Page 6 of Salem's Fall
Katie works for the DA’s office, and I’ve heard horror stories about the man. She says he rides his team like Seabiscuit. Sure enough, a bunch of nervous-looking associates trail behind him in a neat line, carrying stacks of files and exchanging panicked looks and last-minute whispers.
Then the judge enters, small and slight, but commanding. Flanked by her clerk and the court reporter, she steps up to the bench, her presence immediately quieting the room. Her silver hair is pinned back meticulously, her black judicial robes lending her an air of authority and quiet power. Judge Ruth Matheson is known in legal circles for her sharp mind and her insistence on fairness. We’re lucky to have her.
An almost electric stillness grips the room as the hearing begins. Damien stands beside us, his expression giving nothing away as Judge Matheson reads the charges. It all feels surreal as the judge describes in graphic detail the horrific and brutal slaying of Ms. Van Buren—the dozens of knife wounds, her blood covering the walls and floors of the bedroom.
I steal a glance at Damien, but his face remains impassive. He doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t react. I don’t know how he can be so calm. My palms are damp, a sheen of sweat prickling at the back of my neck—and I’m just the attorney.
Then it’s time to decide bail.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, taking notes, ready to access case law or pull up relevant precedent should the judge ask for it. The DA stands, his voice resonating through the packed courtroom.
“Your Honor, we’re asking that bail be denied. Mr. Blackhollow is a billionaire with significant resources and poses a serious flight risk,” he says. “He’s accused of a heinous crime—one that shows a clear and present danger to the community.”
I glance at Quinn as he stands to argue. This is where the real battle begins.
Quinn clears his throat, his voice confident. “Your Honor, I’d like to direct the court’s attention toCommonwealth v. Hodge,which reminds us that bail should be set with careful consideration of an accused’s ties to the community and the presumption of innocence. Mr. Blackhollow has no prior criminal record, is a well-regarded businessman, and maintains deep roots here in Boston.” He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing, “He’s willing to surrender his passport and comply with any conditions the court deems necessary. There’s no evidence to suggest he’s a flight risk, nor does he pose any actual threat to public safety.”
The DA scoffs. “Your Honor, with all due respect, I believe the brutality of this crime underscores the threat to the public,” he says, his tone dripping with disdain. “Ms. Van Buren suffered twenty-seven stab wounds—her head almostdecapitatedfrom her body. This was the work of some unhinged madman—one who could turn dangerous again if left unchecked. The people of Massachusetts deserve protection.”
“We strongly disagree, Your Honor,” Quinn says, raising his voice. “Commonwealth v. Muckleis instructive here. The court inMucklestressed that the conditions of release should account for the actual behavior of the defendant, rather than mere speculation as to what they could or could not do if bail were granted. In Mr. Blackhollow’s case, any perceived risk can be fully mitigated through house arrest, electronic monitoring, and passport surrender.”
The judge’s gaze sweeps over both attorneys, her expression thoughtful as she weighs the arguments. The room holds its breath as the silence stretches, every eye fixed on the bench.
Finally, she speaks, her tone authoritative. “Mr.Blackhollow will be granted bail, set at two million dollars. He’ll be placed under house arrest, subject to electronic monitoring, and is to surrender his passport and remain within the Commonwealth until trial.”
“But Your Honor?—”
The judge bangs her gavel. “We’re adjourned,” she says and gives the DA a dismissive, annoyed look.
Quinn offers a measured nod in my direction. It’s a victory, but a small one.
Damien’s face betrays nothing, no indication of relief or concern, as a deputy returns to collect him and take him to the holding room. “I expect regular updates from you,” he says to Quinn, but his eyes linger on me. A smile, almost baiting, pulls at his lips. “And, James, I’m counting on you to keep him on his toes.”
I nod back, not knowing the proper way to respond to that.
After Damien is escorted away, we head outside the courthouse and are immediately greeted by Mark Sharma—the jackass. My nemesis is out of breath, as if he’d sprinted over to catch us, his entire body vibrating with eagerness. The senior associate is dressed sharply in a pinstripe suit and a flashy, blindingly bright tie, his hair slicked back with too much product. Grudgingly, I have to admit that if not for his utterly odious personality, he’d probably be considered attractive by most people’s standards.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, his eyes shifting from Quinn to me, lingering just a beat too long on my face. “We were up all night next door, getting ready for the Brandt trial on Monday. I got here as soon as I heard you needed help.”
I barely suppress a groan. What a suck-up.
“Thanks for coming by so quickly,” Quinn says. “We could use more hands on this. You think the trial team can spare your hours?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good, because this is going to be massive. All hands on deck.” Quinn gives us both a stern look. “I need you both back in my office early tomorrow morning to go over details. Mark, get us one of the lead trial paralegals and make sure we’ve got secretarial support.” Without waiting for a response, he pulls out his phone and dials, already shifting into action. As he strides toward the parking lot, his voice is brisk, all business. “And, guys, be prepared for a long day.”
As soon as Quinn is gone, Mark’s eyes lock on mine with a mixture of condescension and disdain. I know exactly what’s coming.
“Looks like I’ll be playing babysitter,” he sneers. “Hope you’re up for this one, Woodsen. Wouldn’t want another‘incident’.”
My stomach tightens, but I refuse to give this asshole the satisfaction of a reaction.
“I can handle it.”
He chuckles, low and smug. “Based on your last fuck-up, I respectfully disagree. You should stick to research memos—you’re not ready for this.” He gives me a sleazy wink. “But hey, keep wearing those little pink suits and smiling pretty. Maybe Quinn won’t notice you’ve got no idea what the hell you’re doing.”
Even if he’s just trying to intimidate me, his warning has the intended effect. Uncertainty creeps in, wrapping around my resolve like a vise. I don’t want to believe his words—don’t want to give them power—but deep down, a quiet, insidious voice whispers:
