CHAPTER TWENTY
Prima Audientia
Headed to court. I made a shirt with your photo, love! #FreeMarino (@deisebloombastic)
“I’ve never seen the street outside the courthouse so packed,” Célie commented as she entered the room where we were waiting for Dante.
“Totally insane,” Joseph commented from right behind me. “Is it wrong that I’m excited to see Mr. Marino up close?”
I shot Joseph a disapproving look, and when I noticed his embarrassment, I smiled at him. I wasn’t actually reprimanding him—if Joe was anxious, I’d been barely holding myself together since I read the letter last night.
“Are you okay?” Célie wasn’t just asking if I felt well—she wanted to know if I was ready for the confrontation waiting behind those large courtroom doors.
The commotion in the hallway and the heavy footsteps signaled his arrival, and it felt like the ground was burning beneath my feet. I had chosen red-soled heels, an understated wine-colored suit with gold details, and a fitted cut at the waist.
I didn’t want to show Joe and Célie how nervous I was, but with each second the entourage drew closer, that task became harder.
When the door opened, I saw two guards first, followed by Dante and a host of other people.
It was the first time I’d seen Dante wearing something other than a prison jumpsuit—and without the heavy vest over his shoulders, anyone who saw our eyes meet would think this was a casual encounter.
He wore a navy blue sweater with the collar of a white shirt showing at his neck.
His beard had been trimmed and his hair was combed as if he’d just stepped out of one of his family’s social gatherings.
The guards removed his leg shackles, leaving only the handcuffs on his wrists. He smiled, greeting Joseph and Célie, before turning to me.
“Doctor.” He gave a slight nod, almost a bow, as he did his usual fit check.
“We can only have one person with the prisoner,” a giant, surly-looking guard informed us.
“We’ll be waiting outside.” Célie passed by me, taking Joseph by the arm, followed by almost all the guards except the big guy.
“Can you give us some privacy?” I asked the guard standing at the door.
“I can’t leave you alone—for your safety,” the guard said, crossing his arms in front of the door.
“I just need a few minutes to go over some important last-minute changes.” I approached him and touched his arm, offering my best and most charming smile. “You can wait on the other side of the door.”
Dante didn’t take his eyes off me—I could feel it on the back of my neck. The guard considered for a moment before finally giving in.
“Don’t take long, ma’am.”
“I’ll be quick,” I said, closing the door as soon as he left.
I took a deep breath and released it slowly before turning to face him.
“How are you?” I walked toward him but stopped a few steps short.
“Calm.”
Dante took two slow steps toward me.
“And you?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
“Ready.”
“You’re going to eat them alive.” His eyes seemed to map my face as he moved a little closer—perhaps a little too close.
“I’m confident we can win the first fight. But you need to know this is just the beginning of the war,” I explained. “We still need to tear down some walls before we can be sure you’ll be free, and for that, I need you to cooperate.”
Dante nodded.
“That said,” I adjusted his vest like someone adjusting a tie, “when we walk through that door, I need you focused. No jokes. No looks. No provocations.”
“Afraid I’ll throw you off balance?” He smiled provocatively, watching my movements as I opened and closed the fasteners on his vest.
“No.” I pulled the velcro at his waist a little tighter. “Just reminding you that this is my field. My house. And I’m the one calling the shots.”
“Doctor, Doctor.” He leaned in, bringing his lips close to the side of my face. He didn’t actually touch me, but the intensity was enough that a simple brush of skin would have set the room on fire. “If you keep talking like that, the guard won’t be the only one armed in this courthouse.”
“Dante…”
My lips parted slightly to release a breath as his eyes captured mine, veiled in something dark and mysterious. A sound escaped my mouth—something between longing and torment—completely beyond my control.
“Relax, doctor.” He pulled away. “I’ll follow your plan… tackle my problems one step at a time… Even if it’s so hard to be rational around you.”
Almost as if timed to our torment, the guard knocked on the door before opening it, signaling that our time was up.
“Let’s go.” I straightened my posture, and Dante smiled—he knew that, deep down, his words would echo in my mind as they always did.
I accompanied the procession to the courtroom, where the judge and audience awaited us. The noise from outside pressed against the windows.
Inside, the gallery was already seated in the corner, along with William at his table beside his assistant—the blonde who had visited me at the office.
Dante’s mother and sister were seated in the front row.
Dante smiled when he saw Maressa and Candice, and they returned the smile.
The Darwins were also there—Mrs. Gwen and her husband, Jason Darwin.
The moment Dante walked in, murmurs rippled through the crowd—supporters and detractors alike. The guards positioned the two of us, I set down my bag, and before long Judge Fisherman called the hearing to order, reading through the case details and letting Quinn and me make our introductions.
The shouts outside grew more heated as the proceedings moved forward. Quinn laid out the facts the police had gathered and the evidence—which, honestly, seemed far too weak for a first hearing. Dante's arrest seemed driven more by political and economic pressure than by the homicide itself.
My initial role wasn't to prove Dante hadn't done it, but to challenge how flimsy the evidence holding him was. A reasonable approach, since Dante was a suspect with plenty of suspicious behavior—but none of it actually linked him, beyond a shadow of a doubt, to the crime itself.
“Your Honor, with due respect to the defense—and only what is necessary—I must reiterate that the gravity of the facts in this case demands that the defendant, Dante Marino, remain in pretrial detention.”
Quinn moved to the center of the room, facing the jury.
