Chapter 11 - Ryker
RYKER
The Cook County Courthouse smelled like old paper and broken dreams. The ancient wooden benches creaked beneath every shift of weight, each groan echoing in the high-ceilinged room like a confession.
I sat at the defense table, reviewing the charges again that Wolfe had filed, and felt my blood pressure spike with each line.
“Fuck.”
Faith glanced at me nervously from her seat, still wearing the orange jumpsuit that made her look younger, more vulnerable.
Her eyes searched for reassurance. I wanted to reach for her hand, to offer some comfort, but the bailiff’s watchful eyes and the cold metal of her shackles reminded me of the distance this system had forced between us. “What is it?”
This was why I hated Wolfe. The preliminary charges spread across the page like a prosecutor’s wet dream, and I could already see the game he was playing.
In Chicago, the ADA had forty-eight hours to review the arrest report and decide on formal charges.
Most prosecutors would stick to the obvious: first-degree murder, maybe conspiracy if they were feeling ambitious, possibly unlawful possession of a weapon.
But Wolfe? Oh, no. Wolfe had gone full scorched earth.
Criminal enterprise—something you’d see for organized crime families. Aggravated criminal conspiracy—basically claiming she’d plotted murder with multiple accomplices. Witness tampering when there wasn’t a single witness mentioned in the arrest report. And terrorist threats?
Terrorist. Fucking. Threats.
I felt Faith’s sharp intake of breath beside me, saw her hands tremble slightly in her lap. Without thinking, I shifted closer, letting my knee brush against hers under the table. The barest contact, but enough to let her know she wasn’t alone in this.
Why didn’t he just charge her with felony jaywalking while he was at it? Maybe throw in some unpaid parking tickets from a decade ago?
The bailiff’s voice cut through my mounting rage. “All rise. The Honorable Judge Samuel Ortiz presiding.”
Thank God. Small miracle number one: we’d drawn Ortiz. The man actually cared about the law, believed in reasonable doubt, and had zero patience for prosecutorial theatrics.
As we stood, Faith swayed slightly, and I instinctively moved closer, my hand hovering protectively near her elbow, ready to steady her if she needed it.
The courtroom’s old radiator clanged once, twice, like a gavel announcing winter’s arrival, and the heat that followed carried the faint metallic taste of decades-old paint baking off the pipes.
Judge Ortiz settled into his chair with the kind of weary patience that came from thirty years on the bench. He motioned for us to sit and then kept his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose as he reviewed the papers before him. The furrow between his eyebrows deepened with each page.
“Mr. Wolfe”—the judge’s voice carried that particular tone of judicial skepticism I’d learned to appreciate—“I see charges here for first-degree murder, conspiracy, obstruction, and …” He paused, removed his glasses, and looked directly at the prosecutor.
“Terrorism? Are you prosecuting a suspect or pitching a screenplay for Netflix?”
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Beside me, Faith’s shackles clinked softly as she shifted in her chair.
Wolfe stood, buttoning his suit jacket with that practiced motion that probably impressed juries but just irritated judges. “Your Honor, the evidence suggests the defendant is part of a larger, organized threat. We believe the victim was eliminated to silence him.”
I rose to my feet. “Your Honor, that’s ridiculous.
” I kept my voice professional, even though what I wanted to do was laugh in Wolfe’s face.
What I really wanted was to pull Faith into my arms and shield her from this nightmare.
“Ms. Morrison is a bartender, not some Mafia princess. I’d like to understand what evidence Mr. Wolfe has that even suggests organized crime as a possibility. ”
“Yes, Counselor.” Judge Ortiz folded his hands on the desk, his wedding ring catching the harsh courtroom lights. “I’d like to see that evidence as well.”
Wolfe’s shoulders drew back, his posture turning rigid. “As Your Honor knows, evidence is still being gathered at this time.”
“Then you’re admitting you have no evidence to support these inflammatory charges.
” I let a note of incredulity creep into my voice.
“You can’t just throw out wild accusations to see what sticks.
That’s a spaghetti-on-the-wall strategy.
” I turned slightly, making sure the court reporter caught every word.
“Please tell me you’re a more sophisticated prosecutor than that. ”
Wolfe’s glare could have made a weaker man tremble.
“With respect, Your Honor,” I continued, “what the prosecution is doing isn’t justice. It’s political theater. These charges are stitched together with bad faith and held up by nothing but Mr. Wolfe’s apparent desire to make headlines.”
