Formerly Fingerman (31 page)

The courthouse steps were jammed with reporters and camera crews crafting their ridiculous angles on this massive trial. Thankfully no one recognized Brittany going in and, aside from the big chicken handing out fliers on the way, she was pretty much ignored.

The chicken suit was more comfortable than Brad remembered. Well, once you got used to the enormous head. He'd been standing in front of the courthouse in lower Manhattan for over an hour, handing out Chicken Shack fliers to the uninterested reporters gathered for the big trial's opening day. The quickly discarded fliers were starting to swirl around as the wind picked up.

There were probably fifty news crews on the steps. Frank Fortunato had been brought in the building through the back entrance reserved for those making the trip from jail. The best these guys could hope for was a shot of the opposing counsels, ideally a fistfight between Tommy Giggles and some underling from the prosecution. What a shame they had no idea their slam dunk Pulitzer Prize–winning story was standing right next to them, being told to fuck off every seventeen seconds.

Brad faced away from the courthouse, using the large viewing patch of the chicken mouth to scan for Owen. He should have been there by now.

And there he was. Dressed in his bailiff uniform. And a mustache. He was moving quickly as he headed toward the courthouse.

The large-headed chicken on the fringe of the gaggle of reporters walked purposefully to the left of the group and positioned himself directly in the path of the bailiff who looked like he was running late for work.

Brad held out a flier.

“Hey, I need your help.”

Owen broke stride out of respect to his former occupation.

“Oh, I know, but you'll get the hang of the job. Just don't hit any cops. Chuck hates that.”

“Owen!”

“Oh man, why didn't I ever think of that? Using people's first names is a great way to get their attention. Boy, the business sure has changed since I left. Listen, I have to get to wor—”

“OWEN!”

“Brad?”

“Hi, Owen. Nice mustache.”

“You like it? It's fake. Until I grow a real one. I think it adds character. Hey, what are you doing here? Did you know Frank Fortunato is inside? You should testify while you're in town.”

“You're still a bailiff, right?”

“Oh, yeah. For weeks now. Things are really happening for me. If I keep pissing clean, one day—hope, hope—
judge
.”

“I need a huge favor.”

“Oh, I can't get you in to see the big trial. I'm not working the Fortunato thing. I'm helping out another courtroom. There's a guy coming in later who always throws his own poop at the judge, so, you know.”

“That's not the favor.”

Starbucks bathrooms have their pros and cons. On the one hand, they stink. They are the public toilets of New York City and no matter how often company guidelines say low man on the totem pole has to swab them out, the sheer volume of traffic through their doors makes the task of keeping them clean simply impossible, and getting them to smell not disgusting is a laughable task at best. On the other hand, if you need a nice, wide-open dressing room where you and a friend can trade outfits, and one of those outfits is an unwieldy chicken costume, they're a godsend.

Brad adjusted Owen's fake mustache to appear as balanced as it was going to get. Thank God he shaved this morning. He slipped Owen's tube of mustache adhesive into his front pocket. He looked almost natural in Owen's bailiff uniform and tried to relax the hand that clutched Owen's official bailiff identification. Brad checked himself in the mirror. He looked no more ridiculous than Owen did four minutes ago. So this was it. Do or die.

“Wait two minutes and then come out. We don't want it to look weird.”

As if a bailiff and a man-sized chicken hadn't looked weird going
in
to a Starbucks bathroom together.

“You sure you know what you're doing, Brad?”

“No, but I know it's the right thing to do. Probably.”

“Maybe you should have stayed in Florida.”

“You're the one who told me I should testify in the first place.”

“But not disguised as a bailiff. That seems kind of dishonest.”

“Don't worry, buddy.”

If there was one thing Brad Fingerman was not doing on that day, it was being dishonest.

Malcolm had given his virginity an honorable discharge. He savored his manly thoughts as he tightened up his tie, smiling at the decisive charmer in the mirror and thinking back on his achievement. He was a changed man. No more bullshit in his life. He had better things to do. Like sex. Holy Christ, did Malcolm have some lost time to make up for. He had heard the stories, but never expected it to be this much fun. Oh, it was time to get busy.

