Fuck. Where were we? I huff out a breath. “I’ll need to look at it again.”
My wife’s extracurriculars shouldn’t be screwing with me this badly, and certainly not right now. I know better than anyone that I need to be fully on point here. But I can’t shake the distraction. It’s not just theTMZreports or the photos of Brooklyn and Mateo leaving the Hollywood clubs and Downtown bars and restaurants. It’s the cell phone videos that bystanders tookinsidethe clubs that show my smiling, carefree wife clinging to her boy toy all night long.
All I can see is red. I don’t know who I’m more pissed off at—her for walking out on me and running right back into Mateo’s arms, or me for falling for Brooklyn in the first place.
The defense attorney strolls in front of me and then tilts his head toward the jurors. “So, to be clear, you neverpersonallyreceived any emails from this account, Mr. Zoric.”
“No, I did not,” I say, handing the stack of pages back.
As much as I’d love to help incriminate my father even more, I’m not going to sit here under oath and pretend I know more about his illegal activities than I actually did.
The truth is, I had very little understanding of his legitimate work at the agency, and when it came to the sex-trafficking side of the business, my head was completely in the sand. Unlike my older brother, who orchestrated the takedown of our father, I knew nothing at all.
Because while the senior Zoric was pulling a bait and switch on women who immigrated to the US with big dreams of becoming models and instead found themselves working as prostitutes, I was too busy drinking and fucking away my personal problems at every club in Chicago to notice. Despite having my name on the KZ Modeling employee roster, I had few responsibilities back then and rarely made it into the office. I was a privileged prick. I’ve turned my life around now, but I truly can’t report much regarding my father’s secret life.
Explaining all of this to an entire room full of people fills me with deep regret and shame all over again. As much as I hate to admit it, I wish Brooklyn were here.
Instinctively, my eyes search for her in the courtroom. The lights are too bright, though, and I can’t tell if she’s out there in the spectator area. Not that I’m expecting her. There’d been no sign of her earlier today, and though I dodged my brother’s inquiries about why she was absent, I know I’ll have to face the rest of my family’s questions later.
The defense lawyer turns to the judge. “That’s all I have, Your Honor. No further questions.”
Thank God.
I’m allowed to step down from the stand. My legs are a little shaky. So are my hands. I’m not worried about being accused of anything; the legal team for my siblings and myself already said we’d been cleared of any involvement. The defense is just digging, trying to drum up any thread of reasonable doubt they can manage. I get it. I’ve seen enough crime television to know casting uncertainty on a crime to try to get the perpetrator a lesser sentence is commonplace.
But my dad doesn’t deserve a lesser punishment. He should get the maximum sentence. Not that it’ll make up for all the lives he’s ruined, the trauma he can never take back.
I take my seat at the counsel table next to Stefan and our lawyers. My brother nods at me.
“That guy’s an asshole. You know there’s nothing to worry about,” he whispers softly.
The lawyers hash some things out, and finally the judge says, “Court is adjourned.”
“All rise,” the bailiff announces.
We stand. Stefan looks over at me, concern knitting his brow. “You doing okay, bro? You looked a little rough up there.”
I shrug. “Just exhausted. Long day.”
“Well, don’t sweat it,” Stefan tells me. “It’s over now.”
He claps me on the shoulder and then heads off to find Emzee, who spent most of the day dabbing tears from her eyes as she listened to various damning testimonies. I turn to follow him, and that’s when I see Brooklyn.
She’s standing at the back of the courtroom in conservative clothes, hands folded in front of her, chin high, her gaze steady and open.
Why the hell did she show up? For the media coverage? To keep up the image of our perfect marriage? Or is she actually here for me?
Whatever her gesture means, it’s one I wasn’t expecting—and at a time when she could have deserted my family completely, the fact that she’s stepping up has to mean there might be hope for our relationship. Doesn’t it? Or am I reading this all wrong?
Before I get halfway to Brooklyn, she’s swept up with the flow of bodies exiting into the hallway. I’m just through the doors when I spy her and Emzee in a tight embrace.
Brooklyn pulls away and our eyes finally meet, but I can’t get to her before Stefan does. She gives him a brief hug, chatting all the while. Then Stefan’s wife Tori comes up and gives Brooklyn a kiss on each cheek, smiling gently.
I smell my wife’s perfume as I approach and suddenly I’m standing before her, both relieved and more tense than ever. But instead of wrapping her arms around me, she just runs a hand over my jacket lapel in a vaguely comforting gesture, making no move to go in for more.
“Sorry I was late,” she says, directing it at all of us. “I got here as soon as I could.”
“We’re glad you made it,” Emzee says. “Today was brutal.”