Chapter 4 Seneca
Chapter four
Seneca
The next morning, I returned to the courthouse like a dog returned to a buried bone.
The place was quieter than usual. A thin fog of janitorial cleaner hung in the air, and the security guards at the front desk were so bored they barely even gave my patch a second look.
Still, I felt the eyes. County buildings have a way of amplifying every stare, every sideways glance, until the whole place hums with a nervous static.
I dressed for the occasion, which is to say I wore the same battered leather and plain black tee that had served me through court, combat, and the shittier parts of New Mexico.
My hair was combed back and my beard trimmed, but there was only so much you could do to hide the fact that I was a professional problem.
My boots hit the tile like pistol shots, echoing down the corridor until even the clerks looked up from their screens.
The payment window was down the main hall, past the faded mural of pioneer justice and the bust of the dead judge who’d put several of my old crew away.
I stopped in front of the glass partition and waited for the woman on the other side to acknowledge me.
She was maybe forty, the kind of face you don’t remember even if you’ve seen it twice a day for a decade.
When she looked up, she flinched, just a little, then gave a professional smile.
“Can I help you?”
I slid the payment slip across, along with a Ziploc bag full of fifties and hundreds. “Wallace. I’m here to clear a fine.”
Her eyes widened at the amount, then narrowed at my hands as if expecting a trick.
I let her count it out, bill by bill, and watched her fingers tremble just a shade above the baseline.
She kept darting glances up, as though I might reach through the slot and rip her larynx out if she miscounted.
The silence got awkward fast, so I broke it.
“Is Bellini in today?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
The clerk looked at me like I’d asked if I could use her computer to order a kilo of heroin. “She’s in chambers. Only by appointment.”
I nodded, once. “Figures.”
She finished counting, printed a receipt, and slid it toward me, her hand withdrawing like a snake after a failed strike. I took the paper, folded it, and shoved it in my pocket. The whole process left me hollow, as if I’d paid a ransom rather than a debt to society.
The moment I turned from the window, I saw my attorney, Jenna Smart, waiting at the end of the corridor, half-hidden behind a column.
Her face was composed, but her left hand gripped the handle of her briefcase hard enough to blanch the knuckles.
She was dressed for court, but her jacket was off and her hair—usually flawless—looked like she’d been running her hands through it for an hour.
We locked eyes. There was a flicker of recognition, then something colder. She broke gaze first, turning on her heel and walking down the marble hall toward the exit.
I didn’t follow immediately. I stayed by the window, back to the glass, and watched her reflection in the polished tile. She moved like someone being pursued. I waited until she was almost to the doors before I started after her.
Outside, the day was dry and bright. Jenna stood on the edge of the plaza, fiddling with her car keys, staring straight ahead. She didn’t turn as I approached, but her whole body braced like she was expecting a blow.
“Counselor Smart,” I said, close enough for my voice to carry but not close enough to be a threat. “You’ve been avoiding my calls.”
She answered without looking at me. “Nothing left to discuss. You’re paid up, you’re a free man except for the thirty days, congratulations.”
I could hear the lie in her voice, the way it rushed and clipped at the end. “You went to see Bellini,” I said. “Before the ink on my receipt was dry. Why?”
Jenna turned then, slow, deliberate, like a gunslinger at high noon. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but her mouth was set in a perfect line. “Professional courtesy,” she said. “There’s been some chatter about your case.”
“Chatter.”
“The DA’s office isn’t happy about your sentence. They’re looking to appeal. Bellini’s getting pressure from the mayor’s office. Word is, she’s on thin ice.”
I weighed that, turning it over in my mind. “So you came here to warn her.”
Jenna looked away, lips pressed tight. “Yes.”
There was a moment of silence, heavy and electric. Somewhere behind us, a siren wailed, then faded to nothing.
“I know you did everything you could,” I said, softer than I meant to. “And I know you’re getting heat from your bosses. But I need to know if Bellini’s going to fold.”
She glanced back at the courthouse, then at me. “Catherine Bellini doesn’t fold,” she said, her voice a whisper. “But everyone has limits.”
