Someone Else's Husband(62)

Cassandra tugged on her forearm. “You can’t just stand in the aisle, Mom. The guard just motioned.”

“Oh, sorry.” Gretchen lowered herself onto the bench but stayed perched on the edge. She tried to breathe. It was not easy.

“All rise!” a bailiff called only a second later as the judge, a large man with huge glasses and a shiny bald head, entered the courtroom with a flourish of his black robe, shoulders squared, chin lifted. Like a man who was only interested in the truth.

The truth was on their side, Gretchen reminded herself. Richard was innocent.

“Be seated,” the judge said curtly. Was he impatient already? Not a great sign. Mikey Pearce had said that so many decisions happened at the judge’s discretion. “Let’s get going. We’ve got a long afternoon ahead of us.”

“Case number one-two-seven-eight-two, the People of the State of New York versus Tania DeMatteo, Your Honor,” the court clerk shouted over the crowd, turning back to hand the judge a file.

A man stood at the prosecutor’s table, leaving another man and a woman seated. All three were young, and very energetic-looking. Hungry. Eager to draw blood, like the dogs that had gone fox hunting with Gretchen when she was young. The prosecutor buttoned his coat as another man in a suit, rail-thin and very old, made his way up from the gallery. A door to the right opened and a petite young woman was brought in wearing an orange jumpsuit. Her ringlets, high ponytail, and round cheeks made her look like a doll—she definitely seemed out of place in handcuffs.

Her scarecrow of a defense attorney was still situating himself, all elbows as he dug through a large stack of files. He hadn’t looked toward his client, probably because she seemed to be snapping at him.

“The charge is attempted murder, Your Honor,” the prosecutor began. “On the night of September fifth, Ms. DeMatteo stabbed Vivienne Gilio in the hallway of Ms. DeMatteo’s apartment building. There were several eyewitnesses.”

How much stabbing happened in New York City on any given night?

“How do you plead?” the judge asked.

“I am not guilty, Your Honor,” the woman said forcefully with a thick Brooklyn accent.

“On the issue of bail?”

“Your Honor, this is an attempted murder charge. An extremely violent one. And Ms. DeMatteo has a lengthy history of assault. She should be remanded without bail.”

No bail, and this wasn’t even an actual murder? Then again, this woman had a criminal record, and she did seem very hostile.

The defense attorney finally spoke up, after clearing his throat in an exuberant fashion. “This was a clear-cut case of self-defense, Your Honor. There is no one who can take care of Ms. DeMatteo’s children if she is held over for trial. The question at issue is likelihood of flight—”

“Balanced against the gravity of the offense,” the prosecutor interjected.

The judge was quiet for a moment, paging through the file. Gretchen twisted her hands tight.

“Bail is set at fifty thousand dollars,” he said finally. “Cash or bond.”

Bail. What a huge relief! If this very angry woman with a criminal record had been granted bail, surely Richard would be, too. It could be dozens and dozens of times higher and that would be no problem.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ms. DeMatteo shouted at the judge. “How the hell am I going to come up with that kind of money?”

“There are options, Ms. DeMatteo,” the judge said, not unkindly. “Your attorney can explain them.”

Two bailiffs walked her away from the defense table as her attorney exhaled audibly. “And fuck you, too!” she screamed back at him.

“Case number one-two-seven-eight-nine, the People of the State of New York versus Richard Falk!”

Gretchen jolted in her seat, and Cassandra reached over for her hand, squeezing it tightly. Less comfort and more of a reminder to keep it together. Cassandra was right. And then the side door opened and there he was—Gretchen’s husband, looking exhausted and shaken. He was a shell of himself. The man she had loved since she was barely more than a child herself. The man she knew better than anybody in this world. She’d had three children with him. They’d built a wonderful life.

Gretchen wanted to rush over and wrap her arms around Richard, smooth his thick salt-and-pepper hair, which was so hopelessly tousled. Promise him everything would be okay.

There was a loud bang as the courtroom doors closed. Mikey Pearce strode down the center aisle, looking calm and in charge.

“You okay?” A voice at her ear. When Gretchen turned, Scotty was sliding into the bench behind her.

“Shouldn’t you be up there?” she whispered sharply.

“The optics are better with just Mikey. He’s the rock star in state court.” Gretchen scowled. “Trust me. I’ve got rich defendant written all over me. It won’t help Richard.”

The female prosecutor stood. She had a very angular brown bob and a noticeably pregnant belly, which made her look like a Playmobil figurine. A crime against a defenseless woman perpetrated by a man. Who better to make that case than a fragile pregnant woman? Great.

“The charge is murder in the first degree,” she began, sounding not the least bit fragile. “The State will prove that on the evening of September tenth, Mr. Falk gained access to Ms. Callahan’s apartment building by ringing her neighbors’ buzzers and impersonating a delivery person.” The prosecutor turned to scowl at Richard like this bit of fakery might be the lowest point of the entire situation, not the part where Frankie ended up dead. “Then, once inside the building, he murdered her in a jealous, possessive rage.”