23. On Trial
23
On Trial
Transport to the Capitol felt different this time. I had my own seat, for one thing, squeezed between two guards in the backend of a nondescript black SUV. And, while the shock collar was fastened around my neck, no one touched the corresponding remote for the duration of the drive.
When the car turned down the road toward the Capitol building, I peeked out the window. Sunlight poured over a mob gathered on the sprawling marble steps. The crowd spread across the lawn, interspersed with tents that implied they’d been camped out for days.
Signs held aloft or stuck to poles in the grass became legible as we drew nearer.
“OFF WITH HIS HEAD” one proclaimed in bold, black print.
Another had a crude drawing of a wooden doll hanging from strings. It read, “PEOPLE AREN’T PUPPETS.”
Finally, a banner flapped in the breeze, declaring, “MARIONETTE = MURDERER.”
“Fuck,” I groaned and sank into my seat.
My hopes of being brought in through the side entrance were dashed as the SUV rolled to a stop. Noise from outside—chanting with scattered shouts—increased in volume and proximity. When a camera bulb flashed beyond the glass behind my head, I jumped.
“Time to move, inmate.” One of the guards grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the door as it swung open.
I scrambled after him, determined not to stumble or fall and be crushed by the surging horde.
Reporters pressed in, accompanied by cameramen with boom mics that lowered from overhead. Jeers and taunts filled any space between rapid-fire questions as my name was shouted over and over again.
The guard clung to me with a painful grip, forging a path ahead. More than once, someone tried to wedge into the arm’s length gap between him and me. They were shoved aside or jostled, then displaced. We slowed for nothing.
Handheld recorders thrust toward my face; one even hit me in the cheek as I squeezed past. Thoughts of magic niggled in, tempting me to part the sea of bodies with a sweep of my hands. People would topple like dominoes until I could finally breathe. But I quashed that compulsion because I could do nothing with the shock collar locked around my neck.
Climbing toward the entrance, the mob grew in size and ferocity. Fingers clawed at me; a few clutched papers and markers for autographs. Cameras flashed, blinding, and I finally tripped. When the guard hauled me back up, I was almost grateful, determined as I was to reach the open air.
Investigators flanked the gilded doors, ushering us inside. Whatever they said to our arrival was drowned in the thunder of my pulse in my ears.
The lobby was cool and calm. People clustered in groups of two or three, mostly investigators who eyed me warily, and a select few reporters currently interviewing what I assumed were the opposing legal teams.
Ahead, water cascaded down a ribbed metal wall. The trickling sound was so deeply ingrained in me that I could never forget it. Three glass elevators occupied the center of the room, adjacent to a grand staircase. White and gold bedecked the space, with a soaring ceiling at least three stories tall. This had been my childhood playground.
Donnie and I used to dart in and out of the elevators, bolting past office staff and investigators alike as we scurried up the stairs or splashed in the fountain. We spent as much time here as at home, doing schoolwork at random desks in the Investigative Department and eating family dinners in the cafeteria.
Little had changed in the past decade. Witches had no concept of retirement, so even the staff remained largely the same. A few faces were recognizable already, most notably Willem Briggs, the head of the Investigative Department, and my dad’s old partner.
When he looked my way, I paused midstride. Briggs peered down his hawkish nose at me with contempt like I’d never seen. He had been a constant fixture in my young life, my father’s best friend both on and off-duty. I remembered him as an affable if occasionally hot-tempered man, always kind to me, so it shook me to see such spite on his face now.
Beside him, Holland Lyle chatted with a journalist. She, too, had gotten dolled up for court. Her platinum hair spilled from a half updo, and she wore a black suit over a sheer top showcasing a bandeau bra. I would have lingered longer on that if Briggs hadn’t persisted in staring me down, wordlessly urging me to be on my way.
As if sharing the same thought, the guard tugged on my arm, turning me toward the cluster of reporters who currently questioned a dark-skinned man in a green suit.
Talbot Collier—hopefully him this time and not Grimm in disguise—saw me coming and broke away from the media sharks. He closed the gap to us while beaming a broad smile. “Mister Farrow, I see you managed to weather the storm outside.”
I expelled a breath as the guard relinquished his bone-bruising grasp.
Talbot looked me over with a nod. “You clean up shiny as a penny. Glad the clothes fit.” When his attention hung on the steel ring around my throat, all signs of approval fled his face.
Turning to my escort, he said, “You’ll be taking that off of him now, I hope?”
“No, sir.” The guard shook his head. “Liability concerns.”
Talbot’s scowl deepened, but it melted away when he returned his focus to me. He held up his hands, reaching forward. “May I?”
I nodded without knowing what I’d agreed to.
Taking my jacket by the lapels, he pulled me close. With deft movements, he loosened my tie and unbuttoned my shirt to let the collar slide down. The shirt closed and the tie snugged over it, a little bulky, but less obtrusive than what could hardly be dismissed as an interesting choice in neckwear.
When the guard handed Talbot the remote, the lawyer pocketed it with a sneer. “Barbaric.” He flapped his fingers at the guard. “Be gone. I’ll take it from here.”
The guard harrumphed at the dismissal but didn’t linger.
Talbot watched him go before speaking again. “ Mister Farrow, it is my honor and privilege to make your acquaintance.” He dipped in a bow. “I must say you look even younger in person. You’ve lived quite a lot in your short life, hmm?”
“I guess.” The statement sounded as shaken as I felt.
Talbot cocked his head. He grabbed my arms to rub his hands up and down them. “Liven up,” he said. “And breathe, for God’s sake. You’re as pale as death.”
