Chapter 3 Catherine
Chapter three
Catherine
There’s a saying about empty courthouses at night.
They’re safer than graveyards, but only a little.
I didn’t believe that, and I sure as hell didn’t believe it as I locked my office and started the long walk to the garage.
The old colonial building shed its lights by nine, leaving only the glow of the streetlamps to guide you down marble halls that always felt a degree too cold.
My heels echoed like gunshots, each step rolling out in front of me, warning off the ghosts or inviting them closer.
The parking garage was an architectural nightmare with three concrete levels that wound tighter and tighter around a core so dark you could imagine it filled with nothing but spiders and secrets.
At night, it turned into a wind tunnel. The air was sharp and raw, tasting faintly of engine coolant and old tobacco.
I pressed the elevator button and tried to shake out the stiffness from my shoulders, the kind that sets in after a day of fighting people who can’t decide if they want to fuck you or kill you.
The elevator doors opened on level two, stuttering once before releasing me into the empty deck.
The security lights flickered, creating a jerky film reel of shadow and glare.
My Lexus, one of the few indulgences I allowed myself, sat at the far end, solitary under a busted lamp that threw more darkness than light.
I advanced with my bag cinched tight under one arm and my keys in a white-knuckled grip.
It was probably unnecessary, but I kept my finger ready on the panic fob.
Old habits don’t die. They just get quieter.
Halfway to the car, the sense of being watched grew so strong it was almost physical.
I paused by a support column, heart hammering too fast, and tried to convince myself it was nothing.
On cue, a scrap of paper tumbled across the floor, an empty cigarette pack doing its best imitation of a warning shot.
I pretended not to notice, turned my head, and scanned for movement out of the corners of my eyes.
That’s when I saw him.
Not a janitor, or a lost commuter. He was between two SUVs, hunched but balanced, like an animal waiting for the right moment to lunge.
His jacket was wrong for the season, his face hidden under the brim of a discount ballcap, and his hands were thrust so deep in his pockets you’d think he was rooting for something to kill.
I knew the look. He was a man who’d decided, with absolute certainty, that the universe owed him a little blood, and my blood was on the drink menu.
I had pepper spray, a heavy bag, and a mean right hook.
None of it would be worth a damn against a gun or a true sadist. But I wasn’t going to go down easy.
I advanced, every step a calculation, just like the old man taught me when I was seven and he made me shadow him around Brooklyn like a pet terrier.
The man stepped out, slow and cocky, like he had all the time in the world. “Hey there,” he said, voice pitched low, too eager to be casual.
I slid my hand into my purse, thumbed the cap off the spray, and fixed him with my best Brooklyn stare. “You’re making a mistake,” I said, and surprised myself by how steady my voice sounded.
He grinned, a white slash in the gloom. “Mistake’s yours, lady. You think you’re untouchable, but tonight you ain’t got the robe. Tonight, you bleed like the rest.”
He closed the distance fast. I brought the spray up, but he swatted my arm sideways and grabbed for my throat.
I braced for impact, chin tucked, and drove my knee toward his groin.
He twisted, took the blow on his thigh, and slammed me against a car hood.
Metal dented behind my spine. The pepper spray clattered somewhere in the dark.
His hands closed around my neck and started to squeeze.
The world narrowed to a bright, hot tunnel.
I tried to bring my knee up again, but he locked his legs around mine.
I raked at his face, clawed at his wrists, anything to break the hold.
Air turned to fire in my lungs. He leaned in, the stink of his breath mixing with cheap deodorant and rage, and I knew he was going to kill me if I didn’t kill him first.
Then I heard it. A sound like thunder, close and personal, like the feral snarl of a motorcycle engine bouncing off concrete.
The man’s grip faltered just long enough for me to suck in a sweet gasp. Headlights blazed through the ramp. A black bike fishtailed into view, the rider a silhouette hunched low over the bars, one hand already coming up with something that flashed silver in the strobe of security lights.
The next seconds hit in slow motion. The rider, Seneca Wallace, even I could see that now, dumped the bike, letting it skid on its side, and closed the gap on foot. He didn’t shout, didn’t posture. He just moved, lethal and precise, straight at my attacker.
The man released me, spun, and managed half a step before Seneca leveled him with a shoulder to the gut.
The impact sounded wet. Both men went down hard, but Seneca rolled on top, driving a knee into the guy’s ribs.