I almost asked what hers were, but the question felt too personal for a public square. Instead, I nodded and stepped back, giving her the space she clearly needed. “Thanks for everything,” I said. “I owe you one.”
Jenna managed a half-smile, then walked away, high heels stabbing at the concrete like she was punishing the earth. I watched her go, watched the tension melt from her shoulders once she hit the curb and slipped into her car.
I lingered by the entrance, watching the traffic roll past, replaying the conversation in my head. Something about it felt wrong, like a puzzle with a missing piece. Jenna’s warning had been real, but the fear in her eyes wasn’t for herself. It was for Bellini.
As I lit a cigarette and leaned against the stone pillar, I looked up at the window of Bellini’s chambers.
The blinds were closed, but I could picture her inside, back straight, hands folded, waiting for the next move.
She didn’t strike me as the kind of woman who got scared.
But she was still human, and humans broke in ways you couldn’t always see.
I made a decision, right there on the courthouse steps. If someone was coming for Bellini, I wanted to know why. And I wanted to know who. It was my way out of a thirty-day stint in a cell with some asshole waiting to be sent on to the pen.
I tailed Jenna easy, like I’d done it a thousand times before.
She had a silver sports coupe with a vanity plate that read “Law-Her,” which made following her a joke.
I kept three cars back and let the rhythm of the road do most of the work.
It was dusk, the hour when the town began to change its personality.
Jenna drove like she walked, fast, direct, never checking mirrors unless forced.
Her car cut through downtown, past the dead strip malls and several strip clubs, one of which, Shaved Beavers, the Bloody Scythes owned.
At a stoplight, she drummed the steering wheel, her head tilted like she was thinking about bailing out of the lane and into the night.
Instead, she waited. The light changed, and she roared off, tires singing on fresh blacktop.
I let the rumble of my bike fill the gap, not even bothering to mask the sound.
If she noticed, she gave no sign. She led me through the new-money business district, past the glass-fronted law offices and the orthodontists, out toward the edge of town where the suburbs got thick and the streetlights took longer to flicker on.
That’s where she turned. Just off the main drag, into a neighborhood where the houses sat behind perfect lawns, and the driveways were lined with fake stone pillars.
Each mailbox was a different design. There were brass eagles in various poses, small windmills, and one shaped like a judge’s gavel.
I coasted past, killed the headlight, and rolled to a silent stop behind a hedge of manicured cypress.
Her coupe was parked on the curb, just outside a house with a wraparound porch and a fresh American flag snapping in the breeze.
The street was quiet, except for the distant whine of a sprinkler and a dog barking three blocks over.
I watched her routine through the side mirror.
First, she killed the engine and sat, breathing, both hands on the wheel.
Then she checked her face in the visor, mouth twitching as she tried on different expressions.
I recognized the anxiety. She was psyching herself up for something, some conversation or confrontation that had her off balance.
She leaned down, reached for her purse, and when she came back up, she had a bottle of red in her hand.
She unscrewed the cap and took a long, unashamed swig, then wiped her mouth and rechecked the rearview.
She got out, heels clicking, and straightened her suit jacket.
She hesitated, then slipped it off, leaving her in a fitted white blouse that showed the lines of her arms. She had more muscle than I’d expected, probably from whatever boxing class she’d taken up to deal with stress.
She applied lipstick in the window reflection, the color darker than what she wore in court, and practiced a smile that looked nothing like the one she used when dismantling witnesses.
She grabbed the wine, adjusted her skirt, and walked up the flagstone path to the house, shoulders set but posture more open than before.
The porch light clicked on as she reached the steps, haloing her in gold.
She rang the bell, and for a second, I saw her face go soft, expressing anticipation, nerves, a flash of something almost innocent?
It wasn’t the mask she wore to court, or the brittle confidence she’d tried to show in the plaza.
It was the face of someone about to step into a different life, one that didn’t require constant vigilance or self-defense.
She waited, bottle cradled to her chest, shifting from foot to foot. When the door opened, she smiled wide, eyes bright, and leaned forward as if to embrace whoever was inside.