No more second guessing myself. No more hemming and hawing and wondering if I'm making the right choice. That's child's play. Today, I turn over a new leaf. Today, I am a man. I'd like my steak medium rare. I'll definitely take the blue Corvette. Sure, I'd like my sideburns trimmed. Oh yes. That feels good.

One last spritz of hair spray to keep everything in place, and Malcolm headed out to sit for the first day of Frank Fortunato's trial.

The courtroom was packed. Standing room only. Brad did his best to look official when he entered the back of the room and pressed himself up against the wall.

There were about seven other uniformed bailiffs standing in the back as well. This trial was a hot ticket and even court employees wanted to see the action. Which meant he was just another staffer lost in the crowd.

The attorneys for the prosecution and defense manned their tables at the front of the room, discussing last-minute details with their partners. The judge's chair sat empty.

A door in the back opened and a large majority of the crowd cheered as Frank Fortunato was escorted in wearing an orange jumpsuit complemented by wrist and ankle manacles. Brad did not cheer and, instead, pretended to rub an itch in his eye while taking careful note of everyone huzzahing the man who tried to murder him.

Frank smiled widely and raised his hands as much as he could in his chains. A team of uniformed officers helped him to his chair and parked themselves off to his side.

When Frank was faced away from him, Brad scanned the room for the one person he knew could help. And she'd probably be pretty glad to see him. He hadn't told Brittany he was coming and really hoped this wasn't a huge waste of time. But if he was going to be a part of this trial, there was only one way for it to go down. His way. Complete surprise and no chance of anyone leaking anything. It was a big risk, but the only other option was not showing at all.

There. Across the room, making her way to a seat in the third row. Brittany. Geez, she'd gotten thin. Nice skirt, though.

“All rise. Hear ye, hear ye, the United States District Court for the Southern District of New York is now in session—the Honorable Judge Malcolm Middleton presiding. All having business before this honorable court draw near, give attention, and you shall be heard. You may be seated.”

Malcolm walked in from his own entrance and motioned for everyone to relax. He took his seat and looked over his kingdom like a boss.

“Sit, sit.”

Brad stared lasers at Brittany as she moved down the aisle to a seat someone had saved for her. Just before she sat down, she looked his way.

Brittany found her seat and tried to ignore the bailiff in the back who kept making really wide eyes at her and motioning with his chin. She wondered if he had some sort of condition. Can you be a bailiff if you have Tourette's?

She returned her attention to the front of the room as her last hope took his seat behind the judge's bench. As hard as it was to believe, Brittany still thought that Brad was alive and that she could track him down. She just needed a few more weeks. Surely he would surface by then. How long can he go without using his credit cards?

She snuck a quick look around the courtroom to see which high-powered media outlets would be covering the trial. CNN. MSNBC.
Access Hollywood
. Nice.

And there was that bug-eyed bailiff making goo goo eyes at her again. Really? Like she would ever be into a guy with a mustache? What is this, 1978?

Up front, Judge Middleton had a couple of questions for his staff before beginning. Brittany snuck another look around.

Are you fucking kidding me? Am I going to have to take off the mustache? How is she not noticing me?

Brad considered whisper-yelling to Brittany, but figured that might be a little too conspicuous. How much wider could he make his eyes before they popped all the way out? He was afraid he was going to pull a muscle. One last try.

Jesus, perv. Get out much?

Brittany was starting to get depressed. Why did she keep looking at the crazy bailiff? Was this attraction? Some crazy instant love match she couldn't resist? Was she destined to live out some awful made-for-Oxygen movie about an FBI agent who falls in love with a civil servant? Even
she
wouldn't watch that. Why was she so fascinated with the bailiff? Was it because he sort of looked like Brad? Or did she just think everyone looked like Brad now because she was so focused on finding him?

