Chapter 5
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 rereading The Firm .
I’m glad something is happening at last.
And I’ll get to see Pop today. I wonder who else is going to be at 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 the steps 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 na?ve 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.
“Thanks,” I croak. My voice is raspy from lack of use and I feel clumsy holding it with my hands linked together.
“Get inside,” Von says in a clipped tone. Her eyes dart to the handcuffs and her nostrils flare.
We enter the cool marble foyer, and I gulp at the coffee, the caffeine an instantaneous relief. The courthouse is an old relic from the late 1800s. Our footsteps echo as we walk toward the security guards, Ben and Letitia. I’ve known them for years. Ben is just a kid, younger than me, and he looks like he doesn’t know what to with himself. Like I’m suddenly a stranger to him. Letitia is in her fifties, ex-military, with close cropped black hair and a strong build. I’m grateful when I see a flash of sympathy in her eyes.
Von plops her briefcase on the table and Letitia runs the wand over her. Ben does the same with me, still seemingly unable to make eye contact.
“You okay?” Letitia asks me quietly.
“I’ve definitely been better.”
She grimaces. “You’re all set,” she says, stepping aside. “Courtroom three.”
There are only four courtrooms total in this building. Three is the largest.
My heart starts to thud an urgent, heavy beat in my chest. I polish off my coffee and toss it in a nearby bin. Von and I head down the hall toward the courtrooms.
“When we go in, the judge is going to read the charges against you,” she says. “Then the prosecutor will give a statement of the facts that support the charges, and you will enter a plea.”
“I know how arraignments work,” I say, unable to keep the bite out of my tone.
“Don’t get snippy, I do this with all my clients. You will say ‘not guilty’ and those are the only two words you will speak. You will not look at anyone except for me or the judge. Keep your expression as neutral as possible. There will be cameras everywhere.”
“Yeah, no shit,” I grumble. I feel like my skin is itching from the inside out. Being snippy with Von is the only thing keeping me from breaking apart. We can hear the doors to the courthouse being opened behind us along with the swell of voices as the reporters enter the foyer .
Then I hear a voice that almost brings me to my knees.
“Noah!”
I turn and see Pop, hurrying through security and toward me. Caden and Isla are just behind him. The swarm of reporters fills the security area and cameras click-click-click as Pop crashes into me, enveloping me in a bear hug. He smells like wool and Old Spice, and I wish I could hug him back. I have to blink away the tears in my eyes. I don’t know how the press will interpret anything. Von is right—I’ve got to keep my expression neutral.
“Oh, my boy,” Pop says. He releases me and wipes his eyes. “You look tired. Why did they put you in handcuffs? That’s not right.”
Before I can answer, Isla throws her arms around me. “We believe in you,” she whispers in my ear.
I cannot express how badly I needed to hear that. My throat is so swollen, it would hurt to speak. It was only a day and a half, but right now, it’s felt like years that I was in that jail cell. I keep staring at Pop, his wild gray hair, his rumpled khakis, his bifocals hanging from a chain around his neck.
“Noah can’t go into the courtroom crying,” Von says.
“I’m not crying,” I snap, my anger only slightly undercut by the way my voice trembles. Pop puts a calming hand on my shoulder.
“Take a breath,” he says. “This is all going to work out. Siobhan is an excellent lawyer.”
“Thank you, Mr. Patterson,” Von says, then glances around. “Where’s the rest of the family?” she asks Caden.
Suddenly, there’s an eruption of clicking and shouting from the entryway and I see the Everton siblings arrive. Letitia lets them through. I scan their faces. Daisy gives me a worried smile. Finn looks as slick and polished as always. Alistair keeps glancing back at the throng of reporters.
“Where’s Dad?” Von says as they walk up to us.
“On a call,” Alistair says .
“He needs to be here,” Von hisses.
“Don’t worry, he’s coming,” Finn says. “He knows the optics. A united front.”
Pop and I exchange a look. We love the Evertons, but man, they are not like most families.
Alistair shoots me an encouraging grin. “How’re you feeling?”
“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. Their father 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 shift uncomfortably 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.
“Silence,” he calls, and the room falls quiet. He frowns at Von. “Have you ever tried a murder case before?”
Von looks perplexed for only half a second. “I have not, your honor. However, I am an experienced trial lawyer and a junior partner at a reputable firm. I have passed the New York State Bar and my client has agreed to allow me to represent him. I am not aware of any legal impediments to that representation.”
Judge Warner is looking displeased. And I’m pretty sure I know why. He despises defense lawyers, and good defense lawyers even more. And the only thing he hates more than that is a good female defense lawyer. He’s old school to the enth degree.
“I caution you to adjust your tone when addressing this court, young lady.”
I bet Von hates being called a young lady. And in front of her father, no less. The only hint of anger she shows, however, is the faintest twitch at her jaw .
“My apologies, your honor.”
Damn, she’s good.
The judge’s thick eyebrows furrow together like a pair of caterpillars. “Very well. How does your client plead, Miss Everton?”
Von glances down at me. I rise quickly and say, in what I hope is my most innocent voice, “Not guilty, your honor.”
There are more murmurs from the gallery and the judge bangs the gavel again.
“We ask for bail, your honor,” Von continues. “My client is a decorated officer with five years of service in the Magnolia Bay Sheriff’s Department. He has strong ties to the community and an impeccable record. He has never had so much as a parking ticket.”
“Pretty big offense to be starting with, then, isn’t it?” Judge Warner says.
