“Isn’t it true that you were employed by Mr. Sito’s organization eight years ago?” A polite way of saying,
Muffled gasps filtered through the courtroom. People whispered to one another, reporters scribbled on notepads, and the courtroom artist worked frantically. She was vaguely aware of members of the jury leaning forward to better hear her answer.
“Yes,” she said, meeting his gaze.
“You joined voluntarily?”
“Yes, at the time. I was—”
He cut her off before she could elaborate. “And you belonged to it for how long?”
“About two months.”
“Once again, do you think it made any rational sense for Sito to take you into his organization, knowing the trouble it would likely cause him?”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I can’t speak to that, sir. I wasn’t exactly in my right mind myself.”
“I’d like to submit that Mr. Sito’s actions in regards to Ms. West speak toward an unstable state of mind, a personality more interested in chaos than in reason. His insanity compelled him to make unwise choices. If I may ask just a couple more questions.”
Please, Celia thought. It couldn’t get much worse.
“Do you regret that time you spent in Mr. Sito’s employ?”
He would undermine her involvement in the case. Every piece of evidence she’d touched would be tainted now. It didn’t matter what she said, how she answered. She could only be honest, because she had nothing to hide, right?
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
“And how would you describe your feelings for Mr. Sito now?”
Burning, mind-numbing rage? “Dislike.”
Smiling, Sito watched her, his cuffed hands clasped before him, fingers tapping together.
Arthur Mentis’s expression was neutral. Nonjudgmental. She just had to hang in there.
“Not resentment? Or even outright hatred?”
“Objection! Leading the witness.” Bronson, saving her again.
“Sustained.”
“Ms. West, wouldn’t you say your involvement with the prosecution’s case is a clear conflict of interest? That your attitude toward Mr. Sito is personal, not professional?”
“Objection!”
“Sustained.”
“Why are you assisting with this case?”
“It’s part of my job. I’m a forensic accountant with the firm of Smith and Kurchanski, which has a history of working with the DA’s office.”
“Did it ever occur to you to have yourself removed from the case because of a possible conflict of interest?”
“Yes. DA Bronson believed the conflict of interest didn’t exist.”
“Did he know about your prior involvement with Sito when he brought you in to work on this case?”
Her voice fell again. “Yes.”
“No further questions, your honor.”
Now that it was over, it didn’t seem so bad. She breathed a sigh of relief. It could have been worse.
“Does the prosecution wish to cross-examine?”
“Yes, your honor. Ms. West? You underwent psychiatric evaluation immediately following the two months that Mr. Malone referred to, is this correct?”
“Yes.”
“And what was the conclusion of the evaluation?”
She took a deep breath. She hoped those reporters were still paying attention. She and Bronson had crafted this answer. “That I had acted irrationally, that I suffered from a variety of traumatic stress disorders related to both the uncertainty of my parents’ lifestyle and the kidnapping by the defendant that I suffered the year before.”
“In fact, the conclusion was that you suffered temporary insanity and could not be held accountable for your actions.”
“Yes.”
“Could you tell me briefly what you’ve been doing in the eight years since then?”
“I went to college. I earned an MBA, passed the CPA exam on the first try, was hired on at Smith and Kurchanski, and I’ve been working there for two and a half years. I have an apartment in the west downtown area. I live quietly.”
“Would you say that in that time, your actions have been influenced either by hatred of or identification with Mr. Sito or his organization?”
She hesitated. In an indirect sense, Sito had influenced her entire life. Her parents wouldn’t have become who they were without Sito, and she wouldn’t have become who she was without that.
But Mentis was right. The last eight years were her own. “No.”
“Thank you, no further questions.”
The judge turned to the defense. “Mr. Malone?”
“No further questions.”
“Ms. West, you are dismissed.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
She kept her chin up, her eyes up as she walked back to her seat. Bronson flashed her a smile. She felt exhausted.
“You look like you’ve run a marathon,” Mentis said as she sat beside him.
“I need a drink,” she said.
After another hour, the judge finally called a recess for lunch. Reporters mobbed Celia. She only heard a fraction of their questions.
“—how did your parents react when—feelings toward the Destructor—why a secret for so long—affect your job—affect the trial—”
She was afraid to say anything that would undermine what she’d already said under oath. Teenage rebellion wasn’t normally considered a form of temporary insanity.
Arthur stepped in for her. “I’ve known Celia for ten years, and I can assure you I have the utmost confidence in her.”
They escaped to Bronson’s conference room.
“They’re going to bring up that first day of the hearing, when he talked to me and no one could figure out why,” she said. “They’re going to think there’s still a connection.”
Helpfully, Bronson burst in then. “It’s all irrelevant, I think we convinced the jury of that. You did great, Celia, just great. Hey, Rudy—” He went off to harass an assistant.
Mentis handed her a cup. Coffee, not bourbon, alas. She said, “I’m never going to get away from all this, am I? Even if my record never came out, it would always be something else. Why aren’t I a better citizen, why don’t I do more, why aren’t I more like them?” He didn’t respond; merely waited, calmly, for her to spill her thoughts. It was easy to do; he already knew what she was going to say, didn’t he? “People tell me how great it must have been, growing up with Captain Olympus and Spark for parents.” She shook her head.
“Overrated, you think?”
“Everyone is so amazed by them, so awestruck. To be able to move so fast you can fly, to create fire from your bare hands, to knock down walls, to have the power of gods … but I grew up with it. It wasn’t special to me, it was just normal. It was Mom and Dad. I don’t see what everyone else sees. I wish I could, sometimes.” She looked at the ceiling, then scrubbed at her eyes to keep tears from starting. Stress. It was just stress.
“I’ll tell you something,” Arthur said. “Until a certain age, everyone thinks their parents are heroes. Then they
