The moment the clock above the door reads 9:00 a.m., Judge Twietmeyer takes the bench. Never one to shy away from the cameras, Britt’s seated at the State’s table with Hightower, a self-satisfied smile on his face intended to convey he’s solely responsible for exonerating a wrongly-accused teenager and uncovering a conspiracy involving law enforcement and one of the city’s most prominent residents. No matter. We’re all accomplices in this conspiracy for good, for now. Britt can wait. I have a long memory, too.
The Slims are in their usual spot in the front of the gallery, faces pulled tight, which in Anton’s case is due to his feigning the distress of a concerned parent, and, in Gretchen’s case, Botox.
“State versus Zoya AKA “Zoe” Slim,” Twietmeyer announces, the nasally sound of his voice evidence of a head cold. “Before we commence, I believe we have a preliminary matter to take care of. Is that correct, Counselors?”
Hightower, Britt, and I spring to our feet and reply in unison. “Yes, Your Honor.”
Reilly extracts the warrant from his pocket with a flourish and unhooks the cuffs from his belt. Chang does the same, but with minimal theatricality given his role as a bit player in this drama.
Zoe tugs on my sleeve. “What’s going on?”
“I’ll explain in a minute. Don’t say a thing.”
Reilly and Chang approach the Slims who are seated directly behind the defense table.
“Anton Frederick Slim, I have a warrant for your arrest for murder and conspiracy to commit murder and money laundering,” Reilly says.
Chang follows Reilly’s lead with, “And Gretchen Marie Slim, I have a warrant for your arrest for money laundering and accessory to murder after the fact.”
A collective gasp rises from the gallery, and the cameras that had been trained on Zoe pivot to her parents.
Reilly grabs Anton by one shoulder and spins him around, cuffing him in a single well-practiced motion. Chang does the same to Gretchen, slapping the cuffs onto her delicate wrists as he would do to any common criminal.
“Excuse me, Detective.” Anton says, his face turning purple. “Let me go!”
“Anton Slim and Gretchen Slim, you both have the right to remain silent. You both have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one,” Reilly pauses, an inordinately wide grin on his face, “if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”
Gretchen cranes her neck around Chang, eyes as big as dinner plates. “Do something, Grace. Do something!”
I cross my arms across my chest and mouth. “Not a chance.”
As Reilly walks Anton and Gretchen from the courtroom, the reporters eye each other, uncertain whether to follow what’s just happened, or stay and watch what’s about to.
The moment the detectives and the Slims are out the door, Twietmeyer bangs his gavel twice to quiet the tsunami of chatter. “Silence, please. Now, Mr. Britt, I believe you have a motion?”
Britt rises. “Yes, Your Honor. The State of Florida moves to dismiss the indictment of Zoya AKA “Zoe” Slim.”
“Can I assume that would be a dismissal with prejudice?” he says, alluding to the fact that doing so meant the case can never be refiled.
Britt gives an obsequious dip of his head. “Yes, sir. With extreme prejudice.”
Hands on her shoulders, I turn her to face me. “It’s over, Zoe.”
“For you, maybe.” She lowers her head to hide the tears cascading down her cheeks.
I glance back at the door through which the Slims exited the courtroom, the one leading to the holding cells, not the one they entered through with the certainty that wealth and privilege would protect them from their sins. Now it would be their turn to ask for forgiveness.
I tilt her chin up. “Make no mistake about it, the nightmare is over for you.”
Chapter 37
“Killer Cop, Not Killer Kid.” The headline on the front page of the Sun Sentinel says it all. Case closed.
I toss the newspaper into the trash can under the desk. In addition to a trash can, I now have an ergonomic desk chair from which to dispense my pearls of legal wisdom without getting a backache, all thanks to Vinnie and Jake. They even hung a Welcome Home banner on the wall. Now it’s time for some paying clients.
A knock on the window draws my attention and a flurry of barks from Miranda.
“Over here,” I say, calling her to sit behind the desk, in case my visitor isn’t a dog lover.
Another knock and a hand waving.
“Coming,” I say, happy to be walking on two legs again, Oscar 2.0 having been engineered post haste from the original design by my prosthetist who saw my story on TV.
When I unlock the door, I find Zoe, both hands clasped around a gigantic bouquet of pink roses.
She thrusts the bouquet at me. “The man at the florist said pink roses mean ‘thank you.’ He also said they can mean ‘please believe me.’”
I raise the flowers to my nose and breathe in the intense fragrance that transports me back to my mother’s rose garden, a reminder that I need to visit Faith soon, even if it means putting up with her fussing over me as she’s been doing since I was released from the hospital. She insisted on staying with me. At The Hurricane. On a camp bed. Eating frozen dinners and drinking tap water. All things I thought I’d never see. Perhaps I’ve underestimated her resilience too, much as I misjudged Zoe. And Vinnie. And Sonny. And Manny. Time will tell, given I promised to visit her in Palm Beach more often than before. It was the only way I could get her to leave. That and a promise to bring Miranda who, after a lifetime of fearing dogs, Faith has come to adore. Just more proof people can change, I suppose.
“Thank you for believing in me, Ms. Locke. You saved my life. But it almost lost you yours. I’m so sorry.”
“How many times do I have to tell you it’s Grace?” I pull her
