“What’s my sister to you?” Dan asks softly.
I want to joke away the question but something in the way Dan asks it makes it clear that the question is deadly serious for him.
“Honestly? I’m not sure yet. But, I really want a chance to find out. And I hope that she’s willing to give me that chance.”
He nods, seems to contemplate something else, and is about to speak when the door opens and another colleague files in. We get back to work, not able to continue the conversation, which I find frustrating.
I have to focus on the job at hand though, and that’s not Laura. I’m already surprised enough to see that Dan seems to know about Laura and I. I don’t know the details, exactly, but I suppose that once Laura found out I was dead, or thought I was dead, there seemed to be no harm in telling Dan what had happened or some version of the facts.
We go through the files one-by-one, making sure that I’ve indexed everything correctly, that the judge has every detail she requires. The day moves on at a fast clip. It’s dark by the time we break. They’re all going to their hotel, and I’m going to mine. I’m still being sequestered; we need the element of surprise.
Court starts tomorrow. Our documentation is ready, our case is ready. The others will be first. Me? Well, the FBI will make sure that no one will see me. That’s going to take a whole other level of rigamarole.
The others file out, and Dan waits. He grabs his coat and his briefcase and looks back my way.
“You and Laura, you have a lot to talk about,” he says, selecting his words carefully. I’ve seen him in the courtroom often enough to know when he’s building a case. I’m not sure if he’s building it for or against Laura and I.
“We do,” I agree. “I have to be honest, Dan, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. She’s the last good thing that happened to me before I had to leave home. She’s one of the best things that I think has happened to me. I want to see how far this can go. I really want to see her again. I hope she’ll be willing to see me, too.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Dan says with a grin. “Alright, I’ve got to get going. Your FBI escort is waiting. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“You’ll see me tomorrow,” I say, and those words have never felt so sweet.
I follow my colleagues into the courtroom. There’s a moment of satisfaction when I hear an intake of breath and some shocked gasps from the people gathered there. It’s a closed courtroom but there are some reporters, and there are a lot of people who know my face.
I’m returning from the dead, and that’s not exactly something you see every day, not even in court. The defense attorney for the Malcons stands.
“This is highly unusual,” she says. “He can’t just come back from the dead like that.”
“Sure I can,” I answer, my confidence rising as theirs seems shaken. “The judge is already aware of this.”
“Well, I wasn’t,” she snaps. “My clients have a right to know.”
“Your clients,” I lean in. If we’re going to do some posturing, I can do some posturing, “tried to have me killed. The fact that they did not succeed doesn’t mean that they get a second chance, which is why I was kept in witness protection until this moment. If I were you,” I growl the last softly as a threat, “I would ensure that you tell your clients not to try this again. It won’t exactly help their case.”
Her eyes shoot fire at me, but she nods nonetheless. She has no leg to stand on. The FBI drops the folder on her bench, and she turns to begin analyzing it. Her eyes growing slightly wider as she scans the documents is the only sign that she might still have some humanity left within her. The Malcons have more than one lawyer, she’s just the lead. They have at least ten, although only three of them are at the bench today, with the Godfather himself, Lucky Malcon, aka Lucien Malcon Sr., standing there too. He nods my way as though acknowledging my trick. I think I see some respect in his eyes, but I might just be imagining it. It’s been a long few months after all, leading to this moment.
I head towards my bench with my team but stare back at Lucky. He’s a good-looking man - tall, dark hair combed back, dark eyes. Age hasn’t been the kindest to him, nor has it been the harshest. He even has laugh lines.
I imagine that if I were to see him on the street, not wearing the Armani suit that he’s wearing now, I might mistake him for a grandfather. But he’s killed so many people - or at least ordered them to be killed - and made the lives of countless others so difficult.
It was hard to imagine him as anything but a cold-blooded killer. He’s counting on that grandfatherly look, though, to get him out of trouble, to help sway the jury his way. It’s a closed-circuit jury. The Malcons will have no idea who’s sitting on it, to protect their identities and their lives.
Where the jury would usually sit are several cameras and closed networks. The actual jury sits about five doors down, but it might as well be miles away, in an entire different town, there’s so much security between them and us. With the bombing of the community center, it was decided that the entire courtroom would be closed to the public during these proceedings, and that the bomb squad would be on site, just in case. Specially trained canine units are also here, sweeping the perimeter, making sure nothing that even smells remotely of a bomb is around. So far, so good.
I don’t think that Lucky would try anything here. It’s too obvious. Besides, doing so would only buy him escape time until he’s caught again. The Malcons have never hidden in the shadows. They’ve always been very noticeable, a known quantity. I’m pretty sure they like being able to get away with stuff, while staying in the light.
Well, that ends today. Thanks to that philosophy, we have lots to work with and they’re not going to get away. The judge walks in and we all rise. She nods to me and to the defense attorney, and the procedures start.
We have a lot of evidence to get through. This is going to take awhile.
It takes about two weeks to build the case against the Malcons, including Lucky himself and his entire sick operation. This should be the final day. I’m relieved and exhausted.
