“Oh my. Where are you two off to?” she asks, approaching slowly.

“Just a little side hustle,” Murphy quips.

“Oh.” Her gaze swings my way. “I thought you might be sneaking off to marry Lilly.”

Her assumption both surprises and intrigues me. “You think Lilly would want that?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. She’s pretty adventurous.” She turns her stern mother-hen stare on Murphy. “Don’t get any ideas. Your wedding’s happening here.”

Murphy smirks. “Yes, Mom.”

She fusses with the lapels on his suit, which Murphy tolerates a lot better than when I did it a few minutes ago. I’m about to toss out an additional mom joke when she starts doing the same thing to me.

“All right. That’s enough of that.” I brush off her hands and she grins up at me.

“Well, good luck with…whatever you’re doing.” Her face turns more serious and she squeezes my arm. “Be careful.”

Something she usually tells us when she senses we’re up to no good.

“I’ll do my best.”

All my planning and worrying were really for nothing. We follow a small crowd of people underneath the eight-foot marble eagle resting over the entrance. The heavy, leather briefcase I’m carrying is the final, and most annoying, detail of my schmuck-in-a-suit costume. The guards open it and briefly flick through the contents before passing it through the scanner.

Once Murphy and I pass through the metal detectors downstairs and flash some—fake—identifications to the already-bored guards, we’re pretty much free to roam the courthouse. It’s five stories of modern but classic styling in the shape of a rectangle with lots of marble and giant columns.

Plenty of police, marshals, or guards are stationed around the place. But we walk with purpose, don’t linger, and no one really gives us a second glance.

“Not feeling reassured about our government right now,” Murphy mutters as we push the huge, wooden doors to Courtroom B open and scan the room.

“Were you ever?”

“Nah, I guess not. Just surprised we got in so easily.”

“Why? We’re nothing more than concerned taxpayers here to watch a public trial.”

He rolls his eyes at my sarcasm and lifts his chin toward an empty row up front.

Sure, why not.

Bad idea. Because as soon as that piece of scum takes his seat at the defense table, practically right in front of us, I move to stand up. To beat him to death with my bare hands? I’m not sure. Only a thick wooden railing that looks straight out of the 1930’s stands between me and him.

Murphy grabs my arm, yanking me back down into my seat. “What the fuck, bro? Calm yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

The judge enters a few minutes later and, like dutiful citizens, we stand for his introduction to the courtroom.