My knees knock when I take a hesitant step into the courtroom. As my eyes dart around the bland and uninviting space, I strive to ignore the swishing of my stomach. I honestly feel seconds from being sick. I guess nerves can be excused when your first brush with the law is on the defense’s side of the galley instead of the plaintiff’s.
The first person my fretful gaze locks in on is Ryan. His piercing blue eyes are peeking out from behind the male District Attorney’s head. I don’t feel deceived that he’s sitting on the opposing team’s side. My arraignment is only being held this morning because he called in a few favors with his colleagues.
As I shuffle to the table Regan is standing behind, I take in the dark circles plaguing Ryan’s eyes. He looks exhausted as I feel. That’s understandable. I caught glimpses of him walking past my holding cell every ten to twenty minutes last night. If he got any sleep, it was extremely broken.
A sharp yank on my elbow stops my shaky steps near the table Regan is standing at. Compared to the ghastly orange jumpsuit I was required to change into this morning, Regan looks stunning in a red Chanel suit. Her hair is pulled back in a chignon bun, and unlike yesterday, her beautiful features are complemented by a light application of makeup, enhancing her already flawless face.
“Hands.”
The court officer yanks up my chained wrists, not waiting for me to respond. Once the tight cuffs circling them are undone, I wipe at the sweat on my brow. Mercifully, this time around, they slapped my hands together at the front of my body, meaning my ride to the courthouse didn’t cause more injuries to my already aching body. When I was arrested yesterday, they fixed the cuffs so tightly they pinched my skin, so not only do I have bruises as wristbands, I also have indents from the rigid material digging into my skin.
As my hand falls from my face, the DA pivots around to face me. He’s a distinguished-looking man with a wonky smile and bright eyes. His suit looks almost as expensive as the ones Isaac dons, and his watch seems pricey, no doubt costing more than I earn a year. He’s supposed to be one of the good guys, but his vibe doesn’t indicate that. I see him more like a snake in long grass—only deadly when you enter their domain.
When he notices me gawking at him, he nods a greeting before returning his focus to the documents stacked on his desk. I also shift my attention elsewhere. It doesn’t wander far. It can’t. The courtroom isn’t overly large. Only a dozen or so people are filling the pews. Excluding Ryan, I don’t recognize anyone in the gallery. They’re here either waiting for their case to be brought forward or to support a loved one.
I stop peering at a lady in the corner of the room, dabbing her eyes with a tissue when Regan moves to stand in front of me. She fiddles with the collar of my jumpsuit, her nose screwing up like a rabbit.
“Did you sleep last night or have access to bathroom facilities?”
My already slumped shoulders hang even further. Clearly, I look as shit as I feel. When I shake my head, Regan sighs. I was given access to the shower block this morning but chose not to use them since the same privilege was given to the women housed in the holding cell across from me. Most appeared to be crack whores and hookers, but their taunts about my supposed ‘special treatment’ had me watching them more closely. Not all of them were low-ranked hookers. There were more narks in that room than stool pigeons.
When my third scan of the room fails the find the gray eyes I’m seeking, I lock my eyes with Regan. “Where’s Isaac?”
Her sigh reveals I won’t like what she has to say. “He can’t come, Isabelle, and neither can anyone who has any association with him. You won’t see him again until your charges are squashed.”
“Why?” Sheer panic resides in my tone. Rightfully so. That could be months away. Just the thought of not seeing him for that long has the cardboard cereal I choked down this morning threatening to resurface.
Regan guides me to the wooden chair next to her. “Sit down before you fall.”
As she fills a glass with water, her eyes consistently dart between my pale face and someone sitting in the corner of the gallery. I’m too busy struggling to maintain my composure to divert my attention to whoever she’s gawking at. My brain is so frazzled from a lack of sleep, I have to manually command my lungs to suck in breaths when needed instead of them doing it automatically. I thought to die in a horrifying plane crash was my most supreme fear, but the thought of not seeing Isaac again outweighs that terror tenfold.
After handing me a glass of water, Regan once again shifts her eyes to the right. “She’s okay.” She mouths her assurance, ensuring the DA eyeing her from afar doesn’t hear her.
