Read Online Confessions: The Private School Murders by James Patterson - Free Book Online
Authors: James Patterson
Tags: Family, Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, Love & Romance, Siblings, Juvenile Fiction / Family - Siblings, Mysteries & Detective Stories, Self-Esteem & Self-Reliance, Juvenile Fiction / Love & Romance, Juvenile Fiction / Mysteries & Detective Stories, Juvenile Fiction / Social Issues / Self-Esteem & Self-Reliance
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things went as predicted, Matthew’s trial would be nasty, tawdry, and totally fascinating for the public at large.
My poor brother. The media beast was hungry, and Matthew Angel was the appetizer, the main dish,
and
the dessert.
Harry reached for my right hand. Hugo reached for my left. I squeezed both.
The very least we could do was stick together.
17
The courtroom was paneled
top to bottom in mahogany, had twenty-foot ceilings topped with carved gargoyles and angels, and was totally imposing. The twenty-two rows of high-backed benches, a lot like church pews, were almost completely filled.
My brothers and I made our way toward the front of the room, where railings and a gate separated the audience from the well, the enclosed area where the lawyers, the jury, and the judge would be putting on the trial.
The judge’s bench was high above the courtroom floor, backed by flags and the New York State insignia. I looked at the table where Philippe and Matthew would be sitting;it was empty. Across the aisle, Nadine Raphael’s team was setting up at the prosecution table.
People in the fourth row slid over and made room for us. I gave the seat on the aisle to Hugo so that he could see the action. My usually boisterous, optimistic brother sat down, the picture of solemnity. I think he knew this was the center of the no-kidding-around universe.
Hugo straightened up and grabbed my knee when Matthew came in with Philippe. Whispers flew up from the gallery like pigeons.
There he is.
There’s Matthew Angel.
Oh my God. He looks awful.
Do you think he did it?
Phil was handsome as always, shaved head, expensive tailoring, tidy with a capital
T
, an urban lawyer in command. My brother was wearing a suit that looked loose on him, and his expression sagged.
He didn’t see us, but I hoped he could feel that his siblings had his back.
A lot of business was conducted in the next hour. Chubby-cheeked Judge Bradley Mudge addressed the people in the gallery. He told us the rules of order, and when the jury came in, he spent a long time instructing them on trial procedure.
I studied the faces and body language of the jurors and alternates. The people who would decide my brother’s fate looked like a bunch of average Joes and Janes, none any more remarkable than the last.
But then I snuck another look at the prosecutor whose job it was to keep Matthew in jail, and goose bumps chilled my skin.
That woman was scary.
18
I craned my head
to get a good look at prosecutor Nadine Raphael. She was almost six feet tall, with a powerful build, like an Olympic swimmer. Her broad shoulders and narrow hips were encased in a tight red Armani suit, and her black hair was short and swept back, tucked behind her ears, highlighting her beautiful, angular face. She could have been a modern-day Greek goddess—the severe and statuesque Pallas Athena, to be exact.
Ms. Raphael stepped out from behind the prosecution table and click-clacked smartly to the lectern in the center of the courtroom. About two hundred pairs of eyes followed.
She said hello to the jury, held up a photograph, andlaunched her opening statement. I glanced at Harry and held my breath.
“This is one of the victims in this case, Tamara Gee. A sweet young woman of twenty-four, generous, funny, and if she looks familiar to you, maybe you’ve seen her on television or in the movies. But I don’t want to focus on her career.”
Sure you don’t
, I thought.
Reminding everyone of how universally beloved Tamara was won’t help your case at all.
“Tamara was a real person, a citizen of this city, an exemplary soul, and an expectant mother of the other victim in this trial. That victim was her unborn child. A child she called Trevor. A boy who never drew a single breath or opened his eyes. He died inside his mother’s body.
“Until three months ago, Tamara lived with the defendant in the Village, in a nice apartment in an old building with an Italian restaurant
My poor brother. The media beast was hungry, and Matthew Angel was the appetizer, the main dish,
and
the dessert.
Harry reached for my right hand. Hugo reached for my left. I squeezed both.
The very least we could do was stick together.
17
The courtroom was paneled
top to bottom in mahogany, had twenty-foot ceilings topped with carved gargoyles and angels, and was totally imposing. The twenty-two rows of high-backed benches, a lot like church pews, were almost completely filled.
My brothers and I made our way toward the front of the room, where railings and a gate separated the audience from the well, the enclosed area where the lawyers, the jury, and the judge would be putting on the trial.
The judge’s bench was high above the courtroom floor, backed by flags and the New York State insignia. I looked at the table where Philippe and Matthew would be sitting;it was empty. Across the aisle, Nadine Raphael’s team was setting up at the prosecution table.
People in the fourth row slid over and made room for us. I gave the seat on the aisle to Hugo so that he could see the action. My usually boisterous, optimistic brother sat down, the picture of solemnity. I think he knew this was the center of the no-kidding-around universe.
Hugo straightened up and grabbed my knee when Matthew came in with Philippe. Whispers flew up from the gallery like pigeons.
There he is.
There’s Matthew Angel.
Oh my God. He looks awful.
Do you think he did it?
Phil was handsome as always, shaved head, expensive tailoring, tidy with a capital
T
, an urban lawyer in command. My brother was wearing a suit that looked loose on him, and his expression sagged.
He didn’t see us, but I hoped he could feel that his siblings had his back.
A lot of business was conducted in the next hour. Chubby-cheeked Judge Bradley Mudge addressed the people in the gallery. He told us the rules of order, and when the jury came in, he spent a long time instructing them on trial procedure.
I studied the faces and body language of the jurors and alternates. The people who would decide my brother’s fate looked like a bunch of average Joes and Janes, none any more remarkable than the last.
But then I snuck another look at the prosecutor whose job it was to keep Matthew in jail, and goose bumps chilled my skin.
That woman was scary.
18
I craned my head
to get a good look at prosecutor Nadine Raphael. She was almost six feet tall, with a powerful build, like an Olympic swimmer. Her broad shoulders and narrow hips were encased in a tight red Armani suit, and her black hair was short and swept back, tucked behind her ears, highlighting her beautiful, angular face. She could have been a modern-day Greek goddess—the severe and statuesque Pallas Athena, to be exact.
Ms. Raphael stepped out from behind the prosecution table and click-clacked smartly to the lectern in the center of the courtroom. About two hundred pairs of eyes followed.
She said hello to the jury, held up a photograph, andlaunched her opening statement. I glanced at Harry and held my breath.
“This is one of the victims in this case, Tamara Gee. A sweet young woman of twenty-four, generous, funny, and if she looks familiar to you, maybe you’ve seen her on television or in the movies. But I don’t want to focus on her career.”
Sure you don’t
, I thought.
Reminding everyone of how universally beloved Tamara was won’t help your case at all.
“Tamara was a real person, a citizen of this city, an exemplary soul, and an expectant mother of the other victim in this trial. That victim was her unborn child. A child she called Trevor. A boy who never drew a single breath or opened his eyes. He died inside his mother’s body.
“Until three months ago, Tamara lived with the defendant in the Village, in a nice apartment in an old building with an Italian restaurant
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