The thought of laying eyes on her again fills me with a hope I’m tempted to tamp down. Won’t dare dream on it. But if I do see her, I’ll tell her true. Loving her was the only thing I did worth a damn.
Chapter 34
ALICE
Just a fortnight after Virgil’s visit, the carriage sets us down on Tremont Street at the foot of the federal courthouse. The stone columns rise tall as oaks, pale against the Gulf sky. My hip aches, but I can manage. The bullet passed clean through the fleshy part, sparing the bone, but it sliced a minor artery. The doctor said it was a miracle I survived, given the blood I lost. Had Kodiak not carried me to the hospital when he did, I’d have perished for certain. Now he’s locked in a cage, facing certain death, and I cannot allow him to trade his life for my own.
Virgil nods at the marshal who meets us at the door and steers me across the vestibule. The air smells of ink and cigar smoke. Clerks hurry up and down the marble hall, folders clutched in their hands, the echo of boots clapping under the vaulted ceiling. Brass lamps flicker. Portraits of men line the walls, stern faces fixed in gilt frames.
Will he be here? Nothing would give me more peace than to look upon him. If I could see him, speak freely, we could stage a plan.
We pass open double doors. I catch a glimpse of the courtroom—polished benches, a high wooden rail, the judge’s chair looming above like a throne. The marshal presses onward, up the stairwell. Judge McKinnon’s chambers are paneled in oak, heavy curtains drawn against the sun. He sits already at his desk, round spectacles perched on his nose, a cigar smoldering in a tray beside him. The US Attorney rises politely, and a stenographer shifts, hands poised on his keys.
No Kodiak.
The judge looks me over like a stack of canned goods at the general store. “Well, Mrs. Sherman, I expect we’ll have this villain’s neck stretched in short order. Men who lay hands on women such as yourself don’t deserve another sunrise.”
The marshal guides me to a chair. I sit, folding my skirts tight, my pulse a drum in my throat. My voice is meant to be sworn, measured, captured in neat little lines for the record. But all I can think, staring at the judge’s blunt certainty, is how every stone in this house has been stacked to see Kodiak condemned.
And if I mean to help him, I will have to find a way inside these walls.
The US Attorney speaks. “Would it please the court to set the trial date in the next week or two?”
A clerk clears his throat. “Mr. Randolph’s attorney has not yet arrived.”
For a heartbeat, I imagine Kodiak in the doorway—eyes wild and burning, blade in hand ready to deliver retribution—but there’s nothing. Just the hush of the room and the judge watching everyone, as if he can read our intentions by our faces.
Judge McKinnon looks over his spectacles. “Where is counsel?” His voice is a gavel unto itself.
The US Attorney shakes his head. “I do not know, Your Honor. The government is ready to proceed, however.”
“Given the gravity of the charges—and the public interest—I ask the court to set the earliest practicable date,” Virgil says.
“And who are you?” the judge asks.
Virgil straightens his posture. “I am Virgil Sherman, Your Honor. Of the Sherman Hospitality Company. My brother Joseph was murdered by this Randolph beast. My dear sister-in-law Alice,” he says, tipping his chin toward me, “was kidnapped. Defiled and forced to witness truly gruesome atrocities.”
The judge nods, his expression softening from offense to sympathy. “I see. Mr. Sherman, the wheels of justice do not usually move so swift, but I can assure you, holding this criminal accountable is the message we need to send to all outlaws like him.”
“Hear, hear,” says the US Attorney.
A knock rattles the chamber door. It opens before anyone answers, and in stumbles a thin man in a crumpled waistcoat, hair slicked flat in streaks that don’t hide the sweat at his temples. “My apologies, Your Honor,” he says, fumbling with a stack of papers that spill to the floor. He drops to his knees. “I was told the deposition would be held at the US Attorney’s office,” the lawyer mutters, as he gathers his papers. “Not here before Your Honor.”
“Well, you’re here now, counselor. Do try to keep up. Your name please?”
“Henry Wallace, Your Honor. Appointed counsel for Mr. Randolph.” He smooths his papers on the conference table, though half of them are bent and smudged.
Virgil’s mouth twists, but he says nothing. The US Attorney lifts his brows, barely hiding his satisfaction.
The judge exhales, weary. “Mr. Wallace, the government has already moved to set an expedited trial date. We were about to begin the deposition of Mrs. Sherman.”
Wallace frowns, blinking hard as he flips through his rumpled stack of papers. “Your Honor, I— Pardon, but is this a deposition or a pretrial conference?”
“It’s both, counselor. Given the urgency of the matter, the court is choosing efficiency.”
Wallace opens his mouth again, flustered. “But I was not informed?—”
McKinnon cuts him off with a sigh. “Mr. Wallace, if you plan to object to every formality, this will take all day. Sit down and allow the record to proceed.”
