Chapter 23 - The Verdict
The jury deliberated for two days.
Adrian spent both at home.
He refused to sit in a courthouse hallway staring at a door.
Instead he took Lila to preschool.
Made grilled cheese.
Lost three consecutive games of Candy Land because Lila cheated with complete confidence.
"You can't just move twice."
"I got blue."
"You got red."
"It's blue-red."
"That's not a color."
"It is now."
Camille whispered, "Let her cook."
Adrian glared at her.
At 2:17 p.m. on the second day, Miriam called.
"Verdict."
His stomach tightened.
"How long?"
"Forty minutes."
He looked at Lila, who was lining up crayons.
"I'll be there."
The courtroom filled quickly.
Corinne entered.
This time she looked at Adrian immediately.
He didn't know what she wanted.
Forgiveness?
Hatred?
Recognition?
Maybe simply proof that she could still affect him.
He gave her none.
The jury returned.
Guilty on the central violent count.
Guilty on conspiracy and evidence-related counts submitted to them.
Not guilty on one lesser financial-related count prosecutors had tied too aggressively to the yacht event.
Adrian barely heard the distinctions.
The word guilty landed differently than he expected.
No explosion.
No satisfaction.
Just weight.
Corinne closed her eyes.
Sloane cried.
Brooke was not present.
Tessa stared at the floor.
Ruiz sat completely still.
Outside, reporters shouted.
Adrian used a side exit.
He had no statement.
That night Camille asked, "Feel better?"
"No."
"Feel worse?"
"No."
"What do you feel?"
Adrian thought.
"Tired."
Camille nodded.
"That sounds expensive."
He laughed.
Weeks later, at sentencing, the judge spoke about planning, betrayal of trust and the extraordinary vulnerability of the victim.
Corinne was sentenced to a lengthy term of imprisonment.
Sloane and Tessa received lesser penalties based on their respective conduct and cooperation.
Brooke's cooperation significantly reduced her exposure, though she still faced consequences for her role.
Adrian didn't celebrate any of it.
He wanted accountability.
He got it.
Accountability was not resurrection.
It couldn't restore the version of Lila who had never known an adult might smile before hurting her.
It couldn't make Adrian unknow what his marriage had been.
It couldn't turn the night back.
After court, Ruiz found him near the elevators.
"It's done."
"Is it?"
"The criminal case, mostly."
"Mostly."
"Appeals exist."
"Of course they do."
She smiled faintly.
"You've become cynical."
"I met lawyers."
"Fair."
He held out his hand.
Ruiz shook it.
"Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know."
"Then why?"
"Because you believed evidence before noise."
Ruiz released his hand.
"That's the job."
"Not everybody does their job."
She accepted that.
Before leaving, she said, "Your daughter saved herself for a long time on that edge."
Adrian looked at her.
"Yeah."
"Remember that part too."
He had focused so much on nearly losing Lila that he'd forgotten what Lila had done.
Caught the rim.
Got her second hand up.
Held on.
Screamed.
Called for help.
Survived until someone came.
At home, Adrian sat beside her bed.
She was four now.
Older in ways he wished she wasn't.
"Pip story?" she asked.
"Again?"
"Again."
He invented one.
Pip the rabbit went sailing.
Pip hated boats.
Pip demanded pancakes.
Pip defeated a shark using only a spoon.
Lila laughed.
Then she grew sleepy.
"Daddy?"
"Yeah?"
"Bad night gone?"
Adrian looked at her.
What did gone mean?
Past?
Finished?
Unable to hurt?
"No," he said gently. "But it's over."
She considered the distinction.
"Okay."
"Okay."
He kissed her forehead.
As he stood, she caught his sleeve.
"Stay little."
"For a little while?"
She nodded.
Adrian sat back down.
For years, work had taught him that moving forward meant leaving something behind.
Lila was teaching him another version.
May you like
Sometimes moving forward meant staying exactly where someone needed you.
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