I see the faint jaw twitch again as Von stares him down. My heart has jumped to my throat and pounds there, choking me. Please set bail, I think, gripping my hands together behind my back. I can’t go back to that cell. I can’t.
The judge considers for a moment.
“I assume any bail I set will be paid for by your family?” he sneers.
Before Von can speak, Russell stands up behind me.
“That’s correct, your honor,” he says. “And I will personally ensure his attendance at any and all court dates.”
Judge Warner glances down at the paper on his desk, as if he’s playing for time. My throat-heart has ceased to beat. Everything is still, airless. I am suspended in this moment like a fly trapped in amber.
“Bail is set at five million dollars, cash,” Judge Warner says. “And the defendant will surrender his passport.”
All the breath leaves my lungs in a giant whoosh . The floor seems to tilt beneath me as tears spring to my eyes .
“Steady,” Von says quietly, taking a small step toward me so her shoulder nudges my arm.
Bail. I’ve been given bail.
I see a look pass between Wilbur and the judge. “I will convene with my clerk to schedule a trial date as well as a date for any pretrial motions. Counsel will hear from me shorty. Court is adjourned.”
The courtroom erupts and I turn to Von.
“What—” I begin and she gives me a tight shake of her head. The shut up shake. But the look on her face mirrors mine.
Trial dates are normally set at the end of the arraignment. What is the judge playing at? Convening with his clerk?
I glance at Wilbur, who does not seem as surprised as we do. He’s packing up his briefcase, not even sparing me a look. Meanwhile, I still remember him telling me what a good, solid deputy I was at last year’s Christmas party.
Von is motioning the bailiff over. “Can you take these cuffs off my client, please?”
The relief at having my hands free is immeasurable. I turn, rubbing my wrists, and see Russell Everton staring at me. He gives me a quick nod, then says to his children, “Let’s go.”
As he stalks down the aisle, Finn and Alistair jump to, trailing in his wake. Daisy bites her lip, glances toward her brothers, and at the last minute, reaches over the railing and grabs my hand. I hear the click-clicking of cameras and then she turns and hurries after the rest of her family.
“We’ll post bail immediately,” Caden promises me. I nod. I don’t have words right now. Isla presses her hand to her heart and gives me a nod. Charlotte and Grace surround her as they leave the courthouse. I see Mike Cochran and Cody Briggs meet my eyes before they leave as well—Mike has all the arrogance I’d expect from an asshole I’ve put in the drunk tank a dozen times. Cody looks sad, like I’m a fallen idol who’s let him down.
I didn’t do this! I want to shout at them .
“Come on,” Von says, gripping my arm.
“Where are you taking him?” Pop says.
Her jaw tics again. “Home.”
Home . The word has never felt so potent or so powerful.
The three of us push through the phalanx of reporters. Letitia manages to keep them back somewhat as we race down the courthouse steps and into the town car. Von sits in the front with Alex while Pop and I take the backseat. I’m grateful for the tinted windows as we peel away from the curb.
“They’re letting you out,” Pop says, wiping more tears from his eyes. “You can come home.”
“Yeah,” I say, still not quite believing it myself.
“Alex, take me to the sheriff’s department,” Von says. Alex nods. She turns to me. “Caden is there posting bail. Alex will drive you home. We will meet first thing tomorrow to start preparing your defense.”
“Thank you, Von,” I say. “You were amazing in there.”
I’ve never actually seen Von in action. While this was far from a trial, she’s sharp, capable, and shows extraordinary self-control.
“Tell me about this judge,” she says.
“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you, Noah,” Pop adds.
“And what was that with not setting the trial date?” I say to Von.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Is that normal for him?”
“I’ve never seen him do that before. But Judge Warner is a very old-school jurist,” I say. “Always favors the prosecution. Likes to get trials off his docket as quickly as possible. Doesn’t stand for showboating.”
Something flashes in Von’s eyes—hope, maybe? But it’s gone before I can really process it.
“Let me guess,” Von says. “Card carrying member of the Good Old Boys club?”
I nod. “I hate to have to say this but…it’s best if you stick to …” God, I’m going to sound like such an asshole. I clear my throat. “Wearing dresses,” I finish lamely.
She snorts. “Yeah, I figured that out the second he called me young lady.” Her nostrils flare. “Fine. I’ll have Grayson look into his previous cases, read his rulings. Make sure we come prepared.”
“Who’s Grayson?” I ask.
“He’s my second chair,” Von says. I think back to the well-dressed man I saw in the courtroom. “You’ll meet him tomorrow.”
We stop at the sheriff’s department, and I look away. I don’t know how I’ll ever go inside that building again, regardless of what happens next. The thought pricks at my heart. All I ever wanted was to be a deputy.
Von gets out, then leans in to remind me. “Tomorrow. Nine am sharp. Alex will take you home now.”
Then she slams the door shut.
When Alex drops me and Pop off at the small white house I grew up in, I thank him profusely.
“Not a problem,” Alex says. He gives me a kind smile. “The Evertons will take care of you. They take care of their people.”
I’ve known Alex for as long as he’s worked for the Everton family.
But then my heart lifts as I hear the most wonderful sound in the entire world: the joyful bark of a dog.
Penny, my four-year-old labrador, jumps on me as soon as I open the door to the house. I fall to my knees and let her lick away the tears that stream freely down my cheeks. Her butt wiggles and she paws at my chest, as if to say where have you been??
“I’m sorry, girl,” I say, sinking my face into her soft warm fur. “I’m home now.”
If only I could say it was for good.