Fear Her Wrath II: Crucible of Glass

Chapter 12

The New Imperium certainly chose a dramatic setting for The People v. Simon Mallory.

The Art-Deco-meets-Gothic-Revival courtroom was paneled with walnut—the dark wood of the walls and furniture contrasting with the white marble ceiling and the rich burgundy of the carpeted floors. A massive stone bust of Erskine T. Rushton—the former governor who dominated the state supreme court during the Gilded Age—stood imperiously above the judge's bench. Unlike the statue of Justice in the entrance hall, Rushton seemed keenly interested in the goings on in his court, and his bushy eyebrows of carved marble lent a solemnity to the chamber that was lacking in its other inhabitants. There were complacent smiles on the faces of the lawyers and reporters who were loitering about, like they already knew exactly how this case was going to go, and they were looking forward to it. Nobody was looking at the defendant. Simon sat in a glass cage the city had constructed specially for his trial. He was back in his own clothes, but his hands were cuffed and chained to his wrists, just like in Merceron.

I ventured a small wave, which he returned. He didn't smile, and I didn't really expect him to, but it hurt all the same. He looked awful—the worse I'd ever seen him. Evidently the Montagneses' plan to make him as pathetic as possible had succeeded brilliantly. He was agitated and twitchy enough to make a very believable murderer.

"You and your friend can sit over here," said Jesmond, pointing to an open spot near the front of the gallery. I took the seat at the end of the row, and Anaya parked her wheelchair beside me. Some of the reporters shot satisfied glances at me, but nobody decided it was worth their time to bug me for a quote.

Well, almost nobody.

"Excuse me, are you Maggie Hunt?"

The man was maybe 30 or 35. He had one of those white-toothed smiles that put you immediately on edge—at least if you're paranoid like me. Every inch of him seemed to be expertly trimmed, from his manicured fingernails to his Ivy League haircut. He was handsome, but in the same "smug jerk" sort of way that Benedict Vang was handsome—movie star chin, dark eyes, unbearable self-confidence.

I decided to let my friend handle this one.

"That depends on who you are," said Anaya, scowling sourly at him.

"I suppose it does," he said pleasantly. "I'm Declan Lovejoy. I write for the Evening Examiner."

He held out his hand.

"And my friend is not giving interviews," said Anaya, shooing him away.

"I'm not looking for an interview," he said, sliding into the seat next to me. "At least, not on the record. I'm more of a sportswriter, actually, but I work the crime beat when that's what sells papers."

"My dad reads your boxing columns," I said. "That's the only reason I'm even listening to you right now. So, what are you after? You're not here to admire the architecture, right?"

His lips curled in a way that made me think he might be really smiling under his charming facade.

"Well, this does seem awfully convenient, doesn't it?" he said, lowering his voice. "Right after the Montagneses have to suffer the indignity of Eric Colborne going to trial, they manage to get their hands on this kid—sorry, on Simon—and make a show of the whole thing. Blame Fenley Island for its own problems. I know there's an angle here, I just can't quite figure out their game. I thought you might know something."

"Do you know how Simon's going to plead?" I asked.

"Sure," said Lovejoy. "Everybody's heard about it. Not guilty by reason of insanity. He'd be better off saying he was guilty and he did it all for fun. They'll tear him to pieces."