WHEN NICK ARRIVED IN COURT AT 9:50 ON TUESDAY morning, Mitch was waiting for him beside Art Girardin. “Someone left you this on the table.” Mitch slid an envelope across the table: For Attorney Castalano only.
Nick wedged his finger under the lip of the envelope. Inside, a packet of black and white photos were tied together with an elastic band. He vaguely heard Mitch say something about similarities and topologies and something that sounded like glop, but his attention was focused on the photos. The first was of Nick lying on his back, his shirt unbuttoned, with Rachel, naked, porcelain body, one arm lying on his hairy chest, white leg over his, looking like what he imagined she would look like naked: not a day older than sixteen. There was no need to see the others.
At precisely 10 a.m., the marshal shouted, “All rise. Court’s back in session.”
Nick slid the photo back into the envelope, looked over towards Harris, who refused to look him in the eye. He had no choice but to collect himself and proceed. Lindquist stood in the doorway behind the bench, looking exhausted. “Please be seated.” His eyes fell on Nick and Harris.
“Gentlemen, Judge Fox had an unexpected emergency this morning, and I have agreed to take over his motion docket for the next day or so. I will ask that these proceedings be... ” Nick hardly heard Lindquist because the blackmail was absorbing his concentration. Nick hurried out of the courtroom to the pay phone. “Seymour, Nick. Yes, fine, fine. I need to talk to you real quick, in person. Can we meet at five, say on the park bench in front of the Elias Howe monument at Seaside Park? Ok, good. Well, I need some help, and you’re probably the only guy... yes, has to do with the trial.”