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Before I know it, I’m blinking back tears. The emotion making my voice waver spills out of me in a deep, body-racking shudder. Stitches pulls me into a tight hug that feels so warm and comforting it might as well be coming from my brother, Marcel.
“Hey, calm down. You’re exhausted and that’s what’s making it ten times worse. Go take a hot shower and I’ll have one of the cooks in the compound’s main kitchen whip you up something, alright? Then you need to hit that pillow of yours.”
My nod against Stitches’s shoulder is myyes.
We stand up and step away from the circle of law books heavier than most barbells.
“Thanks for caring, Francis,” I say, wiping at my eyes. “You really are Jon’s best friend.”
“But I’m yours too,” he points out with a kind smile. “And don’t you ever forget that. I’ve been here for so much of you two’s relationship that I might as well be a part of it myself. Remember, I was the guy telling Psycho he was in love.”
I return his smile. “Yeah, you were. You believed in us when even we didn’t.”
“Damn straight. And I believe in you both again. We’ll get him off. If we don’t, we’ll bust him outta prison and fly him straight outta the country fugitive style.”
We share a laugh, the tense moment lightened by Stitches’s joke, but it’s not only spoken in jest. He’s serious.
In the moment, that’s what comforts me most of all.
* * *
The morning of Salvatore’s bail hearing arrives more than forty-eight hours after his arrest. As predicted, Polk must have gotten in Judge Onile’s ear. The judge dragged his feet on holding the hearing, and only had it scheduled when I lodged a complaint with his office, citing Northam’s two day turnaround requirement.
I’m steadfast and unwavering as the hearing begins. While I’m still representing Salvatore as his attorney, I’ve spent the last two days pacing myself. I’ve put together a solid defense, at the same time managing to be realistic about my human limitations.
Becoming so fixated I missed out on meals and skipped sleep would ultimately hurt Salvatore’s case.
I needed to be well-rested. As sharp as possible when acting on his behalf in court.
Polk aims a nasty grin at us from where he sits on the prosecutor’s side. I ignore him as Dad always taught me to do when in the courtroom, so focused I’m beyond childish tit-for-tats like exchanging looks with my opponents.
I barely even speak to Salvatore, and when I do, it’s only in an official capacity.
Stitches was right—emotion has no place in the courtroom.
I block out the trust I see in Salvatore’s gaze. He’s on his best behavior in the chair next to mine. Dressed in a simple suit and tie, he’s silent and composed. When Polk gets up in front of the courtroom and goes on a detailed diatribe about how he’s a ruthless mafia boss and cold-blooded killer, Salvatore gives him nothing.
Not even a scowl.
You’d almost think he’s a regular man off the street. That he isn’t the Don of the most powerful criminal organization in the state.
I rise, just as composed, carefully presenting our defense.
“So, as you can see your honor, Salvatore Mancino is an upstanding, contributive member of the community, who has donated more than two million dollars to various local charities. He is a businessman that operates the city’s most beloved nighttime establishment and has a near-clean criminal record. He has been exonerated on every past charge that has been brought up against him, which lends credence to the idea of certain city officials holding a bias against my client. I have no further details to present, but only implore you to look at the facts of the case, and not the narrative that has been pushed by the DA’s office and the media at large.”
“Thank you, Ms. Adams,” says Judge Onile. He considers both Polk and I under his heavy-lidded, slow-blinking eyes. “The prosecution and defense have made compelling arguments on each side. There is no question there has been credible evidence presented that I have carefully combed through and considered.”
I hold my breath, forgetting to breathe, my insides knotting. Polk leans forward in his chair, his reaction hinging on the judge’s next few words.
“And it is with that in mind, that I have decided to withhold bail from the defendant. Considering the nature of the crime and the prosecution’s claim that the defendant is not only a flight risk, but a severe danger to the community, I have no choice but to deny bail. The defendant will be held at the county jail while he awaits the rest of his preliminary hearings and the subsequent trial.” Judge Onile bangs his gavel to end the hearing.
Polk and his team of ADAs jump to their feet in triumph.
The bailiffs descend on Salvatore, tugging him to his feet, and returning the cuffs to his wrists. I’m stuck in my seat, staring in horror at the bench.
No. No. NO.
Something snaps inside of me. I rise up as the bailiffs begin escorting Salvatore away. A frantic beat pulses through me that I can’t control. That has me rushing after them. That has me blurting out the stream of desperate thoughts filling up my head.
