that’s illegal, immoral, or fattening.’’ He tugged on my hand. ‘‘I never took steroids, didn’t cheat on the bar exam. That business with the circus pony, the tabloids exaggerated the whole thing.’’
I rolled my eyes, relaxing.
‘‘They’re trying to freak me out. What I need to do is figure out how to trace the message path, so the next time the cops can get on them.’’
‘‘Next time?’’
‘‘When they tell me they want me to shut up or back off. Just watch.’’ He grabbed his car keys. ‘‘Let’s go. The arraignment’s in half an hour.’’
The county courthouse was a white fortress designed along the lines of an Andalusian castle. Adam was waiting outside. He wore Dockers and sandals, the academic-casual look not hiding the lines of tension in his face. Not hiding the hangover, either. He had on sunglasses and was trying not to move his head.
He said, ‘‘I don’t know how I’m going to look at his face.’’
‘‘Just stick with me,’’ Jesse said.
Upstairs in the courtroom we took a seat on the hard benches. Jesse sat in the aisle, leaned on his elbows, and stared at his feet. A minute later Chris Ramseur joined us, dressed in his usual jacket, checked shirt, and knit tie. Seeing him warmed me. Detectives rarely attended arraignments, but Chris was invested in the case. More than that, he cared.
Soon the courtroom door clattered open, and sheriff’s deputies herded the shackled prisoners up the aisle, a conga line of the dead-eyed and defiant. Their blue coveralls stank of sweat and strong detergent.
And finally we saw him, toward the end of the line. Adam’s hand gripped the bench behind my back. Jesse sat up straight. Brand walked past us, his gaze jumping around like a flea. He looked angry. He looked tired and dirty. But above all else, Franklin Brand looked rich.
He was tanned. He was smooth. He actually looked younger than in photos. He could have posed for the cover of a Yachts R Us catalog.
Jesse said, ‘‘He’s had plastic surgery.’’
When the judge called his case he was unchained and walked through the gate to stand at the defense table. His attorney was a man named O’Leary who stroked his skull repeatedly, as if hoping to find hair there. The charges were read out.
Vehicular manslaughter. Reckless driving causing great bodily harm. Hit-and-run. Flight to avoid prosecution.
At the recitation of each charge, the judge said, ‘‘How do you plead?’’
And Brand said, ‘‘Not guilty.’’
I glanced at Jesse. He was barely breathing.
The prosecutor requested $500,000 bail. Even I, no criminal attorney, knew that was high, but Adam hunched toward me, his face a fist.
‘‘Is that all?’’
O’Leary asked for $50,000, the guideline amount for vehicular manslaughter. The prosecutor piped in again, talking about the multiple counts and Brand’s risk of flight, and the judge raised his hand.
‘‘I’ve heard enough. Bail is set at two hundred fifty thousand dollars.’’
That was it. The talk went on, but we were through. Jesse spun to leave and I stood up to follow him.
Adam said, ‘‘They’re letting him go.’’
He was on his feet, gripping the bench in front of him. The judge looked up.
‘‘Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars won’t keep him in town. This is wrong.’’
The judge banged his gavel. ‘‘Order in the court.’’
‘‘Are you insane? Two hundred fifty K is nothing. The man is a millionaire.’’
The judge clacked the gavel. The bailiff pushed through the gate toward us, his face like wood. Chris urged Adam toward the aisle, but he held on to the bench. Brand kept his eyes front. He was picking his fingernails.
Jesse said, ‘‘Adam, come on. It’s all right.’’
Adam turned to him, mouth wide. After a long second he let go of the bench and hurtled from the room.
Jesse caught him in the corridor outside. Adam was pacing in circles, holding his head. I heard him say,
I rolled my eyes, relaxing.
‘‘They’re trying to freak me out. What I need to do is figure out how to trace the message path, so the next time the cops can get on them.’’
‘‘Next time?’’
‘‘When they tell me they want me to shut up or back off. Just watch.’’ He grabbed his car keys. ‘‘Let’s go. The arraignment’s in half an hour.’’
The county courthouse was a white fortress designed along the lines of an Andalusian castle. Adam was waiting outside. He wore Dockers and sandals, the academic-casual look not hiding the lines of tension in his face. Not hiding the hangover, either. He had on sunglasses and was trying not to move his head.
He said, ‘‘I don’t know how I’m going to look at his face.’’
‘‘Just stick with me,’’ Jesse said.
Upstairs in the courtroom we took a seat on the hard benches. Jesse sat in the aisle, leaned on his elbows, and stared at his feet. A minute later Chris Ramseur joined us, dressed in his usual jacket, checked shirt, and knit tie. Seeing him warmed me. Detectives rarely attended arraignments, but Chris was invested in the case. More than that, he cared.
Soon the courtroom door clattered open, and sheriff’s deputies herded the shackled prisoners up the aisle, a conga line of the dead-eyed and defiant. Their blue coveralls stank of sweat and strong detergent.
And finally we saw him, toward the end of the line. Adam’s hand gripped the bench behind my back. Jesse sat up straight. Brand walked past us, his gaze jumping around like a flea. He looked angry. He looked tired and dirty. But above all else, Franklin Brand looked rich.
He was tanned. He was smooth. He actually looked younger than in photos. He could have posed for the cover of a Yachts R Us catalog.
Jesse said, ‘‘He’s had plastic surgery.’’
When the judge called his case he was unchained and walked through the gate to stand at the defense table. His attorney was a man named O’Leary who stroked his skull repeatedly, as if hoping to find hair there. The charges were read out.
Vehicular manslaughter. Reckless driving causing great bodily harm. Hit-and-run. Flight to avoid prosecution.
At the recitation of each charge, the judge said, ‘‘How do you plead?’’
And Brand said, ‘‘Not guilty.’’
I glanced at Jesse. He was barely breathing.
The prosecutor requested $500,000 bail. Even I, no criminal attorney, knew that was high, but Adam hunched toward me, his face a fist.
‘‘Is that all?’’
O’Leary asked for $50,000, the guideline amount for vehicular manslaughter. The prosecutor piped in again, talking about the multiple counts and Brand’s risk of flight, and the judge raised his hand.
‘‘I’ve heard enough. Bail is set at two hundred fifty thousand dollars.’’
That was it. The talk went on, but we were through. Jesse spun to leave and I stood up to follow him.
Adam said, ‘‘They’re letting him go.’’
He was on his feet, gripping the bench in front of him. The judge looked up.
‘‘Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars won’t keep him in town. This is wrong.’’
The judge banged his gavel. ‘‘Order in the court.’’
‘‘Are you insane? Two hundred fifty K is nothing. The man is a millionaire.’’
The judge clacked the gavel. The bailiff pushed through the gate toward us, his face like wood. Chris urged Adam toward the aisle, but he held on to the bench. Brand kept his eyes front. He was picking his fingernails.
Jesse said, ‘‘Adam, come on. It’s all right.’’
Adam turned to him, mouth wide. After a long second he let go of the bench and hurtled from the room.
Jesse caught him in the corridor outside. Adam was pacing in circles, holding his head. I heard him say,
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