I let out a breath. Smart to bring up my history with Frankie before the prosecution could do it. But I never pressed charges against Mitch. If I had, I might’ve had something to fight back with.
Fucking stupid.
Judge Norman thought this over. “Ms. Wells?”
“Your Honor, it’s laughable for the defense to reduce the accusations against Mr. Wentz as hearsay or a conspiracy among law enforcement when the defendant has a clear history of violence and criminal behavior and who has, in fact, assaulted Frankie Dowd in the past.”
Perry shook his head. “A typical high school fight, Your Honor, is hardly grounds—”
“However,” Wells interjected, holding up a hand, “if the accusation from the victim himself—rendered from his hospital bed in the critical care unit, no less—isn’t sufficient, prosecution is prepared to submit an eyewitness. Michael Grimaldi.”
Someone in the audience gasped. Shiloh, I thought. Grimaldi got to his feet, looking like a fucking boy scout in a suit, hands folded in front of him. Mitch caught my eye, his expression smug.
Beside me, Perry stiffened. “What’s this?” he whispered.
“Bullshit,” I hissed back.
Ms. Wells smiled calmly. “Mr. Grimaldi will submit to deposition and stipulate that he was there on the night of July thirtieth and can attest that Mr. Wentz, did indeed, perpetrate the heinous attack that left his friend and my client clinging to life.”
Perry cleared his throat, regaining his composure. “The arresting officers made no note of any testimony from Mr. Grimaldi that would give them probable cause.”
“Mr. Grimaldi will testify that, given the severity of Mr. Wentz’s attack on Frankie, he feared for his own life and fled the scene. But after visiting his friend in the ICU, he knew he could not remain quiet.”
“Is there an affidavit?” the judge asked, annoyed. “Or are we just having a conversation?”
“Here, Your Honor.” Wells handed a document to the bailiff. “With regards to probable cause, I respectfully refer Your Honor to the detectives’ report that clearly gives motive. Mr. Dowd will plead no-contest to the vandalism of the Rare Earth jewelry shop, the owner of which is romantically attached to Mr. Wentz.”
Judge Norman set the affidavit down. “It is the determination of this Court that probable cause has been sufficiently rendered.”
“Your Honor—”
“Mr. Perry, do you wish to go forward in entering a plea? Or perhaps you’d like to talk it over with your client?”
Perry adjusted his glasses and stood straight. “In light of Mr. Grimaldi’s affidavit, I ask for time to consult with my client.”
“I thought you might. This arraignment is hereby postponed to the day after next.” He banged his gavel.
I was shuffled out of the courtroom, hardly able to catch a glimpse of Shiloh.
In the hallway, Perry asked the guards to back off. “I need to confer with my client.” He leaned against the wall beside me. “So that wasn’t ideal.”
“They’re lying,” I said. “Grimaldi wasn’t there. I tagged his car a few months ago. This is bullshit. It’s vengeance.”
“Which we’d have to prove.” Perry glanced up, and I followed his gaze to Ms. Wells, who’d entered the hallway surrounded by her assistants. “I hate surprises. Let me see what we’re up against.”
He conferred with her for a few minutes, his expression growing grimmer by the second, while she wore the look of someone who held all the cards.
Perry rejoined me, loosening his tie.
“Well, this just gets better and better,” he said dryly. “They have cell phone footage taken back in June. You’re shown telling Frankie that you will ‘fuck his shit up’ if he messes with your girlfriend. They have photos of your bruised hands from the night in question, they have an eyewitness, and they have the victim’s own word. If this goes to trial, they’re going to go for attempted murder in the first degree. That’s a life sentence, Ronan.”
Like father like son…
“But, if you take the deal, they’ll reduce the charges. Second degree attempted murder or even aggravated battery and injuring with intent to cause grievous bodily harm. You could get ten years instead of twenty-five. Behave yourself and you’re out in half that.”
I stared at him. “You want me to plead guilty to a crime I didn’t commit so I can spend ten years in prison instead of the rest of my life.”
I’d lose everything. Shiloh. She is everything…
“The case against you was already strong but you add Grimaldi…” Perry shook his head. “That changes the game. If you want to plead not guilty, that’s your right. But it’s a risk. A long shot. If we lose…”
If I lose…
I closed my eyes and thought of my mom. How she tried to go through the system and how it failed her. Again and again until she was dead.
The rest of the inmates had finished rendering their pleas, and the guards motioned it was time to get everyone shackled back up and moved out.
Perry put a hand on my arm. “I know it’s a tough call, but this is what we’re up against. Think long and hard about it.”
That night in my cell, I thought about it. I thought about handing over five or ten or fifteen years of my life to prison because that was my best bet. But the raging anger at the unfairness of it all burned out, leaving bitter ashes of regret. This was my fucking fault. I was Russell Wentz’s son. His blood was in my veins, and it didn’t matter that I tried to do right and protect those I cared about. The poison corrupted and corroded me.
I flexed my bruised knuckles in the dim light.
My fault. Because I like it too much.
But Shiloh… Christ, how could I not fight for her? For us? Ten years in prison wasn’t the torture—it was ten years without her. That was unsurvivable.
The night grew late. The sounds of other inmates coughing, cursing, or snoring echoed in the hollow hallways. My cellmate cried himself to sleep, as usual.
Sometime, deep in the night, I was still awake when footsteps approached and stopped outside my cell.
“Hey, Wentz.” I held up my hand as a guard shined a flashlight in my face through the bars. “Mitch Dowd is a friend of mine. A good friend.”
I tensed all over, my chest tight.
“He wanted me to pass on a message about your little girlfriend’s shop.” He leaned against the bars, his voice low.
“It won’t stop until you do.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
I showed my ID at the window and passed through the metal detectors, feeling like I was trapped in a bad dream that began the night of the grand opening, and I couldn’t wake up. A corrections officer led me to the visiting room, my stomach twisting in knots. The room smelled sharply of musty sweat and vending machine food.
Ronan was already there.
I moved on numb legs to the table and sat down across from him. He looked as beautiful as always but different somehow. Maybe it was the orange County Jail jumpsuit or the fact we were surrounded by armed officers and inmates, but he was less like himself. Right there in front of me but far away too.
“Hi,” I said, my throat dry.