."

"The probability of a duplicate plate number is virtually zero. What excuse could you possibly have left?"

A cold smile crossed my lips. I cast a dismissive glance at the photograph in their hands.