I didn’t doubt it. The past twenty-four hours had been one doozy after another. A shower and a nice suit could cure many ills, but I had a laundry list. Even so, the lawyer’s confidence and calm demeanor settled my nerves.
The other man leaned closer, eye to eye with me like a coach in a pre-game huddle. “I need you with me for this,” he said. “Get your dander up, all right? We’re here for a fight. I trust you know your way around those.”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Better.” He squeezed my arms, then stepped back.
The other occupants of the lobby began to file out, heading toward the hall beyond the elevators, and the courtroom beyond that. Talbot followed my gaze, then gave his shimmering suit a dust off.
“Shall we?” He motioned ahead.
Before I moved, I asked, “Is there anything you need to know? From me?”
I hoped he was ready for what came next because I felt sorely unprepared. Who would give testimony? Would I be called to the stand? Interrogated? One thing I did know was that witch trials were notoriously brief. While humans deliberated for weeks, our court ruled in twenty-four hours or less. Whether that would work for or against me remained to be seen.
“You’d like to keep your head attached, I assume?” Talbot said.
A nervous laugh slipped out. “I prefer it that way.”
His smile returned in full force. “That’s all I need to know.”
Following my lawyer to the courtroom felt undeniably ominous. I rubbed my sweaty palms on my slacks, then raked my fingers through my hair, trying to sweep back the strands already falling in my eyes. I understood why most guys in prison shaved their heads. My blond mop required pomade and spray to avoid looking like a shaggy dog, and neither of those things came in the Thorngate welcome kit.
When we reached the wooden double doors, Talbot paused to give me a final, appraising glance. “Ready?” he asked.
I nodded, and in we went.
The gallery was full to bursting. People packed in on both sides of the center aisle, lining wooden pews. Stained glass windows streamed jewel-toned light onto the arched ceiling. It was church-like, with a makeshift congregation and an altar-esque podium where Maximus Lyle presided.
It hadn’t been silent when Talbot first pushed into the room but, as soon as I crossed the threshold, the crowd went deathly quiet.
Talbot led the way toward a table with two chairs, adjacent to an identical setup where Willem Briggs sat with a female attorney I didn’t recognize.
On the right side of the room, the jury occupied staggered seating. I dared a glance in their direction, wondering what kind of selection process this must have required. Finding a dozen people who hadn’t heard of me or the Bloody Hex, and who didn’t have opinions about which circle of hell was best equipped to house us, must have driven the Capitol to turn over every rock in the city. Of course, they could have just asked Clyde. Marionette’s biggest fan would never have sentenced him to death but, for me, all bets were off.
Maximus remained on his feet, wearing a crimson robe. His peppered hair was impeccably trimmed, and his face was sternly set as he looked our way. “Mister Collier, are you and your client ready to proceed?”
Talbot leaned into my ear, whispering fast and sharp. “Chin up, buttercup. Don’t speak unless spoken to, and no admissions of guilt or otherwise, got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good man.” Talbot straightened and faced Maximus with the smile he should have trademarked. It was growing on me, at least. “We’re ready,” he said.
With a sweep of his hand, Maximus introduced the opposing counsel. “Miss Aster Osborn, you represent the interest of the Capitol in this matter?”
“I do, sir.” Aster Osborn—still unfamiliar to me—looked a little like Cousin Itt, swathed in pin-straight chestnut tresses that parted only for her blunt bangs.
“The floor is yours,” Maximus told her. “You may begin when you’re ready.” When he sat, Talbot and I followed suit.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Aster rounded her table to approach the jury box. It looked like a move out of every TV court drama I’d seen. When she started speaking, it sounded that way, too.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Today, we are here seeking justice for the victims of one of the most notorious killers this city has ever seen. The defendant sitting before you, Fitch Patrick Farrow, also known as Marionette, is a skilled telekinetic who used his abilities to commit the most heinous of crimes.”
Her confidence shook mine, and I was already on thin ice .
“His actions as a member of terrorist group, the Bloody Hex, have caused immeasurable pain and suffering to the families and loved ones of his victims.”
Holland Lyle’s shock of white hair drew my eye to the front row of the audience. Well, less her hair and more the way she leaned over the railing separating her from the seated Willem Briggs while they exchanged whispered words.
“Throughout this trial, you will hear overwhelming evidence that will leave no doubt in your minds as to the guilt of the defendant,” Aster continued. “You will hear witness accounts of brutal murders, see irrefutable evidence of the defendant’s allegiance to the Bloody Hex, and be presented with security footage placing him at the scene of multiple crimes.”
Grimm would have had a field day with that last bit. Mister “not all of us have such trouble with security cameras.” Fuck him.
Where was he, by the way? Rather, where was Jacoby Thatcher? It was rare to see Maximus anywhere without his trusty sidekick.
“We will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Fitch Farrow is responsible for countless horrific crimes and must be held accountable for his actions,” Aster said. “There is no justification for the atrocities he has committed. He is a menace to our society and should be put to death.”
Quite the saleswoman. We’d only just begun, and she was already trying to close the deal.
I leaned over to ask Talbot, “Do they really have that much evidence?”
The tip of his head was far from the assurance I’d hoped for. “Time will tell,” he said.
If they did, I remembered the shock collar remote tucked in his jacket pocket. He seemed like a nice guy, and I’d hate to hurt him, but I couldn’t discount the efficacy of an elbow to the face. With the lawyer dazed, I could snag the remote and free myself. Or, more like propel myself into a firefight past every obstacle on my way out of the building, then the lawn beyond. It was a gamble, but one with potentially better odds than evading a guilty verdict.
“I’d like to call my first witness,” Aster announced. “Miss Beatriz Silva.”
My brow furrowed. Who the hell was that?