Chapter 7 - The Trial at twenty-Sixth Street
Six months later.
The Cook County Criminal Courthouse on Twenty-Sixth Street was a grey, imposing block of limestone that smelled of wet wool, stale coffee, and floor disinfectant.
Ellie Kelly sat on the polished wooden bench in the third-floor corridor, wearing a simple blue dress and a grey wool coat. Her hair was pulled back into a neat knot at the nape of her neck.
Beside her sat Mary Kelly in a wheelchair, a light tartan blanket tucked around her knees. Mary’s face was still thin, but the grey cast had vanished from her skin; her eyes were clear, bright, and rested.
The heavy double doors of Courtroom 302 opened.
A wave of reporters and television camera crews spilled out into the hallway, their voices rising into a deafening roar as they chased a group of lawyers in expensive grey suits.
"Mrs. Sinclair! Is it true your daughter has accepted a plea agreement?"
"Will Senator Sinclair’s estate be liquidated?"
Eleanor Vance Sinclair walked out between two federal marshals. She was sixty-two years old, her hair immaculately styled, but her face was grey, her eyes fixed on the floor as she was led toward the private elevators. She wore no jewelry. The diamond rings she had worn for thirty years had been surrendered to the court as partial bail collateral.
Behind her came Vanessa Sinclair.
She wore a dark grey prison jumpsuit beneath a loose coat, her wrists bound before her with heavy iron cuffs. Her sleek dark hair was dull, her face thin and sharp.
As she passed the wooden bench where Ellie and Mary Kelly were sitting, Vanessa stopped for a fraction of a second.
Her blue eyes locked onto Ellie’s. There was no rage left in them—only a vast, empty bitterness, the look of a woman who had gambled her entire life on a single hand and lost every chip she owned.
Ellie didn't look away. She sat straight, her hand resting over her mother’s, her face calm and completely unreadable.
Vanessa was nudged forward by a female marshal and disappeared into the elevator bay.
A minute later, the hallway cleared as the press corps rushed downstairs to catch the United States Attorney’s press briefing.
Nico Vitali came out of the courtroom last.
He was wearing a dark charcoal suit, his coat over his arm, Arthur Barone walking half a step behind him. He stopped when he saw Ellie and her mother sitting near the window.
Nico walked over, stepping out of the line of traffic.
He bowed his head slightly toward Mary Kelly. "Mrs. Kelly. I’m glad to see you looking well."
Mary looked up at the broad-shouldered man whose name had scared her for thirty years. She reached out her small, frail hand and touched his sleeve.
"My husband always said your father was a hard man, Mr. Vitali," Mary said, her voice soft but firm. "But he said Lorenzo Vitali never broke his word once he gave it."
Nico’s jaw tightened slightly—the only sign of the deep emotion that passed through him. "Thank you, Mrs. Kelly. My father would have been proud to hear that from Dan Kelly’s wife."
He looked at Ellie. "Are you heading home?"
"In a few minutes," Ellie said, standing up. "We’re going to Saint Patrick’s first. To light a candle for my dad."
May you like
Nico nodded once. "The car is downstairs if you want a ride."
"We’ll take the bus, Nico," Ellie smiled softly—a warm, real smile that made his hazel eyes light up for a second. "We like the bus."
