Chapter 7 - Counter-Strike at the Boardroom
The following morning at 9:00 AM, the halls of the Lindsey-Flanigan Courthouse smelled of wet wool coats, cheap industrial coffee, and damp marble.
I sat in the second row of Courtroom 4B, dressed in a conservative charcoal wool pantsuit, my hands folded neatly on my lap. Claire sat to my left; Evelyn Rosen sat at the counsel table to my right.
Through the heavy oak side door, Julian Hart was led into the courtroom by a burly sheriff’s deputy.
The contrast between the man who had strutted through DIA two days ago and the creature standing before the bench was staggering. He was wearing an orange prison jumpsuit that was two sizes too large for him, the sleeves rolled up over his pale, bony wrists. His dark hair was greasy, uncombed, and sticking up at wild angles. The stubble along his jawline was graying and patchy. He was wearing orange plastic slip-on shoes, and his ankles were bound by a three-foot length of heavy iron chain that rattled with every shuffling step he took.
When he saw me sitting in the gallery, his face twisted into an expression of raw, unvarnished agony.
“Nora,” he mouthed across the mahogany railing, his lips cracked and dry. “Nora, please.”
I looked straight through him, my expression as flat and cold as a frozen lake.
“State of Colorado versus Julian Hart,” the clerk called out. “Case number 24-CR-08942. Charges: Identity Theft, Forgery, Criminal Simulation, Grand Larceny, and Computer Crime.”
Judge Carolyn Miller, a formidable African-American woman with silver spectacles perched on the tip of her nose, peered down from the elevated bench with unmasked impatience.
“Mr. Hart,” Judge Miller began, reviewing the case file. “You are represented this morning by the public defender’s office for the limited purpose of arraignment. Counsel, enter your appearance.”
A tired-looking public defender named David Vance (no relation) stood beside Julian. “David Vance for the defendant, Your Honor. We enter a plea of not guilty to all counts and request an unsecured personal recognizance bond. Mr. Hart is a long-standing member of the Denver business community with no prior felony record.”
The assistant district attorney, a sharp young woman named Sarah Lin, rose immediately.
“The People strongly object to any non-monetary bond, Your Honor,” Lin argued, her voice cutting through the quiet courtroom. “The defendant engaged in a sophisticated, multi-month scheme to defraud his spouse of real property valued at over nine hundred thousand dollars, forged legal instruments, suborned notary fraud, and attempted to flee the jurisdiction with a one-way ticket to Nevada scheduled for twelve hours after the crime was discovered. Furthermore, the FBI has just issued a federal detainer for bank fraud under Title 18.”
Julian’s public defender turned his head sharply toward Julian, his jaw dropping. “A federal detainer? You didn't tell me about an FBI hold.”
“I didn't know!” Julian cried out, leaning toward the microphone before his attorney shoved him back down into his seat. “Your Honor, my wife is orchestrating this! She hacked my computer! She stole my corporate files!”
*Gavel crack.*
The sound was like a gunshot.
“Mr. Hart, you will remain silent unless addressed by this court,” Judge Miller warned, her voice vibrating with thunderous disapproval. “One more outburst and you will spend the weekend in solitary confinement for direct criminal contempt.”
Julian collapsed back into his chair, breathing heavily, his hands clutching the edge of the counsel table until his knuckles turned ivory.
“Based on the severity of the charges, the overwhelming weight of the documentary evidence, and the existence of a federal detainer,” Judge Miller ruled, writing swiftly in the docket, “bail is set at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, cash or surety only. In the event bond is posted, the defendant will surrender his passport, submit to continuous GPS ankle monitoring, and be subject to a strict mandatory protection order prohibiting any contact, direct or indirect, with Nora Hart.”
Judge Miller looked up from her paperwork, her gaze locking onto Julian with absolute disdain.
“Take him down,” she ordered.
The deputies grabbed Julian by his orange shoulders. As they hauled him toward the iron holding cell door, he twisted violently against their grip, his chains clattering frantically against the floor.
“Nora!” he screamed, his voice breaking into a shrill, hysterical shriek that echoed off the high plaster ceiling. “Nora, look at me! Tell them to stop! You’re my wife! You promised in front of God, Nora! For better or worse! Nora!”
The heavy iron door slammed shut. The latch clicked into place with a concussive, final *thud*.
The courtroom fell dead silent.
Evelyn Rosen turned to me, closed her leather portfolio, and gently patted my shoulder.
May you like
“Well, my dear,” Evelyn said softly. “That concludes the criminal preliminaries. Now, let’s go strip him of his remaining skin in the domestic relations division.”
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