Chapter 7 - The Trial of the Trust
The arraignment of Bianca Thorne took place in the federal courthouse in Salem, a building made of cold gray granite that looked identical to the Vale estate but smelled of damp wool and old cigarettes.
The Thorne family had brought five lawyers from Boston, men with gold watches and leather briefcases who stood in a semi-circle around Bianca as if they could shield her from the cameras of the city reporters. Bianca was wearing a simple dark suit, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, her face completely pale except for the red spots of fury that burned on her cheeks every time the bailiff looked her way.
Cassius sat at the prosecutor’s table, his walking stick resting between his knees, his face perfectly calm. I sat in the third row of the gallery, between Mrs. Gable and Julian, my oilskin coat wrapped tightly over my blue dress to hide the roundness of my stomach from the photographers.
"The state calls Mara Whitfield," the prosecutor said.
I stood up, the room going completely silent as the reporters turned their notebooks to a fresh page. As I walked through the wooden gate, my heel caught on the edge of the carpet, and for a fraction of a second, I felt the old, clumsy shame that Sophie Crane had laughed at in Chicago—the feeling that my body was too large, too heavy, too conspicuous for a room full of elegant people.
Then I looked at the bench.
The judge wasn't a friend of the Thorne family. He was an old maritime lawyer from Gloucester who had known my grandfather when the Grace mills were still sending cedar to the shipyards. He nodded at me, a tiny, professional gesture of respect that had nothing to do with the Vale family's money.
"Miss Whitfield," the prosecutor said, holding up the silver chain with the tiny flower charm. "Is this the object that was removed from your wrist by the defendant on the morning of November fourteenth?"
"It is," I said, my voice steady as it echoed through the high, white room.
"And did the defendant place her boot beside this object while you were on your knees in the mud?"
"She did," I said. "She told me my mother should have taught me not to reach above my place."
A sharp murmur ran through the press row. Bianca’s senior lawyer stood up, his gold watch chain clicking against his button. "Objection, Your Honor. The witness is a former domestic employee whose contract was terminated for cause. Her testimony is biased by her financial interest in the Vale Shipping Line."
"The witness's contract was not terminated, counselor," the judge said, his voice dropping like an ax. "It was purchased by the Vale Trust for eighty-five thousand dollars. And as far as financial interest is concerned, I have an affidavit here from the state bank commissioner showing that your client’s father attempted to transfer two hundred thousand dollars of port authority stock to the prosecutor's office on Tuesday morning. The objection is overruled. The defendant will enter a plea."
Bianca looked at her father, but the Senator was staring at his own shoes, his camel-hair coat looking old and wrinkled in the sharp light of the courtroom. She looked at Cassius, but the Don didn't look back. He was staring at the silver chain in the prosecutor's hand, his fingers tightened around the handle of his stick until the knuckles were white.
"Guilty," Bianca whispered, her voice so low the court reporter had to lean forward to catch the syllables. "Aggravated trespass and simple assault."
The judge didn't offer her a fine. He didn't offer her a probation period with a counselor in Boston. "The defendant will be remanded to the county farm for ninety days," he said, slamming his gavel down with a crack that sounded like a rifle shot through the quiet room. "And the Senator will remain in the city until the audit of the port authority allocations is completed by the grand jury."
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As the guards led Bianca through the side door, her leather heels making a sharp, frantic clicking against the linoleum, Cassius stood up from the table. He turned toward the gallery, his eyes looking for mine through the crowd of reporters, but I had already turned toward the back exit.
"Julian," I said to the guard who was standing by my shoulder. "Take me back to the house. I want to pack my boxes."
