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1. delphine
“We,the jury, find the defendant, Giorgio Belini, to be guilty of the charge of first-degree murder in the case of Pete Schmidt.”
The courtroom erupts into chaos. The media scrambles to report the breaking news. Pete Schmidt’s family bursts into happy tears and embraces one another. The rest of the audience falls into shocked sidebar conversations. Giorgio Belini rounds on his team of pricey lawyers and unleashes a long, profanity-filled rant.
Mobster threats included.
“You cocksuckers better fix this or I will—or you won’t like my solution!” he barks.
Judge Ortiz slams down his gavel. “Order, order in the court!”
Giorgio Belini refuses to be silenced. He hops up on the defense table, resembling a rat you’d typically see scurrying across the subway floor.
“I ain’t going away! I’ll burn this city down before you lock me up!” Spittle flies from his mouth with each threat he issues. As the bailiffs rush over to subdue him, he uses whatever is within reach to defend himself—an empty glass of water, a microphone attached to the table, even his shoe at one point. “You’re all gonna be sorry! AND YOU—ADA ADAMS—”
I’ve snapped shut my briefcase and moved to leave the courtroom circus behind. I stop short only when I hear my name, but I don’t turn around.
“YEAH, YOU BITCH!” he screams. “If you think… if you think for one second karma’s not gonna knock on your door…HA!You got one ugly storm coming your way, princess!”
The bailiffs grapple him to the floor and slap cuffs on his wrists. The room booms with even more frenzied sounds and movements as the audience gets up for a closer look. Members of the media swarm in, filming every last second of Giorgio Belini being accosted.
I keep walking. My heels strike the vinyl floor as I stride for the double doors. Mrs. Schmidt stumbles into the aisle, tears streaming down her face. She grabs my hand and shakes it profusely, her sobs muffling her words, but I catch bits and pieces like ‘thank you’ and ‘God bless you’.
The giant court room doors swing shut behind me. It’s now that I realize I’m not the only one who exited. Brenda Liang, the newest ADA on staff, jogs trying to keep up with my fast stride. Over-eager and wobblier in heels, she’s shadowing me for a few months before taking on cases of her own.
“You wereamazing!” she pants, her bob cut falling into her eyes. “Your closing argument and the way you worked the room—chills!”
“I presented the closing argument the way we rehearsed it.”
“And knocked it out of the park! The jury came back from deliberation almost immediately. That Adams reign just won’t let up.”
We pivot around a sharp corner into another corridor. I give a loud snort. “Excuse me, ADA, but did you quote Ms. Robyn Fenty?”
Brenda giggles. “It’s true. You’re not even DA yet, and you’re already the stuff of legends. Who would’ve thought Ernest Adams’s only daughter would be an even bigger courtroom rockstar than him?”
“The flattery gets you nowhere, Liang,” I say, shooting her a slight smirk.
We abandon the courthouse for the Garden House, a lush, atmospheric bistro on the upper west side of Northam. We meet with an ADA friend of mine from my university days. Chadwick Thomas was a real-life Steve Urkel when we grew up in Westoria together. These days he’s more Stefan Urquelle than anything, making gains in the gym and ditching the thick glasses.
His dark eyes twinkle when Brenda and I sit down. “Congratulations, Delphi.”
“Oh, so you heard?”
“Have you checked your news alerts lately? It’s everywhere.”
Brenda nods so hard, her short hair slaps her in the face. “CNN. FOX. MSNBC. BBC—”
“I get the picture.”
“You’ve officially locked down your campaign,” Chadwick says. He folds his arms and grins widely at me. “I should’ve known you would be elected district attorney before me.”
“Are we here to eat, or are we here to discuss my career?”
We eventually place our orders with the server. The rest of the Garden House buzzes around us, patrons nibbling on an upscale lunch of mixed greens and other rabbit foods.
Part of Garden House’s charm is in its dedication to nature in the most luxurious ways possible, the restaurant resembling a flower garden if grown for the elite. No one reallylikesthe food at Garden House. More sotoleratesit for the trendy reputation and popular clientele. We’re here at Chadwick’s suggestion.
Our green lunch arrives, and we sit and discuss more about the media coverage for the Belini case. At some point, Brenda excuses herself to the bathroom. Chadwick stops midsentence and watches her walk off. Once he’s sure she’s gone, he leans closer and raises a brow at me.
