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Chapter 35
"It's true, what they say," I murmured as we sat in a diner with Bubbe and Dad the following Tuesday. "Attorneys really do make the worst witnesses."
Zola had called to tell us when the trial's final witnesses were taking the stand, and we had been in New York for the last two days, waiting for the jury to deliberate. The defense had finished making its case about my supposed mental breakdown and varying points of Messina's character. All of their witnesses had likely been paid off––the question was whether or not the jury could see that while they deliberated.
Now we waited for the jury to reconvene, which they had been doing for the last two days. Zola said he thought it had to do with the number of counts that Messina was charged with. The only question was really if their verdict would be unanimous. I hoped to God it would be––anything less would be grounds for a mistrial.
"God, I'm gonna miss this," Dad grumbled as he shoveled a forkful of home fries into his mouth. He pointed his fork at Brandon. "I'm comin' around on Boston, but there ain't any decent diners up there."
"Danny, keep your mouth closed," Bubbe snapped.
"That's what we got the bars for, Danny," Brandon said with a smile, letting his accent out a little with "bar" sounding like "bah."
I noticed he did that more around Dad, as if my father's thick Brooklyn slurs rubbed the sheen off Brandon's carefully practiced diction. In a way, I thought, it was nice. It meant that Brandon felt he could be himself around my family.
Dad just shook his head and took a long drink of the cheap coffee that had come with the six-dollar breakfast. Over the last day and a half, we'd been doing nothing but eating out at all of Dad and Bubbe's favorite restaurants while Brandon sat in the car going over campaign stuff with Cory via teleconference. Too worried to let Dad and Bubbe go off on their own without proper security (or even with it), Brandon and I had tagged along to all the spots in Brooklyn, Manhattan, even Queens to enjoy diner eggs, pastrami sandwiches at Katz's, cheesecake at Junior's, and kosher baked goods.
We had even ducked into Nick's the night before to hear Dad's old quartet play. They had picked up another keyboardist since Dad had left, and while I knew it hurt him to see someone else in his place on the stage, I also caught the way his fingers fluttered on the table when they played songs he recognized. His therapy was continuing to progress, and the doctors were now optimistic that Dad would regain his ability to play like he once could. Bubbe had mentioned a song he had written the week before when he thought she wasn't home. The thought made my own heart sing.
So, despite the reason that we were here, it really hadn't been a terrible trip overall. The New York press couldn't have been less interested in a Boston mayoral candidate. Although there had been considerable press on the day that Brandon testified, it had petered out since the Massachusetts governor had announced his intention to run for a third term. For the first time in weeks, we found ourselves without any kind of paparazzi tagalongs.
"Well, I for one cannot wait to get home," Bubbe said as she forked through her plate. "Look at these eggs. Like rubber! Nowhere near as fluffy as Zaftig's."
I had to smile. Bubbe had settled into Brookline, a largely Jewish neighborhood, like a bird in its nest. In less than a month, she had met everyone at her new temple and learned the names of every walkable kosher vendor around Coolidge Corner. It was funny––I had thought that transplanting to Boston would be harder on her than any of us, but in fact, it was the exact opposite. With a new house in a beautiful neighborhood, Bubbe was happy as a freaking clam.
Brandon stifled a smile while he drank his orange juice and squeezed my hand. No doubt he could see the pleasure all over my face, just like I could see it on his. It didn't escape me how much Brandon seemed to enjoy spending time with my family, even if it meant letting Bubbe pick at his clothes or sitting silently with Dad while they watched the Giants games (Dad would never give up his beloved New York sports teams).
But the jocular conversation was short-lived. My phone buzzed loudly on the Formica tabletop, and we all froze, staring at the familiar number on the screen.
I picked it up.
"It's time," Zola said in a hurried, hushed voice. "Thirty minutes."
A few seconds later, I set down the phone and looked to the other three people at the table, who were staring at me, forks held in mid-air.
"Jury's out," I said softly. "Time to go."
~
We arrived back at the courthouse in Brooklyn at eleven-thirty. I tried not to notice the weather, which had been threatening a thundershower all morning long. The scant trees lining the sidewalk in front of the courthouse had all lost their leaves, stark and naked limbs against the building. Wind, and cold splats of rain shook down from time to time out of the dark gray sky.
We weren't required to be here. We could have waited for Zola to call us with the verdict. Could have gone back to work and allowed life to keep going as if we weren't waiting on pins and needles to see if the man who had been trying to ruin our lives for the better part of a year was going to have to take the consequences for his actions.
But both Dad's and my therapists had continued to suggest it would be good for us to face our attacker one last time, and Father Garrett had encouraged me to do the same. I'd never thought I'd be taking life advice from a priest, but it seemed to make sense.
"You think they'll convict?" Dad asked when we approached the courtroom.
Zola nodded. "There's always the possibility of a surprise," he said. "A hung jury or maybe a mistrial. But I think the real question now is, what will the sentence be?"
We all glanced at each other, but no one had any answers––no pithy replies or confident statements. Because really, what else was there to say?
We took our seats in one of the pew-like rows of the gallery and stood as the jury entered, followed by the judge. Court was announced in session, and everyone sat down.
The judge shuffled through the papers in front of him for what seemed like an eternity. Then, slowly, he turned to the jury.
"Madam Foreperson, please step forward," he said.
The primary juror who had been elected to speak on behalf of the jury's decision stood up in her seat holding a piece of paper.
