Page 147 of Legally Ours

"Madam Foreperson," said the judge. "The defendant, Victor Salvaturi Messina, has been charged with five counts of racketeering, one count of kidnapping, two counts of aggravated assault, two counts of attempted murder, one count of murder in the first degree, one count of obstruction of justice, and one count of tax fraud."

He paused a moment, either to collect his breath or let the charges sink into the court. I looked around. During the trial, the room had generally only contained us, a few members of the press, and the other participants of the court. Today, however, it was packed with families and other witnesses––all of the people who had been affected by Messina's heinous actions.

"Madame Foreperson," the judge continued. "How do you find the defendant on the charge of murder in the first degree? Guilty or not guilty?"

There was a general intake of breath throughout the room, and all that could be heard were the hum of rolling cameras and the typing of the stenographer.

"Guilty," said the juror, loudly and clearly.

Behind the defense table, I saw Messina drop his head into his hands as the judge continued to read off the counts, and one by one, the juror continued to announce the verdict: guilty, guilty, guilty.

At last, he came to the counts that included my family. "And on one count of kidnapping," asked the judge, "how do you find the defendant?"

The juror blinked. "Guilty."

"And on counts one and two of aggravated assault?"

"Guilty."

From somewhere inside me, a knot was pulled, and a tight coil of stress sprang free. My chest shuddered as a harsh, noiseless sob pushed out. Immediately, I felt Brandon's arm pull me close as Dad grasped for my other hand, and on his other side, I saw him do the same to Bubbe.

We sat there, the four of us linked, as one by one, each of the other jurors confirmed the verdict as delivered. Around us, I noticed several other people hugging each other and blotting tears from their eyes. One woman collapsed completely into the man who had accompanied her. It was her brother, I gathered, who was the murder victim.

But it wasn't until the final juror confirmed the verdict, that the truth of it finally hit me.

He was guilty. They had found him guilty. No hung jury. No mistrial. It was entirely possible that the defense would still mount an appeal, but in all likelihood, it would be denied, and in a few weeks, Victor Messina would be sentenced to something in the neighborhood of life in prison.

On the other side of Dad, Bubbe wiped tears from her cheeks, and Dad just stared stony-faced at the back of the bench in front of us. After months––years, really––of enduring the stress of this man in our lives, it was so strange to realize that justice had actually been served. And maybe, just maybe, we would be free of him.

Soon the bailiff announced the jury's discharge and asked everyone to rise. We did, and Messina stood as well, his head bowed as he slowly, deliberately removed the tie from around his neck. He remained standing after everyone in the courtroom took their seats again. Then he set the tie on the table.

The judge flipped through the schedule in front of him for a moment, then gave Messina a hard look.

"Mr. Messina. Sentencing will take place on Thursday, December twenty-second, at two p.m. Bailiffs, please escort Mr. Messina to his cell to await his sentence."

We watched as two bailiffs immediately approached Messina, who in that moment, finally seemed to recognize that he was going to jail, and potentially for good.

"No," he yelped, as he shook off their arms. "No, I ain't goin'!"

"Mr. Messina!" cried the judge as he banged his gavel. "You will allow the bailiffs to escort you to your cell, else you risk being held in contempt of the court."

"I'm already in contempt!" he yelled, despite the way his lawyer continued to draw a finger across his neck, indicating clearly that his client needed to shut the hell up.

"I'm innocent!" yelled Messina, even as the bailiffs, with the help of two other officers who had hurried in from the jail, managed to encircle his suited waist again with the heavy, padlocked chain used for felons. Quickly, they cuffed each of his hands to the side of the chain, forcing him to hold them awkwardly out from his waist like an angry penguin.

As they escorted him away from the defense table, they passed our seats, no longer blocked from view by the front row of reporters.

"You," Messina growled as he caught sight of us.

He pointed a sausage-like finger menacingly at me, even though his arm was inhibited by its chains. They clinked loudly with each movement. The courtroom had once again stilled as everyone watched his performance.

"This ain't the last you'll be seeing of me, Red!" Messina cried, even as the bailiffs continued to drag him out of the courtroom. "Danny! Brandon Sterling! You can believe that!"

Above us, the photographers were clicking away. I huddled into Brandon's side as the fingers on my shoulder tightened.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said the bailiff. "Let's go."

"It ain't the last!" Messina shrieked as he was yanked out of the room.

We watched until the heavy door was shut and locked behind him. It wasn't until I felt Brandon turn me fully toward his body so that he could wrap both arms around me that I realized I was shaking. Dad and Bubbe both looked positively white.

"Court is adjourned," called the judge.

"Come on, Red," Brandon said as he edged me toward the exit. "It's over."

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