Or asshats, as Curran would say.

I’ll be honest. I want one of those spots and hope to apply for it when I graduate in May. The one in the Trial Unit could give me the litigation experience I need. Although I’ve won several mock trials throughout law school, it doesn’t compare to trying a real criminal case.

Hmm. While the starting salary is minimal compared to one at a large firm, I enjoy working here. The detectives, DAs, and staff are extremely dedicated to the public sector. Not to mention that since I escaped the confines of the law library, they’ve been very nice to me, and treat me like I belong.

I think about what it would be like to work here as I drift down the back stairwell and head courtside. And the more I consider it, the more I hope it will somehow happen.

The sheriff’s officers at the security point wave me through. I smile and thank them, but they don’t smile back. Instead, they exchange glances as if they’re expecting something I’m not aware of.

Since I can’t interrupt them to ask, I keep going, although a sense of unease fills me. I try to shake it off and head toward Judge Bronson’s chambers, hoping Simon has some news regarding the Montenegro hearing.

Once more, screaming emanates from courtroom thirteen. I hurry out of the way as the sheriff on guard barks into his radio and an army of deputies swarm the courtroom door. He motions me to the hall that leads to chambers. “Stay here, Connie,” he says. “Too much shit going down.”

There is, so obviously now isn’t the time to tell him my name isn’t Connie.

My mouth falls open as one by one, a cluster of civilians are hauled out of the courtroom in cuffs, most of them struggling, all of them screaming. A large man is dragged out next, blood pouring from his mouth. What appears to be his entire family is gathering around him, ignoring the orders to step back. A hysterical woman is pleading with everyone to stop, to calm down. The bleeding man is so incensed, he’s fighting with everything he has, breaking free of the deputy restraining him and pointing, at Curran.

“You fucking pig!” he yells to Curran. “You ruined my boy’s life. You dirty cop. You fucking dirty cop.”

Curran is being shoved away. I recognize one of the DAs among the many men in uniform attempting to separate him from the crowd. “Fuck you,” Curran fires back. “Your kid messed up one of our own for life!”

Declan comes out of nowhere, shoving his way through the escalating mob to Curran’s side. He slinks his way to him, those who recognize him giving him space to allow him through. He whispers tightly in Curran’s ear. I can’t hear what he’s saying through the growing clamor and the morbid cries, but Curran somehow does. He stops fighting, but his face is so filled with rage, I can barely stomach it.

“Contessa, where’re you going?” A hand grips my arm forcibly and yanks me back. “Contessa, what the heck are you doing?”

Simon has me and is yanking me back toward chambers. I don’t realize I lunged forward until I notice where I’m standing and how far Simon has to pull me back. I struggle against him, desperate to get to Curran, worried he’s hurt.

“What happened, Simon?” I ask, my voice shaking as I take in the blood splattered along Curran’s torn suit.

Simon loosens his hold when I stop struggling. “The judge just sentenced a first-time offender to twenty. His family felt the punishment was harsh and attacked the lead witness.”

The color drains from my face as I realize who the lead witness is.

“Harsh sentence, my ass,” the sheriff’s officer guarding the chambers growls. “The rookie’s paralyzed. He’ll never walk again. Prick should’ve gotten the chair.”

Simon apparently thinks this is a good time to argue. “The chair wouldn’t be used in any state for the charge of—”

“I know that, you little shit!” the officer yells back, making it clear Simon needs to shut up.

Simon doesn’t, and they begin to bicker. I ignore them, my full attention on Curran. I start to move forward, panicked something will happen to him, until his hard stare shoots my way and freezes me in place.

Curran

Declan continues to whisper in low tones. But I stop listening when my eyes lock on Tess. Shit. What the hell is she doing here? Declan was supposed to keep her at the office!

Like I goddamn need this. I don’t want her to see me lose my shit. And after a week of getting grilled, a week of seeing Joey sitting in his wheelchair—listening to every word coming out of my mouth, reliving every millisecond of that night—I’m seriously ready to tear someone in half.

Tess tries to snake her way forward, only for Simon to snag her by the wrist and tug her back. He’s saying something to her. Like me, she’s not listening, her widening eyes searching my face as the chaos explodes around us.

“Goddamn pig!” someone yells, this time a woman.

“Who you calling a pig, you worthless piece of shit.” A rookie sheriff’s deputy has had more than he can take, but the growing mutters of the surrounding deputies tell me he doesn’t stand alone. Maybe that’s what I need: a long, hard look at how I’m riling everyone up.

I take a deep breath, and another, trying to get it together. But remnants of how bad the defense counsel ripped into me flood my mind. Every detail of how I screwed up was thrown in my face—every detail—all with Joey front and center. The anger and resentment shadowing his face during the trial was all directed at me. Not once did he look at the defendant.

It doesn’t take a genius to know he blames me for putting him in that chair.

And he’s right.

Someone cuts his eyes my way—I recognize him as the brother of the defendant. He blinks once and lunges at the deputy, stirring the two family members on either side of him to attack.

Something silver flashes to my left. It’s then all hell breaks loose.

I should have barreled toward the perp; instead I freeze, trying to force the word out.

Knife.

It lodges in my throat.

Knife.

I break out in a sweat.

Goddamnit, knife. Just say it!

Two deputies respond, slamming the perp to the floor and inciting an all-out brawl. Tess screams. My head whips in her direction, her terror forcing me to act.

She and Simon huddle in the corner, away from where the judge’s deputy is lying on his side, curling inward to protect his weapon against the two men kicking him in the stomach.

I charge toward them. Bone crunches beneath my swinging fist when another perp tries to intercept me. He crashes to the floor, giving a smaller deputy the chance to cuff him. She has him, but the other two perps still have the judge’s guard.

In the tough Philly streets where I was raised, you learn to fight or you learn to get your ass kicked. The O’Briens are fighters, and as one of them, I’ve learned to inflict some serious damage.

My uppercut sends the bigger of the two assailants flying. Big man, glass jaw. The leaner one hurls himself at me. Tess screams again when I knock him out. One punch. That’s all it takes.

I dodge a fourth offender and wrench his arm back, kicking his feet out from under him.

Him I cuff, then I lug him to his feet and spout his Miranda. My eyes sweep my surroundings as adrenaline pumps through my veins, readying me for another attack. It doesn’t come. Thank Christ, more deputies have arrived and are quickly regaining order.

As I take in the blood and the swelling faces, it’s clear that the effort to secure the courthouse didn’t come easy. Shit. How did a knife get past security? The press is going to be all over this mess.