Chance nudged me, and I saw my father beyond the bar in the left corner, talking with an older man. The lawyer, I thought.

“Madam Clerk, call the first case.”

A woman to the judge’s left read from the docket. “Case number 72 CR 1402, State v. Jason French.”

A bailiff led my brother to the defense table, and the attorney left my father’s side to meet him there. “Good morning, Your Honor. Alexander Fitch, for the defense.”

“Mr. Fitch, nice to see you in my court.” The judge glanced at the prosecutor’s table. “Is the State ready to proceed?”

A young woman stood, but before she could reply, a small man rose from a nearby bench. “Brian Gladwell for the State, Your Honor.”

He moved behind the prosecutor’s table, and the judge frowned, perplexed. “Not that you are unwelcome in this court, but we rarely have the pleasure of the district attorney himself on matters as perfunctory as a first appearance.”

“I have my reasons, Your Honor.”

“The privilege is yours. Madam Clerk.”

The clerk read the charges. I missed a few, but the big ones stood out. Attempted murder in the second degree, felony weapons trafficking, felony fleeing to elude arrest, felonious assault, assault with intent …

She kept going, but I kept my eyes on the DA. Fine lines creased the side of his neck, but that’s not what I noticed first.

He was sweating.

He was pale.

When the clerk finished, the judge addressed Jason’s attorney. “Mr. Fitch, how does your client plead?”

“Not guilty, Your Honor.”

“Preferences for probable cause?”

“Only that you schedule the hearing as soon as convenient for the court. We intend to refute these charges and would like to do so at the earliest possible time.”

“Mr. DA?”

“We anticipate further charges, Your Honor. As much time as you can give us would be welcome.”

The judge drummed his fingers. He knew about Tyra Norris. Everyone did. “What kind of charges might you bring in the future?”

“Felony kidnapping. Murder in the first degree. The investigation is ongoing.”

The crowd around us stirred, the sound like a rustle of feathers. The judge consulted his calendar, and offered a date fourteen days in the future. “I assume that’s acceptable to all parties.”

“There’s one last thing, Your Honor.”

“Mr. DA?”

The district attorney cleared his throat and, for an instant, glanced at someone in the courtroom. “Ah, Your Honor…” He cleared his throat again; shuffled some papers on the table. “The State requests that the defendant be remanded to the authorities at Lanesworth Prison.”

The judge was clearly puzzled. “On what grounds?”

“Ah, safekeeping, Your Honor. After consultation with authorities at the local jail.”