Page 50 of Devil's Iris
DJ was a teenager in our neighborhood who started hanging out with gangs, just like Ethan is doing now. One terrible night three months ago, his gang clashed with a rival group, and he got knifed. He bled to death on the street. It’s awful using him as an example, but I have to do whatever it takes for my brother. I’m not losing him the same way.
“Fine. I’ll think about it.”
“No, Ethan.” I straighten my spine, channeling every ounce of authority I possess. “I’ve thought about it, and you’re going. Get ready. Summer session begins in two weeks.”
18
ROMERO
The first appearance for the Eric Turner case is just before lunch, and I’m already mentally calculating how long it will take me to get to the restaurant Julian sent me this morning. God, what a day ahead of me. Lunch with him—which I’m not looking forward to—then a string of other meetings, and finally dinner with my brothers tonight.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have pushed my first meeting back to go see my future in-laws.
As Logan pulls up in front of the courthouse, my phone buzzes with a text from Leni. My heart does this stupid little jerk as I remember her bright expression when she waved me off this morning. The way she stood in the doorway, sunlight catching her hair, looking like she actuallywantedme to come home to her. It was surprising as hell, but I liked it. I might like it too much.
I already know what she’s texting about before I unlock my phone and scroll to our thread. A few seconds ago, security at home notified me that her brother showed up, and I gave the green light.
CHARLENE
Heyy, we have a guard at the gates? I didn’t know.
The guards at my house are highly trained professionals, and blending into the background is their specialty. Invisible until they need to be visible. That way, any unwelcome visitors get caught completely off guard. I put my phone on silent after replying and slip it into my pocket.
A dark Rolls Royce pulls in next to me as I step out. Eric emerges looking every inch the part in a crisp navy button-down shirt, black pants, and oversized sunglasses hiding whatever’s really going on behind those eyes. His lips are turned down just enough to suggest barely contained grief, expression tight with what could be mistaken for shock.
“What do you think?” he asks.
Last night, I’d texted him—and his father, just in case the kid was too dense to listen—about what to wear, and how to carry himself in the courtroom.
“You’ll do,” I answer curtly, and we head into the New York County Criminal Court together. Time to put on a show.
The courthouse hits me with its familiar cocktail of burnt coffee and pure, distilled nerves. You can practically taste the desperation in the air. We breeze through security without so much as a glance. The guard at the scanner nods at me—he knows my face. Half the people here do.
My lips curl up, shoulders relaxing as we walk towards the elevators. I spend so much time in here, it almost feels like a second home. This is as much my turf as the underground world of Brooklyn, maybe even more. Here, I’m not just a criminal’s brother. I’m a fucking artist.
We exit the elevator on the third floor, which is packed with the usual chaos: lawyers pacing while barking into phones, court officers calling names with all the enthusiasm of funeraldirectors, defendants in ill-fitting suits flanked by anxious parents and tired public defenders who’ve already given up. The standard mix of human misery and legal theater.
We slip past them all towards Courtroom 15, where Eric’s hearing will take place. I glance at the kid—he’s wearing his best ‘who, me?’ expression. Academy Award-worthy performance right there. He certainly brought his A-game today.
Outside Room 15, Janice, a young Assistant District Attorney I’ve run into a few times over the past few months, gives Eric and me a quick once-over, her face souring like she just bit into something rotten. I flash her my most charming smile. She doesn’t return it, which makes me chuckle. Janice doesn’t like me and never bothers to hide it. I can respect that kind of honesty in an opponent. At least she’s not pretending to play nice.
“Still defending the criminals, I see,” the ADA mutters.
“Just defending the Constitution, Janice.”
She rolls her eyes and steps inside the courtroom without another word. Eric and I trail after her, my gaze sweeping the half-full room, catching on the court stenographer as she readies her keys.
We make our way to the front and take our seats at the defense table.
“Let’s make this quick,” Ethan says under his breath, his focus locked on the empty judge’s bench.
“Play it right and it will be quick,” I reply. He flashes me a small smile, like we’re in on some private joke. Then, as fast as it appeared, it’s gone, replaced by that perfect mask of confused innocence.
The door behind the bench opens, and everyone rises as Judge Harlan Davidson makes his entrance, moving with the deliberate pace of someone who knows he owns the room.
He surveys the courtroom, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the lot of us. A highly intelligent and traditional man,Harlan doesn’t tolerate bullshit—but he doesn’t ask too many questions either. Which makes him my kind of judge.
He settles onto his bench and instructs the clerk to call the case.
