Chapter 210: The Verdict 4

Light came through the east window, the way my father had designed it to. A thin blade of sun cutting across the desk, warming the leather-bound books on the near shelf, reaching the edge of the chair where Anderson was still asleep.

I hadn't moved.

My back ached. My neck was stiff from hours of sitting upright in leather that had shaped itself to a different body decades ago.

Anderson's face in the early light looked stripped down.

I stood slowly. The chair released me with a soft exhale of leather.

Anderson was still sound asleep.

I left the study and pulled the door closed.

I went upstairs and showered. The hot water helped. Not enough, but some.

I changed into a black suit.

Downstairs, I heard movement. Water running in the kitchen.

Anderson was up.

I found him at the sink, drinking from a glass, still in yesterday's shirt. He'd splashed water on his face. His hair was pushed back wet. He looked like a man who'd slept in a chair in a stranger's house, which is what he was.

"There's a bathroom upstairs," I said. "Towels in the cabinet."

"I don't have anything to change into."

I looked at him. Wrinkled shirt, creased trousers, and a two-day stubble shadowing his jaw.

"You look fine," I said.

"I look like I slept in a chair."

"You did sleep in a chair."

Something almost moved across his face. It wasn’t a smile. The ghost of one.

He went upstairs, then came back down after ten minutes in the same clothes, but his hair was combed, and his face was washed. The wrinkles in his shirt were worse now that the fabric had dried against his body.

I looked at him, then looked at the clock.

"We're stopping somewhere on the way," I muttered.

"Where?"

"You're not walking into that courtroom looking like you spent the night on someone's floor."

He glanced down at himself. Didn't argue.

I made coffee while he drank his standing at the counter. We left the house at seven thirty. Earlier than necessary. The extra time was deliberate.

Anderson drove. I directed him to Nordstrom on Pine Street. The store opened at seven, early Saturday hours. The parking lot was nearly empty.

Inside, the menswear floor was quiet. A sales associate approached before we'd made it past the first display.

"Can I help you find something?"

"He needs a suit," I said. "Dark. Simple. And a white shirt."

Anderson stood beside me while the associate pulled options. He said nothing, letting me choose. A charcoal single-breasted. White dress shirt. No tie.

"No tie?" the associate asked.

"No tie," I said.

Anderson looked at me.

"You've been wearing ties all week," I stated.

He took the clothes to the fitting room. Came out three minutes later looking like a different person. The suit fit well enough off the rack. The shirt was crisp. Without the tie, his collar was open at the throat, one button undone, and the effect was less polished but more honest.

The associate rang it up. Anderson reached for his card holder.

I'd already handed over my card.

He looked at me.

"You slept in my father's study," I said. "I owe you a suit."

The associate bagged his old clothes. Anderson carried them to the car and dropped them in the back seat.

We pulled out of the parking lot at eight. The courthouse was fifteen minutes away.

Saturday traffic was lighter. Fewer commuters. More families heading to weekend errands, to soccer games, to the kind of ordinary mornings we'd both forgotten existed.

The media camp outside the courthouse had grown overnight. Weekend crews had arrived. Two additional satellite trucks. A tent someone had set up near the press barrier with a portable monitor playing continuous coverage.

Anderson parked in the secured garage. Same spot.  Except today, his hands stayed steady on the wheel after he killed the engine.

"Ready?" he asked.

"No."

"Me neither."

We got out.

Inside, the hallway was different. The energy had shifted. I felt it the moment we walked through security.

Lancaster was there. Not leaning against the wall the way he had all week. Standing. Alert. His team around him, files organized, exhibit boxes stacked and labeled. The paralegal had her laptop open.

"Morning," Lancaster said.

He didn't say "they're working." Didn't offer platitudes. Didn't tell us to be patient.

He looked like a man who expected something to happen today.

Mary Morrison arrived at eight thirty. She sat on her bench. No attorney. She'd been coming alone since Thursday.

Bernard came at eight forty-five. He sat beside me and said nothing. He only squeezed my hand once.

Thomas Howard's mother appeared at eight fifty. She nodded to me from across the hallway and then took her seat near Mary.

Thomas texted at nine.

At the courthouse. Downstairs.