Confused by her oddball behavior, I shift my eyes in the direction she’s gazing. Dizziness clusters in my head from my sharp movements, but it does nothing to lessen the crazy beat of my heart when I spot what she’s peering at. A surveillance camera is mounted in the corner of the room. It’s flashing red, indicating it’s in the process of recording.
With my mind not as hazy as it was earlier, I dart my questioning eyes to Regan. I don’t speak any words. I don’t need to. The high arch of my brow is questioning enough. Her brows crease from my wordless interrogation, but her eyes spill a mammoth load of secrets. The most vital—Isaac didn’t abandon me. I should have known better. He’s not a man who steps back when challenged. He’d rather head toward the storm than be seen as a coward. Although he isn’t here with me, knowing he’s watching settles the nerves in my stomach. He has my back as promised.
The first half of my arraignment is Regan and the DA having a fiery argument with the occasional phrase directed at the judge. It’s the scripted quarrel you see on any crime show where the defense attorney defends his or her clients’ innocence while the DA tells the judge how corrupt and immoral they are. The only time my attention is gripped is when the DA spits out the word “remand.”
“The accused is a federal agent. The crime she is accused of committing is a particularly heinous offense. Remanding her in custody is the only way the courts can ensure the safety of the public as it’s morally obligated to do.”
My pulse clusters in my ears as more hurtful words spill from his lips. “Dangerous, a murderer, calculated and premeditated, unhinged.” They’re the words the DA uses to describe my personality to the judge, and every word fired off his tongue tightens the constrictive noose curled around my heart.
As the panic I only just gathered resurfaces, I shoot my watering eyes to the surveillance camera. I stare at it in shock, equally sickened and panicked. I didn’t prepare for this. I rely on the justice system—I believe in it—so I never fathomed it would be used against me so unjustly.
When many more venomous words seep from the DA’s mouth, I can no longer reel in my anger. I’m stronger than this. My uncle raised me to be stronger than this.
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” The room falls into silence when my chair scraping across the floor overtakes Regan and the DA’s vicious rumblings. When Regan begs for me to retake my seat, I shake my head. Tears careen down my cheeks, but what I have to say needs to be said whether I’m ugly crying or not. “I haven’t done anything wrong, yet I’m being treated like a criminal. What happened to being innocent until proven guilty?”
When the bailiff hovers his hand over his baton, my words come out in a flurry, ensuring I get them all out before he silences my right to freedom of speech. “This is from the male arresting officers throwing me onto the ground during my arrest.” I point to my cheek that’s so badly bruised, it didn’t stop throbbing all night. “This…” I pull up my sleeves to show the judge the nasty black bruises circling my wrists. “… is from where they placed my cuffs on so tightly, they cut off my circulation. I couldn’t feel my hands for hours.”
I drag a shaky hand under my nose to remove the contents spilling there before locking my eyes with the judge. “Yes, I am a federal agent, but right here, right now, I’m ashamed to admit that. I’m disgusted I was ever part of a culture that’s so blatantly unjust they treat their own as if they’re the enemy.”
I’m reasonably sure my outburst lost me any chance at a fair trial, so you can imagine my surprise when the judge asks the DA if he’s aware of any of the incidents I just brought forward. “Whether facing a misdemeanor charge or being prosecuted for murder, defendants have rights… rights Ms. Brahn was not given if her claims are true.”
The DA balks before fumbling out a string of words that don’t make any sense.
“It isn’t a difficult question, Mr. Marco. Was Ms. Brahn rough-handled while in police custody? Yes or no—?”
“There’s a dashcam video that will corroborate Ms. Brahn’s statement.”
This remark didn’t come from the DA. It came from Ryan, who is seated behind him. When the DA glares at him, warning him to keep his mouth shut, Ryan smirks at him without the slightest bit of fear crossing his face. He’s either extraordinarily cocky or an idiot. I hope it’s the former.
My heart beats out a funky tune when the judge asks Ryan, “Do you have this so-called evidence on hand?”
When Ryan nods, my eyes rocket to the camera mounted on the ceiling. I didn’t mention the brutality of my arrest yesterday because I didn’t want Isaac to know. He’s juggling too many things right now, so the last thing I want to do is add another matter into the mix.
As my ragged grunt from being thrown to the ground echoes off the white walls of the chamber, I mouth, “I love you,” to the surveillance camera, praying three little words will pacify Isaac’s anger enough he won’t become the criminal his FBI file makes him out to be.