My knee started bouncing again under the table.
“So, what are my chances of being granted bail?”
11
RYKER
The Cook County Courthouse smelled like old paper and broken dreams. The ancient wooden benches creaked beneath every shift of weight, each groan echoing in the high-ceilinged room like a confession. I sat at the defense table, reviewing the charges again that Wolfe had filed, and felt my blood pressure spike with each line.
“Fuck.”
Faith glanced at me nervously from her seat, still wearing the orange jumpsuit that made her look younger, more vulnerable. Her eyes searched for reassurance. I wanted to reach for her hand, to offer some comfort, but the bailiff’s watchful eyes and the cold metal of her shackles reminded me of the distance this system had forced between us. “What is it?”
This was why I hated Wolfe. The preliminary charges spread across the page like a prosecutor’s wet dream, and I could already see the game he was playing. In Chicago, the ADA had forty-eight hours to review the arrest report and decide on formal charges. Most prosecutors would stick to the obvious: first-degree murder, maybe conspiracy if they were feeling ambitious, possibly unlawful possession of a weapon.
But Wolfe? Oh, no. Wolfe had gone full scorched earth.
Criminal enterprise—something you’d see for organized crime families. Aggravated criminal conspiracy—basically claiming she’d plotted murder with multiple accomplices. Witness tampering when there wasn’t a single witness mentioned in the arrest report. And terrorist threats?
Terrorist. Fucking. Threats.
I felt Faith’s sharp intake of breath beside me, saw her hands tremble slightly in her lap. Without thinking, I shifted closer, letting my knee brush against hers under the table. The barest contact, but enough to let her know she wasn’t alone in this.
Why didn’t he just charge her with felony jaywalking while he was at it? Maybe throw in some unpaid parking tickets from a decade ago?
The bailiff’s voice cut through my mounting rage. “All rise. The Honorable Judge Samuel Ortiz presiding.”
Thank God. Small miracle number one: we’d drawn Ortiz. The man actually cared about the law, believed in reasonable doubt, and had zero patience for prosecutorial theatrics.
As we stood, Faith swayed slightly, and I instinctively moved closer, my hand hovering protectively near her elbow, ready to steady her if she needed it. The courtroom’s old radiator clanged once, twice, like a gavel announcing winter’s arrival, and the heat that followed carried the faint metallic taste of decades-old paint baking off the pipes.
Judge Ortiz settled into his chair with the kind of weary patience that came from thirty years on the bench. He motioned for us to sit and then kept his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose as he reviewed the papers before him. The furrow between his eyebrows deepened with each page.
“Mr. Wolfe”—the judge’s voice carried that particular tone of judicial skepticism I’d learned to appreciate—“I see charges here for first-degree murder, conspiracy, obstruction, and …” He paused, removed his glasses, and looked directly at the prosecutor. “Terrorism? Are you prosecuting a suspect or pitching a screenplay for Netflix?”
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Beside me, Faith’s shackles clinked softly as she shifted in her chair.
Wolfe stood, buttoning his suit jacket with that practiced motion that probably impressed juries but just irritated judges. “Your Honor, the evidence suggests the defendant is part of a larger, organized threat. We believe the victim was eliminated to silence him.”
I rose to my feet. “Your Honor, that’s ridiculous.” I kept my voice professional, even though what I wanted to do was laugh in Wolfe’s face. What I really wanted was to pull Faith into my arms and shield her from this nightmare. “Ms. Morrison is a bartender, not some Mafia princess. I’d like to understand what evidence Mr. Wolfe has that even suggests organized crime as a possibility.”
“Yes, Counselor.” Judge Ortiz folded his hands on the desk, his wedding ring catching the harsh courtroom lights. “I’d like to see that evidence as well.”
Wolfe’s shoulders drew back, his posture turning rigid. “As Your Honor knows, evidence is still being gathered at this time.”
“Then you’re admitting you have no evidence to support these inflammatory charges.” I let a note of incredulity creep into my voice. “You can’t just throw out wild accusations to see what sticks. That’s a spaghetti-on-the-wall strategy.” I turned slightly, making sure the court reporter caught every word. “Please tell me you’re a more sophisticated prosecutor than that.”
Wolfe’s glare could have made a weaker man tremble.
“With respect, Your Honor,” I continued, “what the prosecution is doing isn’t justice. It’s political theater. These charges are stitched together with bad faith and held up by nothing but Mr. Wolfe’s apparent desire to make headlines.”
“That’s enough, Mr. Kincaid.” But Ortiz’s rebuke lacked heat. He turned his attention back to Wolfe, and this time, his expression had hardened. “Counselor Wolfe, I’ll allow your charges to stand—for now. But consider this your official warning: I won’t tolerate prosecutorial grandstanding in mycourtroom. If you can’t support these charges with actual evidence at the preliminary hearing, we’re going to have a very different conversation about your conduct.”
The rest of the bail hearing proceeded with the kind of choreographed precision that made criminal law feel like a very expensive dance. Wolfe argued Faith was a flight risk—she wasn’t. I countered with her ties to the community—her job, her family, her complete lack of any criminal record.
Wolfe painted her as dangerous. I was ready for that.
“Your Honor, the prosecution wants you to believe my client is some cold-blooded killer.” I let my voice carry through the courtroom. “But the physical evidence tells a very different story. Fingerprint analysis came back. The victim’s prints were found on the handle of the knife. Not just the blade, the handle. He had control of that weapon at some point. My client has a head wound consistent with blunt force trauma. She fought for her life.”