“We are talking about a brutal crime. A willful homicide, committed at point-blank range, amid a personal dispute between the accused and the victim—a case riddled with elements still under investigation, including the destruction or concealment of evidence and significant contradictions in witness statements.”
I watched the jury's faces, reading each expression—figuring out which ones I'd need to convince and recalling their profiles from our files.
“The defense tries to paint a picture of an unjustly accused young man, a lamb thrown to the lions of public opinion. But what we have, Your Honor, is someone who lied to the authorities, omitted crucial information, and has personal relationships with key witnesses in this case.” Then he turned to me with a brief smile that seemed to hide more than his words let on.
“There is a concrete risk of tampering with evidence. A risk to public order, even, given the uproar this case has caused. And more: there are inconsistencies that suggest flight risk. A man who flees the city in the middle of the night, checks into a hotel under a false name, and then changes his story three times... is not, pardon the expression, someone trustworthy enough to remain free while awaiting trial.”
Dante nearly growls as William speaks. I press my leg against his, a reminder of what we discussed while preparing for the hearing—how Quinn would throw everything at him to destabilize him and prove the golden boy image was just a facade.
Quinn adjusts his suit and takes a few steps like a man on a moral crusade. He turns on the charm for the women on the jury—he knows that in this case, appearances might matter more than facts.
“The defendant's freedom, at this moment, represents not only an affront to the victim, but a threat to the credibility of the criminal justice system. And that, Your Honor, we cannot allow.” Quinn faced Judge Fisherman.
“I therefore request that the defendant remain in custody until trial.
For the risk, for the gravity, and out of respect for the truth—which must always prevail over the defense's romanticized version.”
The murmuring resumes, and the crowd outside sounds fired up, as if they could hear Quinn's words. The judge called for order.
I stand up, unhurried. I adjust my suit and straighten my posture. I look at the judge, then at the jury, my expression open. Dante is watching me. So is Quinn. I can feel their eyes on me, but I don't look their way.
“Your Honor, if you'll permit me...”
“Prosecutor Quinn delivered an impassioned speech, as always. A beautiful exercise in rhetoric, truly. But we're not here to reward clever metaphors or dramatic theories—we're here to judge facts. And the facts, Your Honor, do not support Dante Marino's imprisonment.”
The room falls silent as I walk, my heels clicking on the floor like the ticking of a clock.
“The prosecution speaks of risk to public order. But what we've seen so far is a desperate attempt to keep a young defendant behind bars based more on public opinion—or Twitter, perhaps—than on solid evidence.”
I finally turn to Quinn, and he's staring at me.
“There's plenty of talk about my client's conduct, but no mention of how he was approached—aggressively, condemned by public opinion before the case even reached this court.
Isn't that right, Prosecutor Quinn?” I flash him a sarcastic smile.
“Where some may see a meticulous, cold, calculating killer who lied under the pressure of a questionable interrogation at best, I see the pain and emotional confusion of someone being unjustly accused.”
Judge Fisherman's attention is fixed on me as well.
“My client has no criminal record. He has a permanent address. He turned himself in to the authorities. He cooperated with the investigation. And even with this media circus swirling around him, he didn't try to flee, didn't threaten witnesses, didn't destroy evidence.”
The judge looked at Dante, who shifted in his chair, his chains rattling.
“Bail isn't a reward for Mr. Marino. It's a constitutional right.” I approached Quinn's table just to provoke him a little. “The defendant can't be punished before trial as if his guilt were already proven, just because some prefer to trade on fear rather than justice.”
I clicked my heels back to my table and pulled a document from the folder, handing it to the judge.
“That said, Your Honor, I'm requesting Dante Marino's release with whatever precautionary measures the court deems necessary.
He will face these charges with his head held high, as he has all along.
Because behind all the noise, there's someone who deserves the benefit of the doubt. And above all, a fair trial.”
I looked at Dante and he smiled with his eyes, even though his face gave nothing away. Maressa and Candice were watching me closely as I turned to sit down in my chair and finally breathe again.
“That was sexy,” Dante whispered in my ear, and I glanced around, terrified someone had heard us.
The silence in the courtroom was almost unbearable as the judge stared at us, leaning back in his chair, weighing each of our words as he decided Dante's future. He cleared his throat.
“The court has heard the arguments of both the prosecution and the defense with due consideration. It's clear we're dealing with a complex case, one whose full implications are still far from understood.”
He leaned over the bench, hands clasped, and looked at Quinn and me.
“The prosecution raised the gravity of the crime and the inconsistencies in some of the defendant's statements. But the defense, in turn, has demonstrated that there is currently no concrete evidence justifying pretrial detention.”
Judge Fisherman picked up his gavel.
“There's no flight risk, no history of violence, no attempt at obstruction. And however much this case stirs up public outcry, this court is not hostage to the headlines.”
He ordered Dante to stand.
“For these reasons, this court grants pretrial release to Dante Villeneuve, subject to the following conditions: immediate surrender of passport; no leaving the state without court authorization; biweekly check-ins at the courthouse; electronic monitoring; no contact with witnesses involved in the case, except through defense counsel.”
Then he looked at me.
“And... a strong recommendation that he avoid public appearances that could inflame public opinion or compromise due process.” Fisherman banged the gavel. “Don't make me regret this. Court is adjourned.”
The people in the courtroom stirred again, as did the crowd on the sidewalk.
But it was Dante's expression that hit me full force.
He looked satisfied, but there was something dark in his eyes that ignited a small fire in my belly.
As if the judge hadn't just made a decision about his freedom, but about mine as well.