Chapter 17 Zainab #2
Camille turned to me, her hand covering mine. “You did great. Just breathe.”
“Did I? I didn’t even say anything.”
“Sometimes that’s the best thing you can do. You looked sympathetic. Human. That matters.”
I couldn’t sit still. My leg was bouncing. My hands were shaking. I needed to see Prime.
I turned around in my seat.
He was already looking at me. Those ocean eyes that had seen me at my worst and my best. That had looked at me with desire and disappointment and everything in between.
He placed his hand over his heart.
I’m right here, the gesture said. I’m not going anywhere.
Yusef was sitting straight, his jaw tight, trying so hard to be strong. My baby. My sweet, traumatized baby who’d been through too much in his short life. He gave me a small nod, and I had to blink back tears.
Quest sat beside them, steady as always. The rock of the Banks family. He met my eyes and mouthed, “It’s gonna be okay.”
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him.
But that prosecutor’s words kept echoing in my head. A woman who looked at her dead sister’s body and saw an opportunity. Is that what the judge thought, too? Is that what everyone thought?
The minutes crawled by. I watched the clock on the wall, each tick feeling like a countdown to my fate. Every time the door behind the bench moved even slightly, my heart stopped.
Please, God. Please.
Finally—finally—the bailiff’s voice rang out.
“All rise.”
We stood. My legs were trembling so bad I had to grip the table to stay upright.
Judge Whitmore returned to her seat. Her face was unreadable. I tried to find some sign—a softening around the eyes, a slight frown, anything—but she gave nothing away.
“You may be seated.”
I sat. Camille’s hand found mine under the table and squeezed.
Judge Whitmore put on her reading glasses and looked down at her notes. The silence was suffocating.
“This is a complicated case,” she began. “The charges against Ms. Ali are extremely serious. First-degree murder. Identity theft. Fraud. Obstruction of justice. These are not minor offenses, and the prosecution has raised valid concerns about flight risk given the potential sentence.”
My heart sank.
“However.”
I held my breath.
“The defense has also raised compelling points. The prosecution’s murder theory is, at this stage, largely circumstantial.
There is no murder weapon. No eyewitnesses to the actual shooting.
And the defense has presented an alternative theory—that Ms. Ali’s sister was killed by someone else and Ms. Ali assumed her identity out of fear for her own life. ”
Judge Whitmore adjusted her glasses.
“Additionally, Ms. Ali has significant ties to her community. She runs a business. She has family members who depend on her. And she is in her third trimester of pregnancy.”
Judge Whitmore looked up at me. I couldn’t read her expression.
“While the defendant’s decision to assume her sister’s identity was illegal, the circumstances surrounding that decision—if the defense’s theory is accurate—suggest actions motivated by fear rather than malice.
This is not a case where the evidence of guilt is overwhelming.
There are genuine questions that will need to be resolved at trial. ”
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
“Therefore, I am granting bail.”
The sound that came out of me was somewhere between a sob and a gasp. Camille squeezed my hand so hard it hurt.
“Bail is set at two million dollars.”
Two million. I didn’t care. Prime would pay it. Prime would pay anything.
“Additionally, the defendant will be placed on house arrest with electronic monitoring. She will surrender her passport and is prohibited from leaving the state of California without express permission from this court. She will report to a probation officer weekly and submit to random check-ins.”
I was nodding, tears streaming down my face. Yes. Yes. Anything. I’ll do anything.
“Ms. Ali.” Judge Whitmore’s voice was stern but not unkind. “I’m giving you an opportunity here. Don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t, Your Honor. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
The gavel came down. “Court is adjourned.”
I turned around so fast I almost knocked over my chair.
Prime was already on his feet, already moving toward the gate that separated the gallery from the counsel tables. I rushed toward him, my belly making me slower than I wanted to be, but it didn’t matter because he was there—he was right there—and then his arms were around me.
I broke.
All the fear, all the anxiety, all the weeks of being locked in a cell away from everyone I loved—it all came pouring out. I sobbed into his chest, clutching his shirt, breathing him in.
“I got you,” he murmured against my hair. “I got you, Goddess. You’re coming home.”
He pulled back just enough to look at my face, his thumbs wiping away my tears. And then he kissed me.
Deep. Desperate. We kissed like we didn’t care who was watching. His hands were on my face, my back, everywhere he could touch. Like he was making sure I was real. Like he’d been starving for me.
“I love you,” I breathed against his lips. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too. Both of you.”
He dropped to his knees right there in the courtroom. Put his hands on my belly. Pressed his forehead against where our daughter was kicking up a storm.
“Hey, baby girl,” he said softly. “Daddy’s here. And Mama’s coming home. We’re all gonna be together now. All of us.”
I ran my fingers through his locs, crying and laughing at the same time.
Then a smaller body crashed into my side.
Yusef. My baby. He didn’t say anything—couldn’t say anything, not since the trauma had stolen his voice—but his arms wrapped around me so tight I could barely breathe. His whole body was shaking with silent sobs.
I wrapped my arms around him and held on tight, one hand still in Prime’s hair, the other clutching my nephew—my son—like I’d never let go.
“I missed you so much,” I whispered into his hair. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry I left you.”
He pulled back just enough to look at me, tears streaming down his face. He couldn’t say the words, but his eyes said everything. I love you. Don’t leave again.
My heart shattered and rebuilt itself in the same moment.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He buried his face in my shoulder again, and I held him tighter.
Prime stood, and for a moment we were all tangled together—me, him, Yusef, our unborn daughter. A family. Imperfect and messy and broken in places, but a family nonetheless.
Quest appeared beside us, pulling Camille into a hug that lifted her off her feet.
“You did it, baby,” he said.
Camille laughed, swatting at his shoulder. “Put me down, fool. We’re in a courthouse.”
But she was smiling. We all were.
“Let’s get out of here,” Prime said, his arm tight around my waist. “Let’s go home.”
Home. Such a simple word. But it meant everything.
We walked out of that courtroom together—Prime and me, Yusef between us holding both our hands, Quest and Camille behind. Past the prosecutor who wouldn’t meet my eyes. Past the reporters who were probably already writing their headlines. Past all of it.
Into the California sunshine.
Into freedom.
For now.