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need for a trial?

    One day down, so far, so good. I went to work that night satisfied that at least we were doing something.

    The next morning at the courthouse, I ended up in line for the same elevator as Ben. Today he wore a beige blazer over his T-shirt. We exchanged quick, polite smiles. It didn’t feel like we were mere acquaintances. But that was probably due to the spell work. I’d been doing regular protective spells for him since Nonna showed me how.

    That’s not wholly legit in our tradition—doing magic for people without asking their permission, I mean. It goes against free will. But since my recent magic was to protect him from my earlier magic, and since I had no intention of mentioning the curse, I was willing to take the karmic risk.

    It’s not like I had a spotless karmic record, since the curse. What’s another pound to an elephant?

    When we ended up squished close to each other in the same elevator car, I just had to ask, “How’s your car?”

    Ben smiled, shrugged. “I’m taking the El a lot, lately.”

    “Other than that, things are…?”

    “Fine. Yeah.” He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet. “You? I mean…other than your sister, of course….”

    “I’m taking it day by day.”

    He nodded. “I get that.”

    We arrived on the third floor.

    “You’re testifying today, right?” he asked as we got out. When I nodded, he said, “Good luck with that. I mean—God, that’s not…” Then he reconsidered. His chin came up, as if he’d made a decision. “Really. Good luck with that.”

    He sounded sincere—and his dark gaze sure looked it—but…“Even when it puts your brother away?”

    “I’m hoping it gets my brother some help.”

    I stopped dead. People had to veer around us like a river parting around a boulder. “You aren’t saying…” I had to swallow, hard, to keep down a surge of anger. “He’s not going to say he’s innocent because he’s crazy, is he?”

    “What if…?” But I’d already known Ben wasn’t stupid, and he proved it by not going there. “No,” he admitted instead, holding my gaze. “Victor would never say that.”

    But Ben might? Unwilling to even consider that, I ducked past him and into the courtroom. As long as Victor went to prison and never left, I didn’t care whether shrinks tried to “help” him or not. But I wasn’t about to see him go free.

    No matter what it took.

    Other than the expected stage fright, up there in the witness box in front of everyone, my testimony went fine—as long as I was answering Mr. Jennings’s questions. I haltingly described how I got home, what I’d found, what Victor had done and said, and how I recognized Victor in the lineup. I even got to point at him when Jennings asked if the killer was in the courtroom, like on a TV show. For the briefest moment, I saw pure loathing in Victor’s gaze. I met it, hatred for hatred.

    I never mentioned the curse to the authorities. Apparently he hadn’t, either.

    “Nothing more,” said Jennings, and I foolishly relaxed. For every moment of happiness you’ve stolen from my sister and me, may you know years of misery. Life in prison would be an excellent step in that direction. Victor was going down.

    Then I got cross-examined.

    “The intruder said he was Ben Fisher?” asked Sherman Prescott, Victor’s attorney. I remembered him from the second lineup. He reeked of self-importance, and not just because of his sideburns.

    “He lied,” I said.

    His snapped “Objection!” made me jump.

    The judge gently told me to answer yes or no.

    “Yes, he said he was Ben Fisher.”

    “And when you participated in the first of two lineups, whom did you point out as—and I quote—‘the man I saw?’” asked Prescott.

    Jennings had prepared me for the questions, but not the outrage I’d feel. “I didn’t realize they were—”

    “Objection. Nonresponsive.”

    “Ms. Trillo,” prompted the judge.

    I became more aware of