Reporters have been sharing articles with the public but without much detail. The gag order on the court procedure has been quite tight, and their articles have to be vetted by the privacy officers on site beforehand to protect the identities of witnesses and as well as myself.
The entire world doesn’t know I’m back yet, and it needs to stay that way for now. Besides, I can’t imagine Laura finding out that I’m still alive from a newspaper article. That’s cold, too cold. She deserves so much better.
I keep trying to get more information from Dan, but he skirts around the issue every time, saying that I need to talk to Laura.
Is she still available?
“You need to talk to Laura.”
Is she doing well?
“You need to talk to Laura.”
Does she like to dance with flamingos at midnight under the full moon?
“You have to talk to Laura.”
Once Dan has set his mind to something, it’s obvious that there’s no getting around it - makes him a good lawyer and an annoying friend. I’m getting a cup of coffee at the break when I feel a presence behind me. I turn part-way, and see Shorty, Lucky’s son, standing near.
He’s the one who ordered the attack on the community center or so the rumors go. His father hasn’t said anything of the sort on the stand, but the Malcons are loyal to one another. His father won’t give up his own son.
“How long do you think you can keep this up?” Shorty asks in a low voice.
I turn more fully to him. He’s taller than me, and definitely more broad-shouldered. He’s trying to intimidate me. I stand my ground. I’d been trained to prosecute some of the toughest criminals across the country. I’m not about to be intimidated now - not by the second fiddle in a small town mob.
“Keep what up?” I ask, not looking too interested as I drink my coffee.
“Staying aliv
e,” He smirks at me.
I lock gazes with him.
“For a good long time,” I say. “And, unlike you, I intend to live my time outside of jail.”
He smirks, and I walk around him, making it seem as though he’s a mere inconvenience. He is a mere inconvenience but a dangerous one. By the time we resume court, I look for him in the audience, but the seat that he’s been holding for the past couple of weeks, right behind his father, is now vacant.
The judge strikes her gavel. The court falls silent. Everyone stands for the verdict.
“How does the jury find the defendant?” she asks, words spoken in courts across the country over the centuries, but never have I felt that they held such weight. For me, at least. This is my biggest case to date, and it’s personal.
Miriam and Ruth sit right behind me. I turn just a little bit and wink at Ruth. She smiles, but she looks nervous, as does her mom. I don’t blame them. These are scary times, indeed, and they’re brave to be here at all. But all of my remaining clients are - to represent those that can’t be here. There’s strength in standing up for one another, especially for those who can longer stand for themselves.
I focus back on the verdict. It’s long, but to the point. Every count that we bring against the Malcons, from arson, to theft, to money-laundering, to murder, is passed by the jury.
Guilty on all counts.
Several others are named as well, that were part of the court case. They’ll have their own court time, but it doesn’t look good for them.
And Lucky Malcon? He’s going away for a long, long time.
“Court adjourned,” the judge says, striking her gavel again. And with that strike, I feel a weight lift off my shoulders. My head lowers, and Dan comes and claps me on the back.
“You did great, man.”
We shake hands, and he heads off to congratulate the other lawyers, and I turn to Miriam and Ruth.
“Can we go home now?” Miriam asks.
“You can,” I smile. “You’ll be safe now.” They will be safe, we’d made sure of that. Police officers have even been through every single home to make sure that there are no nasty surprises waiting for them. The neighborhood would have increased watch but that was for the best. Nobody would hurt these people again.
Ruth hugs me.
“Thank you,” she whispers in her little voice.
“You’re welcome, Ruth,” I answer.
They leave with the rest of their neighbors to celebrate the victory. The defense lawyers don’t look happy at all, nor should they. But they’re the ones who decided to defend a mobster, that isn’t my problem.
My job is making sure that people like that go away, and don’t return.
Lucky’s sentence is long. There’s no doubt in my mind that he won’t outlive it. Even the best lawyers won’t get him parole, not for twenty-five years at least. By then, he’ll be nearing ninety. This is the end of his career.
The bailiffs put shackles on him and he nods towards me to ask me to come speak with him. I do. He extends his right hand, his left hand just below it, as far as the shackles will let it go. I look at it, and then I take it, and we slowly shake hands.
“This was hard-earned,” he says. “I don’t appreciate you doing this to my family, but I also respect it. For what it’s worth, you have my word that we’ll leave you and yours alone - that includes your clients.”
I look the man in the eye. He has a reputation for being hard and nasty, but also honorable. There has to be some kind of code of conduct, even amongst thieves, lest they run wild and rampant within their own ranks. I nod to him.
“It means a lot. I appreciate that.”
He returns the nod, and then the bailiffs take him away. I hope it’s the last I ever see of the Malcons. For now, all that I want is to get out of here and taste freedom once again.
I can’t wait to be free of police escort, to be free of the fear of bombings, and to pursue my heart’s desires. And right now, after a good shower, a good burger, and a good sleep, I intend to pursue my heart all the way to Laura Martin’s door.
