After #2
The courtroom was much bigger than Gretchen had anticipated.
Almost like an auditorium, it was packed with the distressed when they arrived—nervous people, angry people, fearful families.
Small children. At least Gretchen’s own children weren’t little.
Then again, if they had been little, she could have just hidden this situation entirely. She was so good at that.
Gretchen felt numb as she followed Cassandra to the front row.
Mikey had texted that morning to remind them to sit as close to the front as possible, right behind the defense table, in a show of support.
He’d had an assistant hold spots for them.
But the last thing Gretchen wanted now was to be so close.
Cassandra tugged on her forearm. “You can’t just stand in the aisle, Mom. The guard just motioned.”
“Oh, sorry.” Gretchen lowered herself onto the bench but stayed perched on the edge. She tried to breathe. It was not easy.
“All rise!” a bailiff called only a second later as the judge, a large man with huge glasses and a shiny bald head, entered the courtroom with a flourish of his black robe, shoulders squared, chin lifted. Like a man who was only interested in the truth.
The truth was on their side, Gretchen reminded herself. Richard was innocent.
“Be seated,” the judge said curtly. Was he impatient already? Not a great sign. Mikey Pearce had said that so many decisions happened at the judge’s discretion. “Let’s get going. We’ve got a long afternoon ahead of us.”
“Case number one-two-seven-eight-two, the People of the State of New York versus Tania DeMatteo, Your Honor,” the court clerk shouted over the crowd, turning back to hand the judge a file.
A man stood at the prosecutor’s table, leaving another man and a woman seated.
All three were young, and very energetic-looking.
Hungry. Eager to draw blood, like the dogs that had gone fox hunting with Gretchen when she was young.
The prosecutor buttoned his coat as another man in a suit, rail-thin and very old, made his way up from the gallery.
A door to the right opened and a petite young woman was brought in wearing an orange jumpsuit.
Her ringlets, high ponytail, and round cheeks made her look like a doll—she definitely seemed out of place in handcuffs.
Her scarecrow of a defense attorney was still situating himself, all elbows as he dug through a large stack of files. He hadn’t looked toward his client, probably because she seemed to be snapping at him.
“The charge is attempted murder, Your Honor,” the prosecutor began. “On the night of September fifth, Ms. DeMatteo stabbed Vivienne Gilio in the hallway of Ms. DeMatteo’s apartment building. There were several eyewitnesses.”
How much stabbing happened in New York City on any given night?
“How do you plead?” the judge asked.
“I am not guilty, Your Honor,” the woman said forcefully with a thick Brooklyn accent.
“On the issue of bail?”
“Your Honor, this is an attempted murder charge. An extremely violent one. And Ms. DeMatteo has a lengthy history of assault. She should be remanded without bail.”
No bail, and this wasn’t even an actual murder? Then again, this woman had a criminal record, and she did seem very hostile.
The defense attorney finally spoke up, after clearing his throat in an exuberant fashion. “This was a clear-cut case of self-defense, Your Honor. There is no one who can take care of Ms. DeMatteo’s children if she is held over for trial. The question at issue is likelihood of flight—”
“Balanced against the gravity of the offense,” the prosecutor interjected.
The judge was quiet for a moment, paging through the file. Gretchen twisted her hands tight.
“Bail is set at fifty thousand dollars,” he said finally. “Cash or bond.”
Bail. What a huge relief! If this very angry woman with a criminal record had been granted bail, surely Richard would be, too. It could be dozens and dozens of times higher and that would be no problem.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ms. DeMatteo shouted at the judge. “How the hell am I going to come up with that kind of money?”
“There are options, Ms. DeMatteo,” the judge said, not unkindly. “Your attorney can explain them.”
Two bailiffs walked her away from the defense table as her attorney exhaled audibly. “And fuck you, too!” she screamed back at him.
“Case number one-two-seven-eight-nine, the People of the State of New York versus Richard Falk!”
Gretchen jolted in her seat, and Cassandra reached over for her hand, squeezing it tightly.
Less comfort and more of a reminder to keep it together.
Cassandra was right. And then the side door opened and there he was—Gretchen’s husband, looking exhausted and shaken.
He was a shell of himself. The man she had loved since she was barely more than a child herself.
The man she knew better than anybody in this world.
She’d had three children with him. They’d built a wonderful life.