“That’s enough, Mr. Kincaid.” But Ortiz’s rebuke lacked heat.
He turned his attention back to Wolfe, and this time, his expression had hardened.
“Counselor Wolfe, I’ll allow your charges to stand—for now.
But consider this your official warning: I won’t tolerate prosecutorial grandstanding in my courtroom.
If you can’t support these charges with actual evidence at the preliminary hearing, we’re going to have a very different conversation about your conduct. ”
The rest of the bail hearing proceeded with the kind of choreographed precision that made criminal law feel like a very expensive dance. Wolfe argued Faith was a flight risk—she wasn’t. I countered with her ties to the community—her job, her family, her complete lack of any criminal record.
Wolfe painted her as dangerous. I was ready for that.
“Your Honor, the prosecution wants you to believe my client is some cold-blooded killer.” I let my voice carry through the courtroom.
“But the physical evidence tells a very different story. Fingerprint analysis came back. The victim’s prints were found on the handle of the knife.
Not just the blade, the handle. He had control of that weapon at some point.
My client has a head wound consistent with blunt force trauma. She fought for her life.”
I pulled out the affidavits. “Additionally, I have character witnesses prepared to testify that Ms. Morrison has no history of violence, no criminal record, and deep ties to this community.”
Back and forth Wolfe and I went, two fighters circling in the ring, each looking for an opening.
But this was just the first round, and we both knew it.
In the game of criminal law, trials were marathons, not sprints.
You won some battles, lost others, but every single skirmish mattered in the larger war.
Finally, Judge Ortiz raised his hand for silence, and when he did, the courtroom held its breath.
The silence stretched, unbearable, and I found myself too tense to even blink.
“After reviewing the arguments from both sides,” he began, his voice carrying the weight of decision, “the court finds that while the charges are serious, the defendant has substantial ties to the community and no prior criminal history.”
Wolfe leaned forward slightly, ready to pounce on any opening.
“However,” Ortiz continued, “given the severity of the alleged crime, the court cannot release the defendant on her own recognizance.” He looked directly at Faith, and his expression softened slightly.
“Bail is set at ten million dollars. Defendant is ordered to submit to GPS electronic monitoring as a condition of bond.”
Ten million was astronomical, but it wasn’t no bail. It was a victory, even if it came with a price tag that would make most people’s eyes water.
“Your Honor—” Wolfe started to object, but Ortiz cut him off with a raised hand.
“That’s my ruling, Counselor. The defendant will surrender her passport and submit to electronic monitoring.
Any violation of bail conditions will result in immediate remand to custody.
” I suspected Wolfe’s ridiculous charges might have actually worked in our favor today.
Regardless, the gavel came down with finality. “Court is adjourned.”
As the bailiff approached to escort Faith back to holding, she turned to me, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Thank you,” she whispered, the words barely audible.
“I’ll get you out of here tonight. I promise.”
My mind was already racing ahead to the next steps.
DNA results would take another week or two.
My PI was still canvassing the area for surveillance cameras near the woods.
And I was waiting on the full autopsy report.
Not just cause of death, but toxicology, wound angles, any defensive injuries on Daniel’s body that proved there was a struggle.
The fingerprints were a start, but I needed the complete picture.
I needed to prove that Daniel Kearns attacked her first.
My phone buzzed before the bailiff had even ushered Faith to the door.
Blake: Tell me where to send the money. I want her out NOW.
I typed back quickly: First National. I’ll handle the bondsman. She’ll be home tonight.
I watched Faith’s retreating form until she disappeared through the courthouse doors, already missing the warmth of her hand in mine.
Wolfe paused beside our table as he packed up his theatrical pile of folders, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “Enjoy your victory, Kincaid. It’ll be your last one on this case.”
I met his gaze steadily, letting him see that I wasn’t intimidated by his power plays or his inflated charges. “Funny thing about marathons, Wolfe. The guy who sprints at the starting line usually doesn’t make it to the finish.”
His smile was all teeth, no warmth. “We’ll see about that.”
As he strode out of the courtroom, his expensive shoes clicking against the marble with that same predatory rhythm I’d heard in the hospital, I knew one thing for certain: this was far from over.
And Bennett Wolfe had just shown me exactly how dirty he was willing to fight.