3. June #2
“Counsel for the defense,” the Judge looks at Mark directly. “Have you received and reviewed the discovery materials provided by the prosecution?”
The man stands calmly. “Yes, Your Honor. I have reviewed the evidence, including the photographs and detailed inventories from Ms. Parker’s residence and the Aiden June Gallery.”
Judge Carter flicks through the paperwork before her. “Aiden June Gallery, Nantucket… I see. Ms. Parker was arrested in Nantucket and transported here to New York, where she has been held until this hearing. Is that accurate?”
“Correct, Your Honor. Ms. Parker has been held in federal custody pending this arraignment.”
I find myself digging my fingernails into the palms of my hands. Holding hadn’t been as mentally scarring as it could have been. It was a surreal kind of purgatory that I could probably convince myself I dreamed up.
But if I’m denied bail now, that dream could quickly become a nightmare. Pretrial detention is no joke.
“The prosecution has noted that Ms. Parker’s husband, Mr. Ashton Parker, remains at large and is a person of interest. Given this, I do have concerns about potential flight risk.
What is your position on bail and residence conditions?
” Judge Carter says as casually as if she were reading the weather report.
As if she hadn’t just dropped a bombshell on my already decimated heart.
What did she mean at large?
Ashton is missing?
I look frantically up at Mark, hoping that he might deny it. That he might have something of import to say, finally, concerning my wayward husband. Had he known? Had he spent all that time talking in circles just to avoid this piece of information?
But the man is staring back at the judge, entirely unfazed, as he does up the buttons of his suit jacket.
“Your Honor, Ms. Parker understands the gravity of the charges and has fully cooperated with law enforcement since her arrest. Ms. Parker is a longtime resident of Nantucket with deep ties to the community. She is an artist, not a criminal mastermind. The items found at her gallery include half-finished pastiches that are clearly original works in progress, which differ significantly from any alleged counterfeit merchandise. Furthermore, Ms. Parker has no prior criminal record and poses no flight risk. She has a stable family network, including her sister, who is a lawyer and has agreed to supervise compliance with any bail conditions here in New York City.”
“The sister resides in New York?” Carter looks up from her paperwork.
Mark meets her gaze head-on. “Meredith Perez has temporarily relocated to a hotel for the duration of these proceedings and is prepared to host Ms. Parker. Ms. Parker has also agreed to take any precaution necessary, including electronic monitoring, and consents to the surrender of her travel documents and to comply with any no-contact orders.”
The judge nods at this, writing something down. “Perez,” she comments mildly. “Any relation?”
“My wife,” Mark says with unflinching authority, despite the fact that Meredith is most certainly not his wife.
If the Judge has any thoughts about this piece of information, she keeps them to herself. “Prosecutor, your response?”
Respecting this as his dismissal, Mark takes his seat again. His body angled away from me toward the prosecution’s table and the balding man who is now taking his stand.
I want to reach over, tap him on the shoulder. Ask him to explain something that isn’t the precise etiquette of the courtroom. Like how he knew Meredith was staying at a hotel. Like how he thought he could get away with calling her his wife.
But the prosecutor cut any attempt to do so short.
“Your Honor, while the investigation continues and Mr. Parker remains a fugitive, the evidence specifically implicating Ms. Parker is limited and circumstantial. We agree that, though the artwork found is troubling in its similarity to protected works, they are not direct forgeries intended for commercial sale.”
I release a haggard breath. Mark lifts a hand as if to silence me.
“They do, however, speak to Ms. Parker’s skill and capacity to create–”
“Objection, Your Honor. Speculation,” Mark snaps like a whip.
The judge’s gavel comes down with a sharp crack. “Sustained. The court will not entertain speculative commentary on the defendant’s capabilities. Keep to the facts, counsel.”
The prosecutor’s jaw flexes, but he bows his head slightly. “Understood.”
Mark doesn’t so much as glance in my direction, but the tension in his shoulders eases. I mirror the shift, forcing my spine to straighten, hands pressed flat to the cool varnished wood in front of me. A soothing balm to my nail-bitten palms.
Clearing his throat, the prosecutor begins again. “Considering Ms. Parker’s cooperation, then, the government does not oppose reasonable bail under strict conditions, including confinement to New York and electronic monitoring.”
Something akin to feverish hope swells within me as Judge Carter glances between the two tables.
“Very well. Ms. Parker,” I have to stop myself from jolting at the name.
Unused to it still despite its exclusive use over these last few days.
“Bail is set at $150,000, secured by bond or property. You will remain in New York City during the course of this case, residing under supervision in a hotel arranged by your sister. You are subject to electronic monitoring, surrender of passports and travel documents, and are prohibited from contacting any co-defendants, including your husband, Mr. Ashton Parker. Do you understand these terms?”
This time, Mark has to push me to my feet. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Bail is granted under these conditions. We will reconvene for a preliminary hearing in six weeks. Court is adjourned.”
The room blurs around me as rows of strangers shuffle and scrape their way out of chairs. Finally, my gaze lands on one familiar haggard face in the gallery.
I want to run to her, but the officers steer me toward the side door and the soulless rooms beyond. Hours pass in stale air and more stupid plastic chairs before the last signature is scrawled, the last form stamped, the bulky electronics fitted.
Then the door opens, and she’s right there. Pacing hard, messy, and wild. A stark contrast to her ex-husband next to her, who looms statue-like and secreting arrogance like there’s no tomorrow. He’s saying something to her, hushed and rapid, when they’re both alerted to my presence.
There’s a blur and then–
Arms around me, squeezing so hard it hurts.
“June,” Meredith half-sobs into my shoulder.
I cling back like I’ll never let go.