There was a flurry of elbows and grunts, then Seneca yanked the man’s arm behind his back and wrenched up until the shoulder made a sound I’d heard in enough ER reports to know it wasn’t coming out of the socket intact.
The man howled, a weak, animal sound, and kicked out with his feet. Seneca didn’t so much as flinch. He reached into his cut and produced a pair of handcuffs. The real kind, not the sex shop kind. He twisted the man’s wrists together, cinched the metal tight, and shoved his face into the concrete.
“Don’t move,” Seneca said, low and absolute. The way he said it, you didn’t need a badge to know you’d better fucking obey.
The man absolutely didn’t move.
I staggered upright, feeling the aftermath of adrenaline shaking my legs into jelly.
I tried to smooth my skirt and wipe at the rawness on my neck, but my hands just kept trembling.
Seneca stayed crouched, body between me and the attacker, eyes scanning for accomplices or cameras.
The parking garage was suddenly so silent you could hear the whimpering of the man on the ground.
Seneca looked up at me, and the old courtroom arrogance was gone. What replaced it was colder, more honest. He saw the bruises forming, the torn sleeve, the shattered dignity, and didn’t comment on any of it. Instead, he said, “You got your phone?”
I nodded, more out of habit than sense. “Front pocket.”
“Call the police. Get Butcher, if you can.”
I fumbled the phone out, fingers refusing to cooperate, and dialed the county sheriff’s office.
The dispatcher’s voice was so chipper I almost laughed.
“This is Judge Bellini. I need a unit in the courthouse garage. Possible attempted assault, suspect detained. I repeat, suspect is detained.” The words spilled out, strangely formal, as if I were reading them from someone else’s script.
“Roger, Your Honor. Deputies in route. Are you safe?”
I glanced at Seneca, who had both knees on the attacker’s spine and was patting him down for weapons with the indifference of a man checking groceries for bruises. He tossed a knife a few feet away, then a stun gun, then a wallet.
“Safe enough,” I said, and ended the call.
I watched as Seneca searched the man’s pockets, pulled a folded slip of paper, and read it. His eyes darkened, but he pocketed it before I could see. Then he dragged the man up, propped him against a pillar, and stood guard, arms crossed, breathing so slow he looked almost asleep.
I tried to collect my bag and what was left of my self-respect. As I straightened up, Seneca said, “You should sit. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. But my legs weren’t convinced, and neither was he.
He didn’t press it. Instead, he nodded toward the attacker. “He was waiting for you. That’s a pro move. Most creeps don’t have the balls to do it in public. You piss someone off lately?”
“Besides you?” I said and instantly regretted it. “Sorry. Reflex.”
He almost smiled. “I’m not the kind who stalks judges. Too much paperwork.”
The first flicker of sirens hit the ramp, red and blue spiraling up the concrete coil.
Deputies spilled out, guns drawn, the whole drama cranked to eleven for the benefit of the security cameras.
Seneca let them cuff the man again, reading off his Miranda rights like he’d done it a hundred times before.
They never even questioned why the infamous Bloody Scythes enforcer was babysitting the judge.
Maybe they were grateful. Maybe they knew better than to ask.
A paramedic checked my throat and declared me “contused but intact.” I nodded, signed the release, and waited for the adrenaline to recede.
Seneca hovered at the periphery, never taking his eyes off the commotion, never fidgeting, just cataloguing every detail.
After the deputies loaded the would-be assailant into a cruiser and the paramedics packed up, I finally turned to face him.
“You’re supposed to report to the jail next Monday,” I said, doing my best to sound judicial instead of rattled.
He shrugged. “Wouldn’t miss it. But you should know—that wasn’t random. That was a message.”
“From who?”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. People want leverage. You’re the only one they’re scared of.”
I thought of my father, my grandfather, and the blood feud I’d just learned was still alive back east. I thought of the photo I’d locked in my drawer. “You’re not afraid of me,” I said, more challenge than question.
Seneca fixed me with a stare that was neither challenge nor threat, just recognition. “You don’t scare easy either.”
For a heartbeat, we just looked at each other, two predators circling the same empty space. Then he kicked his bike upright, dusted off his cut, and said, “Take the rest of the night off, Judge. You earned it.”
He rolled out of the garage in a slow, echoing thunder.
I watched the taillight fade, then stared at my reflection in the car window.
My hair was a mess, my throat already blooming with red, but I was alive, and for the first time in months, I didn’t feel alone.
I slid behind the wheel, locked the doors, and sat in the dark a little longer, memorizing the silence before it got shattered all over again.