14
Laura
Every book in the mystery section is shelved perfectly. I run my finger across the spines, feeling the different textures and papers and the beautiful bindings, admiring the various fonts and author names. I pause where my name should be, where my name will be some day. It’s a good spot.
I close my eyes and place my hand on my very large belly, and I imagine what my baby will look like.
After managing to write several letters to my unborn child, I still can’t write fiction. Maybe this is one of those life cycle things. To everything a season, my mom used to say.
Right now, my season is this. I look down at my belly. My season is having a child and raising it to the best of my abilities. My time right now is to be a mother and maybe that’s it, and that’s okay. I’m still a sister, a best friend, a good person - being an author will have to wait just a little bit longer.
A lot of writers say that if you put words down on a page, that alone is enough to call yourself an author. I agree with that, even though I want to see my books on the shelves. But, the truth is, I haven’t been writing. I haven’t written fiction for months. I doubt I’ll be writing any time soon, either, raising this child by myself, with only Dan and Amanda to back me up.
I’m most surprised by how much it doesn’t bother me. I’m happy with this decision; I’m looking forward to this next adventure. It’s not what I expected, no, and that’s okay. I feel in my heart that if I keep visualizing my books on these shelves, and if I keep targeting that success, I will achieve it at some point. Maybe not for some time, no. Maybe not for years to come, but I’m still young, and there’s lots of time. Many authors don’t start their careers until they’re well in their fifties, even later.
And I’m not even thirty yet.
I feel peace with my decision to become a mother, to take on the challenge of raising this child alone. To give up my job at the bookstore, for awhile, at least. To live with my brother, although I have to admit, I wish I had different living arrangements. At least Dan is a good man, but he’s still my brother, and he can still be obnoxious. Not to mention he’s been away for two weeks. I don’t have any news, and I’m worried sick.
I sigh, take a deep breath. I have to be careful about my blood pressure. The doctor made that clear, which is why I have to leave my job a whole month early - earlier than anticipated. Even if the baby’s born now, it’ll be fine, a little bit smaller, maybe, but ready to come out any time. Still, the doctor would like me to make my full term.
“Which would be more doable,” I mutter, “if my brother would stop stressing me out.”
I give the mystery section one more look as I head back towards the cash register. It’s almost closing time. This is my last shift for a long time. With my discount, I’ve purchased enough books to keep me going for at least… hm… two weeks - unless the baby comes early. I imagine I won’t have much time for books once I’m busy being a mom, that’s okay too. Again, I haven’t even been reading that much.
It’s like that one night with Chris sparked this world of possibilities, and the direction of my life changed. It still feels a little bit out of my control, but it doesn’t mean that I can’t make peace with it.
If I am able to control more of my life, I’ll be in a completely different position. No, this is good. I’ll miss this place. I’ll miss my old life. But I’m sure I’ll love the one coming up, too.
I feel like I’m trying to convince myself, and I guess part of me is. I mean, it’s scary. I can make peace with it all I want, but it’s damned terrifying to think about heading out there, not knowing what to expect… What if I drop the baby? What if I set it on fire? What if I put it in the oven by accident? These things happen, right?
According to baby books, they don’t really, except maybe dropping the kid. But… I can see myself doing all of these things. Not in any conceivable situation, but I’ll
be tired, and stressed, and worried… and for all I know my brother is never coming back and he’s lying dead somewhere, and nobody’s told me yet.
I take another deep breath and close my eyes. I really need to calm down. I can feel my blood pressure pounding in my head. More deep breaths, my hand on my belly. I focus on the moment, and what is in my control.
The one thing I have been reading is books on meditation. They help to some degree, but I also feel like the only thing I get out of them is to be mindful and to breathe. I could have gotten that out of a quick article on the internet.
My baby kicks inside of me, and I smile. I open my eyes and look out the window. The sun is setting, the evening will be beautiful. My baby kicks again.
“Aren’t we rowdy today,” I laugh. I swear this kid already knows me. I always get kicked when I’m worried or when I’m overthinking. When I’m laughing too much, it feels like it’s rolling in my stomach. I imagine the child as both a boy and a girl interchangeably.
I can’t wait to meet them, whatever they are - to get to hold them, to look in their eyes - another kick.
“What has gotten into you today? I swear, I’m calm,” for my words, I get another kick. That’s a little bit unusual. The baby is usually a bit quieter in the evenings, mostly enjoying motion right after meals or when I’m agitated.
I mean, thinking about Dan makes me nervous, sure, but not that nervous. I’m looking at my belly when the door to the store opens, the little chime ringing.
I look up, and I stare. The baby kicks once more and then lies quiet. Both my hands come around my belly in a protective gesture, or one of disbelief.
I’m staring at the man who walks in, smiling at me. Dark hair, with a little bit more salt in it than I remembered. Dark eyes, wide smile, but a tentative look.
“Hi, Laura,” he says. “It’s been a long time.”
I blame the hormones. I one hundred percent blame the hormones, in fact. Tears well in my eyes, and I get dizzy. My blood pressure slams into the back of my head. I feel like I’m going to fall, but strong hands grab me and help me find a seat.
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