Page 13 of Defend Me

But first, I need to prepare for the arraignment. And find someplace for Grayson to stay.

The idea comes to me in a flash. Isla’s family runs the local bed and breakfast.

“Hey, Isla,” I say. “Could I ask you for a favor?”

She immediately perks up. “Sure,” she gushes. “Anything.”

So that’s Grayson’s accommodations taken care of.

Now I’ve got to get ready for court.

CHAPTER FIVE

NOAH

The sheriff arrives bright and early Monday morning to bring me to the arraignment.

This time in jail has been endless. The waiting, the wondering, sleeping on the cold metal bench. They brought me blankets and a lumpy pillow, and Derek let me use the showers here last night. He also brought me a book—John Grisham. Not what I would have chosen myself, but I wasn’t about to say no to any form of distraction. I’ve read it twice already.

Caden and Isla’s visit was the lone bright spot. I almost cried when I ate one of her biscuits. Isla’s baking brought me outside of my cell for a minute, back to a time before this nightmare began. Being stuck here for almost two days, life hasn’t seemed real. Time either passes in large dollops, or crawls at a glacial pace. I’ve found myself falling into an almost meditative state followed by periods of intense panic. Or rereadingThe Firm.

I’m glad something is happening at last.

And I’ll get to see Pop today. I wonder who else is going to beat the arraignment. The sheriff tried to interview me again, but I refused to talk to him without Von. I wonder what she’s up to—if she’s made any progress.

It’s weird, being on the same team as her. I’m incredibly grateful for the support, of course. It’s just…weird.

The bars creak open and the sheriff stares down at me. He’s in his sixties, with a shock of graying hair and paunch born of many barbecues and football tailgates. His weathered face is even more creased by the deep frown marring his expression.

“It’s time,” he says, holding out a pair of handcuffs. All the blood drains from my face. I know for a fact we don’t normally cuff suspects for arraignment.

I clench my jaw and stand without a word, allowing the sheriff to hook the cold metal circles around my wrists. This is so humiliating, but I’ve protested my innocence enough. He’s not hearing me. But it’s not up to him anymore—I’m in the judge’s hands now. Whoever that may be. I hope it’s Judge Pritchard—she’s a former public defender and a level-headed jurist.

Sheriff Briggs takes me out the back entrance, which feels ominous, and into his SUV. The drive to the courthouse is short, but as we approach, my stomach drops. Reporters are everywhere, like beetles skittering over the steps and racing almost in unison toward the car as we pull up to the curb. I keep my head down as lights flash, cameras click, and questions are shouted at me from every angle.

“Noah! Noah, over here!”

“Why did you kill her Noah?”

“Is it true you’re being represented by Siobhan Everton?”

“How does the family feel about your arrest?”

“Have you spoken to the Evertons?”

“Why did you kill her? Noah! Why did you kill Marion?”

Each question leaves a bruise. It’s shocking, the vociferous way they shout at me, assuming my guilt. The shackles around my wrists feel heavy. I stare at my shoes as I make my way up thesteps of the courthouse, my pulse pounding in my ears. I’ve been here so many times, to testify in a trial, to pick up a warrant, to file paperwork. Never like this though. The reporters crowd me, pushing and shoving, trying to get close. I am not a violent person, but I feel anger bubble up within me, the desire to push and shove them right back, to shout at them that I didn’t do this horrible crime. To make them leave me alone. To go back to before. I just want to go back to before this all happened.

I’m beginning to feel like the naïve idiot Von has always accused me of being. If this is the reaction I’m getting from the press, what does that mean about my community at large? Is everyone in Magnolia Bay assuming I’m a murderer? Panic grips me by the throat.

Suddenly, as if by magic, they all turn their cameras and questions away from me. For a moment, I can breathe. Then I hear the shouts change to, “Siobhan!”

I look up in time to see Von emerging from a sleek black town car. She wears a fitted, olive-green sheath dress and matching heels, oversize sunglasses hiding her eyes, her hair slicked back in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. A leather briefcase is clutched in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. The family driver, Alex, shuttles her through the reporters, as she deftly deflects all their questions with a smooth, “No comment.”

She reaches me at the top of the stairs and nods to the sheriff.

“I’ll take him from here,” she says and the sheriff steps back. She glances at Alex, who is holding another coffee cup. He hands it to me and makes his way back down the courthouse steps to the car.

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