Lately she had started taking closer looks at bag boys, the guy at the dry cleaners, her therapist. Double checking to make sure they weren't Brad. Why not? Just to be safe. She had to make sure she was doing all she could, right? Or, she was spiraling quickly into dementia. And if that was the case, why not take a second look at Bailiff Brad?

She turned once more to see him bulging his eyes out and covering his mouth. He whipped his hand away for a millisecond to reveal that he no longer had a mustache. Wow, he really looked a lot like Brad. She leaned back over the bench to get a better look. Bailiff Brad nodded and whipped his hand away again to mouth the word “Help.”

Holy shit.

It was Brad. He was here.

Brittany stood up and scootched her way down the row, toward the middle aisle.

“'Scuse me. Pardon me. Court business. Goddamn, dude. Move your knees!”

Her row-mates were not making it easy for her to move fast.

She noticed Judge Middleton finishing up with his staff and preparing to get down to business. It was now or never. She swung her left leg up over the row in front of her, excusing herself as politely as was possible in a situation like this, and stepped up and over. Again with the next row and finally over the small fence that separated the court proceedings from the audience. A team of bailiffs began to swarm her direction, but Tim Irakura waved them off.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“He's here.”

“Who's here?”

“Fingerman. Brad Fingerman is in the building.”

“Is he going to testify?”

“I don't know. Give me five minutes. Just five minutes, Tim. I told you I'd get him here and I did. Just let me talk to him. Stall. Do some lawyer stuff. Anything.”

Judge Middleton looked down from his seat and frowned.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Irikura?”

“Your honor, we have a special circumstance. May I approach the bench?”

Malcolm nodded and Tim walked toward the bench, followed closely by Tommy Giggles.

The crowd murmured amongst themselves and Brittany raced back toward the door that Bailiff Brad had just walked out of.

Brittany stood, flabbergasted, and tried to speak. She and Brad were standing in an empty room down the hall from the Fortunato courtroom. She had a million questions, but one was far more important than the others.

“So . . . ?”

“Frank's guys found me and killed Stump and they were going to kill me but I escaped and then I went off the grid.”

“Okay. Okay. Okay.”

Brittany nodded, processing everything.

“But, you're here now. And you're going to testify, yes?”

“Brittany, I have to tell you the truth.”

“Yes. On the stand. Tell everyone. And if you can work my name in there, so much the better.”

“No, you have to hear this first. It's important.”

He looked so scared standing there in someone else's clothes, irritated red skin where the mustache had been. Driven by some need to do good, even if it meant he would live the rest of his life terrified of scary guys with knives and guns and those picks ice climbers use. Men who wanted to kill him just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And then it hit her. Reformed drunks have a phrase for beautiful flashes of insight like this—a moment of clarity. That one sacred split second when the world stops being an asshole long enough for you to see things really clearly and realize things like
I should have had children
or
My MBA is kind of pointless.

In Brittany's moment of clarity, this is what she realized:
It's not worth it.

Yes, Brad's testimony would maybe possibly convict the leader of one of the most powerful crime families in New York City and in the process land her a Geraldo-circa-1994-size cable news network deal that would set her up with up-yours-Van-Susteren money, but it would be at the expense of this completely innocent man who had already been through so much.
It's not worth it.

It would have been such a beautiful moment of profound Zen and personal growth had the message not been delivered in her head by her grandmother's voice.

Still, it was true and she knew it. Fuck if she wouldn't have to become famous the old-fashioned way. Infamy. Goodbye, Tyra with a badge. Hello, Marcia Clark with a chip on her shoulder. Unfortunately, Brittany knew there was only one thing to say.

“It's not worth it.”

“What?”

“It's not worth your life. They'll never stop hunting you. They killed Stump, for God's sake. What chance do you have? They'll find you and they'll kill you and all you did was get into an elevator at the wrong time. You never asked for this. I bullied you into it. I'm sorry. Don't testify. Tim can take his chances with the grand jury video and my testimony.”