Chapter 7: Julian Fights Back
The bail hearing was two days later.
I sat in the back of the courtroom with Carla Simmons and a family law attorney named Patricia Okafor, who Elena had hired and then insisted I also speak with.
Julian's attorney was a man named Greaves — expensive suit, practiced calm, the kind of lawyer who made everything sound reasonable even when it wasn't.
"Your Honor," Greaves said, "my client is a man of the community.
He has no history of flight risk.
The charges against him are based on the testimony of a child and a recording made without consent on private property.
We ask that he be released on his own recognizance while this matter is properly examined."
The prosecutor, a younger woman named Diaz, stood up.
"Your Honor, the defendant was found in possession of fraudulent identification documents.
He has two prior convictions under a different name.
He made explicit threats to the child in question — recorded and documented — and there is a prior victim who has already agreed to testify.
He is absolutely a flight risk."
Greaves didn't miss a beat.
"The recording was obtained illegally—"
"By a neighbor on her own property," Diaz said.
"The fence line has been confirmed.
She was standing on her own lawn."
The judge looked down at the papers in front of her.
She was a woman in her sixties with reading glasses on a chain and the expression of someone who had heard every version of every story.
"Bail is denied," she said.
"The defendant will remain in custody pending trial."
Julian turned in his seat and looked directly at me.
Not at Greaves.
Not at the judge.
At me.
"This isn't finished," he said.
Quietly enough that only the first two rows heard it.
Greaves put a hand on his arm.
Julian shook it off.
"You have a daughter," he said, still looking at me.
"Think about what you're doing.
Think about what I know about you."
Diaz was on her feet.
"Your Honor—"
"Mr.
Marsh." The judge's voice cut across the room like a door slamming.
"You will sit down and you will be silent, or I will hold you in contempt before you've spent a single day in a courtroom."
Julian sat down.
But I felt it — the threat landing, finding purchase, doing exactly what he'd intended.
My hands were flat on my thighs.
I made myself breathe.
Patricia leaned close.
"He's rattling the cage.
It's all he has left."
"What does he think he knows about me?"
"Nothing," she said.
"Or something small he's planning to make large.
Either way, it doesn't matter.
Diaz has the documents, the recording, Mrs.
Harris's photographs, Maya's testimony, and a prior victim.
He has a lawyer in an expensive suit and a threat he made in open court." She gathered her papers.
"He just handed them contempt on top of everything else."
Outside on the courthouse steps, I called Mrs.
Harris.
She answered on the second ring.
"How did it go?" she asked.
"He's staying in custody."
A long exhale.
"Good."
"Mrs.
Harris.
Six weeks.
You were documenting for six weeks."
"Seven, actually.
I lost count for a while." A pause.
"I knew something was wrong when Maya stopped waving at me over the fence.
She used to wave every morning.
Then one day she just…
didn't."
A child stopped waving.
And one woman noticed.
"Thank you," I said.
It wasn't enough.
It would never be enough.
"Bring her by when she's ready," Mrs.
Harris said.
May you like
"I made too many cookies last week.
I always make too many."
