Chapter 89 What’s Taking So Damn Long?
“If you don’t step aside,” the lead officer continued, “you’ll be moved. And you’ll be charged with aiding and abetting. Obstruction of justice.”
Amelia’s mouth opened on a sharp inhale. Color drained from her cheeks for a split second before anger flooded back in.
Before she could speak, Andrew’s voice came from behind her— calm, measured.
“What’s going on here?”
Amelia spun. Her eyes were wide, disbelief etched in every line of her face.
Andrew stepped past her, barefoot, still in his charcoal robe, hair slightly mussed from sleep. He stopped just inside the threshold, facing the officers.
“How may I help you, officers?”
The lead officer met his gaze without flinching. “Judge Lock, we have a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of attempted murder. We need you to come with us.”
Andrew’s mouth parted— just a fraction. His eyes flicked to the document the officer extended.
“Attempted murder?” His voice stayed level, but a muscle jumped in his jaw. “That’s absurd. Attempted murder of whom?”
“That we can’t disclose at this time.” The officer held the warrant steady. “This is the arrest warrant.”
Andrew took the paper. His eyes scanned rapidly— left to right, down the page. His breathing quickened, though he kept his posture straight.
“This is flimsy,” he said quietly. “You know I have the right to counsel. My attorney will be here before you take me anywhere.”
The second officer spoke next. “Sir, you’ll have the opportunity to contact your lawyer once you’re in custody. Right now we need you to come with us.”
Andrew straightened the collar of his robe with deliberate movements. “You’re arresting a sitting judge based on… what? A report? Do you understand the precedent you’re setting? If this warrant is defective, you will answer for it— personally.”
“We’re not here to debate the law, Your Honor.” The lead officer’s voice hardened just enough. “We’re here to enforce it. If the warrant is invalid, your counsel can challenge it in court. For now, please follow us. Or we’ll have to place you in restraints.”
He rested his right hand on the cuffs at his belt.
Andrew held the stare for a long beat. Then he exhaled through his nose.
“You don’t need those.” His tone was clipped, controlled. “I’ll comply. But under protest. And let the record show— I am not resisting. I am asserting my rights.”
He turned to Amelia.
She stood frozen, one hand pressed to the doorframe, knuckles white.
“I’ll be back,” Andrew said. Quiet. Almost gentle.
Amelia’s lips parted, but no sound came out.
Andrew stepped past the officers. They flanked him immediately—one on each side. He walked down the porch steps without looking back. His robe fluttered slightly in the morning breeze.
At the SUV the lead officer opened the rear door. Andrew ducked inside without hesitation. The door closed with a solid thunk.
All four officers returned to their vehicles. Engines started. The two SUVs reversed in a smooth arc, then rolled down the drive toward the gates.
Amelia remained in the open doorway.
She watched until the taillights disappeared around the first bend.
Her mouth hung open. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. One hand drifted to her throat.
“Could this be Maggie?” The whisper barely carried past her lips.
Fear— cold, sudden— tightened her features.
She stepped backward, closed the door with both hands, and leaned against it.
The house was suddenly too quiet.
From the dining room, Pete’s small voice floated down the hallway.
“Daddy? Where did Daddy go?”
Amelia closed her eyes for one second.
Then she straightened, smoothed her expression into something calm, and started walking back toward the dining room— heels clicking on marble, each step measured, deliberate.
But her hands trembled at her sides.
And the echo of the doorbell still lingered in the air.
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'HOURS LATER'
The holding cell at the Brooklyn precinct smelled of bleach, old sweat, and metal. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead, casting a sickly green pallor across the concrete floor and the steel bench bolted to the wall. Andrew sat rigid in the center of the bench, back straight, knees together. His hands rested on his lap in two tight fists— knuckles white, veins standing out along the backs of his hands. Every few seconds his jaw flexed, teeth grinding audibly.
“What’s taking so long?” he hissed through clenched teeth. His eyes darted— corner to corner, ceiling to floor, searching for cameras, microphones, anything that might be watching. His right foot began tapping: heel-toe, heel-toe, a steady, impatient rhythm against the floor.
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “What’s taking so damn long?”
He surged to his feet. The bench creaked under the sudden shift of weight. He paced three steps to the bars, turned, paced back— three steps, turn, repeat. His robe from that morning had been replaced hours ago with the rumpled shirt and slacks he’d worn under it; the collar was unbuttoned, sleeves rolled unevenly.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor— two sets, measured.
Andrew stopped mid-stride. His head snapped toward the sound.