He whispers, “Snyder? You’re Cassandra Snyder?”
I nod.
He says, “Okay, okay, okay,” and starts shuffling through a folder.
I scan the gallery while he shuffles. There are maybe twenty rows of pew-like benches, and they are mostly empty. Except for…
Dani?!
Dani is here. Dani ishere. Dani came.
How? How does she even know? The news, probably.Raymond Snyder, prominent attorney, dead in Park Slope, wife in custody—it would have hit by sunrise, and Dani has had Google alerts on my name since I started dating Raymond, because she’s been waiting four years to find me in a headline like this.
And yet she came, dammit. Shecame. The first face I’ve seen that loves me back, in—what?—twelve hours? Sixteen? It feels like a lifetime.
She must’ve ran out of her apartment in a hurry, because I can see the cuff of a flannel pajama top poking out of the sleeve of her peacoat. Her hair is in a sloppy top knot, under-eyes still lined with sleep.
The minute our gazes meet, she smiles.
Although maybe calling it a smile is not totally accurate. It’s pinched in with sadness, because she knows it’s the worst day of my life and she can’t do a damn thing about it. But she’s here, isn’t she? That’s more than Matvei has done.
I almost collapse to my knees.
The public defender mutters, “Mrs. Snyder, eyes forward, please,” and I drag my attention back to the bench.
The judge is a thin woman with a graying bob. She doesn’t bother to look up as my charges are read aloud, or as the ADA, in a brisk monotone, walks her through the file. “… One count, murder in the second degree… Defendant found at the scene. Gunshot residue on the defendant’s hand. Prints on the weapon… Months of incriminating searches on the defendant’s personal device. A co-defendant—Matvei Satyrin, Esquire—already released on bond and being investigated separately…”
When it’s his turn, my public defender clears his throat and reads from his folder in a voice that suggests he first learned of my existence three minutes ago and is highly dubious of my likelihood of beating these charges. “Your Honor, the defendant has no criminal history. She is a lifelong resident of New York. She has community ties. She is not a flight risk. We’d ask for bail to be set at a reasonable amount, given those facts?—”
“Counsel,” the judge interrupts, without looking up, “is your client aware that her co-defendant has already posted bond and is not, as we speak, sitting where she is sitting?”
The public defender glances at me sideways. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“And is your client aware that the People consider this a coordinated act, and that her co-defendant is, at this moment, free?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Mhmm.” She makes another scratch with her pen. “People? Thoughts?”
The ADA in the blazer steps forward. “Your Honor,” she says crisply, “the People oppose bail. This is a homicide of a prominent member of the bar in his own bed. The defendant is a woman of substantial private means. Her co-defendant hasdemonstrated the ability to move significant funds in a matter of hours. We have grave concerns that, if released, the defendant will flee the jurisdiction with assistance from her co-defendant and parties affiliated with him.” She pauses before adding, “Parties whose affiliations the People are still investigating, but which appear to be… considerable.”
The judge peers over her eyeglasses. “Considerable how, Counselor?”
“Your Honor, I’d prefer to discuss specifics at a later hearing, but suffice to say that the speed and ease with which the co-defendant’s bond was posted is consistent with organized criminal infrastructure. The People view the defendant, if released, as both a flight risk and a continuing danger to potential witnesses.”
It takes everything I have not to laugh out loud.Me?A continuing danger? I had four years to kill my husband and I couldn’t even do it! The only thing I’m a danger to is myself. My own miserable, pathetic, cowardly, easily manipulated self.
I look down at my own hands and the residue still smudged under the nails, like living, gritty proof that I can’t even kill a monster correctly.
The public defender starts to protest. “Your Honor, my client?—”
“—is to be held without bail,” the judge announces. Her gaze sweeps me once, top to bottom, and then away. Once it’s gone, it doesn’t come back. “Next appearance on the calendar in three weeks. Mrs. Snyder, you’ll be remanded to Rose M. Singer Detention Center until then. Counsel will be in touch about preliminary motions. Next case.”
A gavel tap.
That’s it.
It’s over.
