Chapter 4 - The Courtroom at 26th and California

The Leighton Criminal Court Building at 26th Street and California Avenue was a massive, gray limestone monument to the city’s endless parade of human misery.

Two weeks after my discharge from the hospital, the hallway outside Courtroom 302 was packed with a chaotic throng of public defenders, anxious families, and sheriff's deputies with heavy key rings jingling against their utility belts. I sat on a wooden bench near the elevators, my right arm still pinned in its black immobilizer, Elena Rostova—the attorney David’s firm had retained to handle my civil interests—sitting beside me with a thick accordion folder resting on her knees.

"The state is going to present the indictment package to the grand jury at eleven o'clock," Elena said, her eyes scanning the crowd with professional vigilance. "Colton’s defense team is going to try to argue for a reduction in bail based on his lack of a prior felony record in Cook County. They’ve brought in six character witnesses from his local contracting union."

"Let them bring the whole city," I muttered, my voice tight. My face had healed significantly, the swelling gone, leaving only a faint, faded yellow stain beneath my right eye and a thin, red scar along my jaw where my skin had split against the concrete.

The elevator doors at the end of the hall opened with a heavy, mechanical chime.

My heart skipped a beat as my parents stepped out onto the terrazzo floor. My mother was dressed in a dark gray church suit, her eyes red and puffy behind her glasses. My father walked slightly behind her, holding her arm, his face looking even more withered than it had in the hospital ward.

But they weren't alone. Walking between them, flanked by a young, aggressive-looking attorney in a sharp gray suit, was Jillian.

She was out on an electronic monitoring bond, a black plastic GPS strap visible around her left ankle beneath her wide-legged trousers. She looked pale, her signature confidence replaced by a frantic, hunted expression, her fingers constantly twisting a gold chain around her neck.

As she saw me sitting on the bench, she stopped. For a second, I saw a flash of the old, manipulative anger in her eyes—the look she gave me whenever I refused to let her borrow my car or take money from my savings during our twenties. But as her eyes fell on the heavy black brace holding my shoulder uselessly against my chest, her expression shifted into something more desperate.

She broke away from her attorney and walked straight toward me, my parents hurrying behind her like attendant ghosts.

"Arthur," she gasped out, stopping three feet away from the bench as Marcus Rostova stood up, her physical presence instantly creating a protective barrier between us. "Arthur, please. You have to talk to the state’s attorney. They’re trying to send me to Stateville for five years. Five years, Arthur! For what? I didn't hit you! I didn't touch you!"

"You told him to take my thumbprint while I was unconscious, Jillian," I said, my voice completely level, lacking any trace of the anger she was prepared to fight. "I heard the tape. The grand jury heard the tape this morning."

Jillian’s face went entirely white, her hand dropping from her gold chain. "That... that was just a joke. I was panicked! Colton was out of control, and I didn't know what to do, I was just trying to get the papers out of the garage before the neighbors came—"

"Jillian, step back immediately," her gray-suited attorney said, grabbing her by the elbow and pulling her back two steps. He looked at Elena Rostova, acknowledging her with a cold, professional nod. "Ms. Rostova, my client is prepared to enter an immediate conditional allocation regarding the corporate fraud elements if the state is willing to drop the aggravated battery complicity charge. We can settle the civil restitution out of the property equity."

"The state isn't bargaining, counselor," Elena said, her voice like iron dropping into ice. "And neither is my client. Your client sat on a workbench and watched a family member get his orbital bone fractured so she could secure a commercial kickback from a corrupt logistics firm. We aren't looking for restitution. We’re looking for a verdict."

My mother stepped forward then, her voice breaking into a loud, shrill wail that drew the eyes of half the hallway. "Arthur! He is your sister’s husband! She has children! What is wrong with you? Where is your heart? We raised you to love each other!"

I stood up from the bench, the movement slow but deliberate. I stood to my full height, looking down at my mother, then at my father, who still couldn't bring himself to meet my gaze.

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"You raised her to take whatever she wanted, Mom," I said, my voice carrying clearly through the sudden hush of the corridor. "And you raised me to let her do it. But the ledger is closed now. The numbers don't balance anymore. You can stay out here with her, or you can go into that courtroom and watch the state read the charges. But as far as I’m concerned... I don't have a sister. And I don't have parents."

I turned my back on them before my mother could reply, walking toward the heavy double doors of Courtroom 302 where Officer Ramirez was already standing, holding the door open for me with a quiet, approving nod.