I didn't respond. He didn't need me to. He knew we were here.

The jury was called to order at nine AM. The courtroom doors closed. The hallway went silent.

I sat between Anderson and Bernard on the bench.

Nine thirty.

Ten.

The hallway was full. More people than any other day this week. Victim families who'd been cycling through in shifts had all come at once. Attorneys lingered near the courtroom doors. Reporters filled the corridor, kept at bay by bailiffs who'd drawn an invisible line they weren't allowed to cross.

Everyone knew. The way animals know the weather before it arrives. Something in the air, in the energy, in the way Lancaster's team kept checking their phones without trying to look like they were checking their phones.

Ten fifteen.

Ten thirty.

Anderson's breathing had changed. Shallow and controlled. The way someone breathes when they're managing panic.

I put my hand on his knee. He covered it with his own.

Ten forty-two.

Ten forty-five.

The courtroom doors opened.

The bailiff stepped out.

Everything stopped. Every conversation. Every breath. Every phone screen went dark as people looked up.

The bailiff's face gave nothing away.

"The jury has reached a verdict," he said. "Judge Caldwell will convene court at eleven thirty-seven AM."

The hallway erupted.

Someone gasped. Someone said "oh God." Mary Morrison's hands flew to her mouth. Thomas Howard's mother stood up so fast her purse fell off the bench. Reporters broke for the exits, phones already pressed to their ears. Photographers pushed through the crowd toward the courtroom doors.

Bernard gripped my arm. "Elaine."

I couldn't speak.

Anderson was frozen beside me. His hand locked around mine, knuckles white, fingers trembling.

Lancaster was already moving. Gathering his team. Speaking in low, rapid tones. The paralegal closed her laptop and picked up exhibit boxes.

Thomas appeared at the end of the hallway. He'd come upstairs when he heard the commotion. His eyes found mine across the crowd.

I nodded once. He nodded back.

Fifty minutes. We had fifty minutes until Judge Caldwell took the bench, and the foreperson stood, and the words came that would end this.

Anderson hadn't moved. Hadn't spoken. He was staring at the courtroom doors.

"Anderson," I said.

He didn't respond.

"Anderson."

He turned to me. His eyes were glassy and his face was pale.

"Fifty minutes," I said.

He swallowed and then nodded.

I looked at my hands in my lap. They were steady.

I felt nothing.

Not fear. Not hope. Not relief. Not dread.

The emptiness I'd been carrying all week had settled into something final. Something beyond emotion. The way a body goes numb before surgery. The way the mind protects itself from impact by shutting down everything except the essentials.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Wait.

At eleven twenty, the bailiff opened the courtroom doors.

"Gallery may enter."

We stood. Anderson took my hand. We walked in together.

The courtroom was packed within minutes. Every seat claimed. Standing room filled. Media in the front rows. Cameras positioned. Sketch artists with pads open.

I sat in our usual spot. Anderson was directly beside me. Not two seats apart. Right beside me. His shoulder against mine. His hand was still holding mine between us on the bench.

Bernard sat on my other side.

Thomas was four rows back. I didn't turn around, but I felt him there.

Mary Morrison was across the aisle. Thomas's mother was beside her.

At eleven thirty, the side door opened.

The defense team entered. Graham first, then two associates. They took their seats and arranged documents with the rehearsed calm of people who'd done this hundreds of times.

Then Eugenia.

Two federal marshals flanked her. She wore a cream suit with a neutral expression.

She didn't look at the gallery.

She sat between Graham and a junior attorney and folded her hands on the table.

Like she was attending a board meeting.

Like, none of this touched her.

At eleven thirty-five, Lancaster entered with his team. They took their positions at the prosecution table. Lancaster adjusted his tie. Opened a folder. Closed it again without reading anything.

The courtroom hummed with whispered conversations, shuffling papers, and the creak of wooden benches under the weight of too many people.

At eleven thirty-seven, the clerk stood.

"All rise. The United States District Court for the Western District of Washington is now in session. The Honorable Judge Caldwell presiding."

We stood.

Judge Caldwell entered. She took her seat, surveyed the courtroom, and nodded once.

"Please be seated."

We sat.

"Bring in the jury."

The side door opened.

Twelve people filed in.