Gretchen wanted to rush over and wrap her arms around Richard, smooth his thick salt-and-pepper hair, which was so hopelessly tousled. Promise him everything would be okay.
There was a loud bang as the courtroom doors closed. Mikey Pearce strode down the center aisle, looking calm and in charge.
“You okay?” A voice at her ear. When Gretchen turned, Scotty was sliding into the bench behind her.
“Shouldn’t you be up there?” she whispered sharply.
“The optics are better with just Mikey. He’s the rock star in state court.” Gretchen scowled. “Trust me. I’ve got rich defendant written all over me. It won’t help Richard.”
The female prosecutor stood. She had a very angular brown bob and a noticeably pregnant belly, which made her look like a Playmobil figurine. A crime against a defenseless woman perpetrated by a man. Who better to make that case than a fragile pregnant woman? Great.
“The charge is murder in the first degree,” she began, sounding not the least bit fragile.
“The State will prove that on the evening of September tenth, Mr. Falk gained access to Ms. Callahan’s apartment building by ringing her neighbors’ buzzers and impersonating a delivery person.
” The prosecutor turned to scowl at Richard like this bit of fakery might be the lowest point of the entire situation, not the part where Frankie ended up dead.
“Then, once inside the building, he murdered her in a jealous, possessive rage.”
“Is this an opening statement or a recitation of charges, Your Honor?” Mikey Pearce asked smoothly. He suddenly seemed very magnetic. All eyes in the room were on him.
“We have murder in the first degree,” the judge said, ignoring their back-and-forth. “How does your client plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor,” Richard said. He sounded utterly broken. Gretchen covered her mouth with her hand. She was afraid she might start to cry if she had to hear that voice again.
The judge glared at Richard for an uncomfortably frosty moment, then pressed on. “On the matter of bail?”
“Why does the judge seem so…hostile?” Gretchen whispered to Scotty, hoping he’d dismiss her observation.
“He wasn’t the best draw,” Scotty whispered back. “Hates wealthy defendants.”
Unfortunately, Richard did seem wealthy somehow, even in his prison jumpsuit. It was his bearing, Gretchen supposed.
“The People request that the defendant be remanded without bail. Given the severity of the—”
“Your Honor, that’s absurd,” Mikey Pearce scoffed.
“We have a confession,” the prosecutor countered. “We have a bloodbath of a crime scene.”
Confession? Elizabeth mouthed angrily at Scotty. What the hell?
Scotty gestured for her to be quiet.
“Your Honor, there was no confession,” Mikey said, but almost offhandedly.
“If the prosecutor is referring to my client’s so-called statements, she knows full well that they have been recanted.
My client was exhausted, and they were the product of coercion.
Moreover, they were made without a signed waiver of his rights.
Also, we’ve seen no transcript, but from what my client has told me, calling these offhanded statements a ‘confession’ is tantamount to prosecutorial misconduct. ”
“Mmm,” the judge said, narrowing his eyes disapprovingly at the prosecutor.
“Fine, even leaving aside the confession for the moment,” the prosecutor continued, regarding Mikey coolly, “we have a witness who saw Mr. Falk at the scene and clothes have been located at Mr. Falk’s residence with the victim’s blood on them.”
Gretchen must have heard that wrong. She leaned forward. But there was a whooshing sound in her ears that drowned everything else out. Bloody clothes. In their apartment?
Gretchen turned to Scotty, but he was focused on the proceedings. Finally, he reached over and squeezed her hand without looking at her. “Don’t worry.”
The judge frowned at the prosecutor. “Blood evidence would be getting warmer, counselor. But you’re still a hell of a long way from the finish line.”
“They have no way of knowing yet whether that’s even Ms. Callahan’s blood on those clothes.
” Mikey Pearce turned to the table full of prosecutors.
“They haven’t had time for a DNA match. Ms. Callahan was O-positive, judge.
That includes nearly forty percent of the population, including me. Maybe it was my blood.”
Bloody clothes. Where could they have found those? O-positive was also Gretchen’s blood type, but she hadn’t been bleeding in the house at any time recently. It made no sense.
The judge turned back to the prosecutor. “Back to chilly, counselor.”
“Fine, then let’s focus merely on the possibility of flight, Your Honor.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “This isn’t your average defendant. He’s a multimillionaire and a world traveler. He and Ms. Callahan met in Africa.”
“Africa?” The judge did not seem to like this. At all.