Page 15 of Defend Me

“How do you think he’s feeling?” Von snaps. “I can’t believe they put you in cuffs,” she says to me. Then she points a finger at Alistair. “None of your jokes with reporters today.”

“I know, I know,” Alistair says, glancing back again toward the reporters. “There are even more of them than I thought there’d be.”

“And watch your language,” Von adds. “Okay. We can’t wait for Dad. Let’s go.”

Von and I enter the courtroom first. Rows of polished wooden benches face the front of the room. Portraits of former judges line the walls and two large windows on one side of the room let in the late August sunshine. Pop, Isla, Caden, and the rest of the Everton siblings take their seats in the front row on the defense side. Then the reporters and onlookers begin to file in.

As people from town take their seats, I can see the lines being drawn. The first through the doors are Charlotte Perez, Isla’s best friend, leading Grace, Isla’s twelve-year-old sister, down the aisle to sit behind Isla and Caden. It may seem weird to bring a child to an arraignment but I’m sure Grace insisted on coming. She’s a really unique kid, precocious and with an eidetic memory.

Reggie and Dev, a married couple I’ve known for years, are next and they, too, take seats on the defense side. Dev runs the local cheese shop, the Grater Good, and Reggie is Magnolia Bay’s mechanic. I feel a surge of hope and shoot them a grateful smile. Reggie gives me a low thumbs up.

“Stop fucking smiling,” Von hisses at me and my expression instantly sobers.

Mike and Emily Cochran sit on the prosecution side. Theirfather runs the local bike and kayak rental, and Mike is known for being a troublemaker around town. Emily is nice though—I thought maybe she would believe me. Cody Briggs follows and sits next to them. He’s the sheriff’s son, so I shouldn’t be surprised he’s on that side of the aisle. Linda May Cheswick, a notorious gossip who works at Magnolia Bay’s best wine bar, the Crooked Screw, takes a seat beside Cody. Linda lives for drama, so I guess it’s more exciting to believe I’m a murderer.

When Martha Greerson stomps into the courtroom, I hold my breath. Mrs. Greerson is the older generation’s version of Linda May, but a far more powerful figure in this town. Her opinion will carry a lot of weight. She hesitates for one moment before sidling into a bench on the defense side. Jake Stein, who owns the Crooked Screw, takes the seat next to her. She whispers something to him, and he nods. Joni Lewis, who runs the flower shop that Isla lives above, scurries into the courtroom to join Jake and Mrs. Greerson. Eric and Pamela Kim, who own the local coffeeshop, hover uncomfortably before taking seats on the prosecution side. The rest of the onlookers from town follow suit, most joining the prosecution side, which fills up quickly, while the defense side has a lot of empty seats.

This does not look good for me.

I see a slender, Asian man in his early twenties slip into the courtroom right before the bailiff closes the doors. The cut of his suit tells me he’s not from around here. He shoots Von an apologetic look as she mutters, “Finally.”

And, last but not least, Russell Everton stalks into the courtroom. All heads swivel to him, all eyes fixed on the most powerful man in this town. He wears a perfectly tailored, dark blue suit, his salt and pepper hair slicked back, his dark eyes flashing.

He walks down the aisle with the confidence of a man accustomed to power. I feel Von tense beside me.

Then he takes a seat next to Caden. I see Linda May shiftuncomfortably and the Kims whisper to each other. Russell being on my side means a lot.

Then the bailiff says, “All rise,” and I turn my attention toward the front of the room.

We stand as the judge enters. I feel the blood drain from my face as I realize which judge I’ve drawn.

The honorable Judge Norman Warner is well-known for being authoritative, impulsive, and generally ruling in favor of the prosecution. Of course, when I was working for the prosecution’s side, this never bothered me much. Now I feel like the uphill climb I’m facing just got a whole lot steeper.

“Crap,” I mutter.

Von’s eyes dart to me. “You know him?”’

I nod.

Judge Warner takes his seat, and we all follow suit. He picks up the sheet of paper with the charges on it. “In the matter of the case of the People v. Noah Patterson, the defendant is charged with first degree murder.”

The prosecutor shoots up from his desk. Wilbur is in his late fifties, prematurely gray, with the air of a Sunday morning TV anchor. “Good morning, your honor. Wilbur Jenkins for the people. Noah Patterson’s prints were found on a shell casing at the scene. He had knowledge of the house and the family’s movements and routines. He knew how to access the shed where Marion Everton was murdered through a hidden entrance in the house’s garden, which allowed him to enter and exit the backyard of the house unseen. We believe he was stalking Marion Everton. We have letters that will prove this stalking. We believe that when she rejected his advances, he shot her in cold blood.” Some light murmurs ripple through the courtroom. No one knew about the stalking—we had been keeping that information close to the vest. “The brutality and premeditation of this crime calls for the charge of first-degree murder. We ask that the defendant be remanded without bail.”

“But—” The word slips out before I can stop it and Von’s hand clamps down on my thigh in a vice-like grip. A warning: shut the hell up.

Then she stands.

“Good morning, your honor,” she says. “Siobhan Everton for the defense.”

“I know who you are,” Judge Warner says, peering down his nose at her. “I thought you worked for Phillips, Brace, and Horowitz.”

“I do, your honor. I am taking this case myself, outside of the firm, pro bono.”

“You don’t think that presents a conflict of interest?”

“I do not, your honor. I believe my client is innocent. Which means the man who killed my mother is still at large.”

She says it so smoothly and with such conviction, for a moment, I feel like everyone in this courtroom will have to believe her. Especially when her words are met with loud gasps and whispers from the gallery. The judge bangs his gavel.

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