Page 78 of Legally Ours

A rustle behind us sounded, along with a few clicks. A group of cameras had noticed our presence, and when I glanced over, one of the photographers was nudging the other, then pointing at Brandon. Shit.

"Mr. Messina," the judge spoke. "I'm going to have you stand next to your attorney, if you please."

Messina didn't answer, but the room was silent. The chains of Messina's handcuffs clinked loudly against the larger one wrapped about his hips as the bailiffs escorted him from his place by the door of the jail to where his lawyer stood, just in front of us. Bubbe took a sharp breath beside me, and Dad wrapped his fists together so tightly his knuckles turned white around the scarring. The scars that had been put there by Victor Messina.

All I felt was rage.

"Mr. Messina," the judge spoke, "these proceedings are being recorded. You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say may be used against you in this and any subsequent proceeding. You have the right to be assisted by a lawyer at every stage of these proceedings. You have the right to a public defender should you qualify, though it looks like your personal counsel is assisting you for this hearing. Is that right?"

"Yes, your honor," Messina's lawyer answered with a thick, East Brooklyn accent.

The judge continued: "Mr. Messina, do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?"

Messina bent over the desk to speak into the microphone, and the chains on his hands clinked loudly through the speakers. "I do."

The judge read the charges in a low, bored voice, even though the gallery perked up a bit with each of the thirteen separate counts of racketeering, kidnapping, aggravated assault, tax fraud, attempted rape, and murder. Messina just stood stony-faced until the end, when he turned around at glared at me and Dad.

Beside me, Brandon tensed, and I was glad that Messina couldn't see past the bar to where I grasped at Brandon's hand. Brandon squeezed it tight, rubbing his thumb again over my ring.

The judge turned to Cipolla. "Counsel, do you wish to be heard on the issue of Probable Cause?"

Cipolla shook his head, "No, your honor."

"I have reviewed the charges as well as the information submitted by the State. I find that there is probable cause for these charges. Counsel, are you prepared to move to arraignment?"

Both the prosecutors and Messina's attorneys nodded. The judge proceeded to read Messina's rights regarding arraignment, which were then confirmed by Messina.

"Please state your true and correct name, and spell your last name for the record."

"Victor Salvaturi Messina. M-E-S-S-I-N-A," he said clearly, and the name made my blood boil.

The judge handed something to his clerk. Messina's lawyer came forward and took the document from her.

"Thank you, your honor. We'll waive the reading of the charges." Messina's lawyer walked back to his client, standing by his side.

"Mr. Messina, these charges, if proven, have a maximum penalty of life in prison. If you are not a United States citizen, these charges may carry additional penalties to your immigration status and may result in your deportation. In addition, these charges may carry with them restitution to the victims, based on the effect of these crimes on their life."

It wasn't a statement of guilt or anything close to a sentence. After all, according to the law, Messina was innocent until proven guilty. But the promise of that kind of penalty caused everyone in my family to exhale. Maybe, just maybe, there would be justice served at the end of all of this.

"Mr. Messina, do you wish to enter a plea at this time?" asked the judge.

"Take it," I muttered to myself. "Take the deal."

If he would just take the plea, this would all be over. No more hulking security, no more worrying if something terrible was going to happen to me or my family, no more trial clouding Brandon's campaign or my career.

But Messina turned his chunky head around and stared at Dad, Bubbe, and then at me with dark, hollow eyes that made my chest constrict. He smiled, a slow, evil grimace that bared his tobacco-stained teeth like some kind of demented jack-o-lantern.

Messina's lawyer started to speak, "Your honor, my client pleads guil––"

Messina whipped around, cutting off his attorney. "I ain't guilty," he pronounced so emphatically I thought he might spit on the ground.

"Counsel, do you need a minute with your client?" asked the judge, this time more impatiently.

Beside him, I could see Messina's lawyer shaking his head, trying to get his client to cooperate. He was never going to win this trial––he knew it, and so did everyone else in the room. His only chance would be to get rid of the witnesses. My heart dropped. My family and I would be living in fear for another several months.

"Mr. Messina, how do you plea?" asked the judge once more.

"Not guilty," Messina replied and stood as tall as his stubby form would allow him. Then he looked back to us again and leered.

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