Page 29 of Defend Me

“You may file all the motions you wish,” Judge Warner says, looking at his calendar. “You have three weeks. I will review all the motions by September twenty-third. After that, we will proceed to trial in a timely fashion.”

“New York state law allows forty-five days to file pretrial motions,” Von points out.

He takes off his glasses and folds his hands together on the desk. “Are you saying you will not be prepared to file your motions by September the twenty-third? I was under the impression you were a competent lawyer. But perhaps the standards have been lowered at Phillips, Brace, and Horowitz since last I checked.”

Von’s gaze burns hot enough to melt metal as she stares down the judge.

“The people have no issue with this timeline,” Wilbur says. “We will be ready with all our motions by the date your honor has set.” I always thought of Wilbur as steadfast, if a bit full of bluster. Now, he seems like a pompous ass, sitting there with a smug little smile. Like this is some kind of game.

Von’s jaw tics. “I would not wish for any verdict to be overturned on appeal due to lack of proper defense. Or judicial bias.”

Judge Warner’s face goes cold. Even Wilbur shifts uncomfortably in his chair. Von, however, holds her own without flinching. Her features are delicate, high cheekbones, full lips, narrow chin. But beneath that radiates something aggressive, something powerful, almost hungry for a challenge. I feel that same tightening in my stomach again.

“Very well.” Judge Warner leans back in his chair and glowers. “I would not want to give even the appearance of bias.” Yeah, right. “You have your forty-five days, Ms. Everton. I will see you back here in October.”

CHAPTER NINE

VON

I keep my face tight and controlled as we leave the courthouse.

But in all seriousness…what the ever-loving fuck was that?

“What happened?” Al mutters in my ear and I shake my head once.

“Later,” I mutter back.

The press has arrived and crowd us as we get into the town car. “Take us to the estate,” I tell Alex.

“But Pop—” Noah starts to protest.

“Grayson is with him,” I say firmly. “He’ll be fine.” I’m not arguing with Noah and he’s not going back to that tiny little house. There’s zero security and it’s only a matter of time before the press phalanx grows even larger than it was this morning. The last thing we need is for Noah to accidentally create another tabloid moment. At least we can keep them at bay from the mansion.

But this judge—I’ve never been so infuriated in my life.

There’s nothing I hate more than a biased judge. Yes, I am adefense lawyer, and yes, sometimes it is my job to allow guilty people to walk free (okay, maybe more than sometimes) but always within a framework of fairness. It’s not like I haven’t encountered judges who favor one side or the other before, but this is something entirely different. Sending messages through the sheriff, insane trial dates, the clear coziness between him and the prosecutor… I would have thought they’dsupportNoah, being one of their own. The blue wall and all that. Instead, it seems like they are more than happy to toss him under the bus.

And that sets my alarm bells ringing.

We arrive at the house and I’m out of the car before Alex can even open his own door. I’ve almost forgotten it’s still peak tourist season, and the estate is open for tastings. I can see people standing up at the tables on the veranda, taking pictures.

We need to get out of Magnolia Bay.

“Get inside,” I say to Noah as he catches sight of the tourists and groans.

“I didn’t realize the tasting room was still open,” I say to Alistair, who shrugs.

“We can’t close it down. That sends the wrong message. We need to act like everything is business as usual. And you know—white women love wine andtrue crime.”

“Do you even hear yourself when you say things like that?” I ask.

Alistair shrugs. His attitude toward life has always been to make light of everything.

As soon as we step inside, Caden comes rushing up to us, Isla at his side.

“We just heard about the trial date,” he says, holding up his phone to show us Everly Harris’s most recent post. “December? Like, this coming December? Is that normal?”

“No,” I say curtly. “Where’s Dad?”

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