Chapter 5 - The Arraignment
The Westchester County Courthouse was a neoclassical fortress of gray limestone and towering marble columns that echoed with the hurried footsteps of lawyers, plaintiffs, and bailiffs.
It was a crisp Tuesday morning three weeks after the barbecue. Ethan was finally home, resting on the downstairs sofa with his leg propped up on three pillows, surrounded by comic books and video games. A rotating schedule of friends and neighbors—led by Maya, who had checked in on us daily—ensured he was never alone while I attended the initial court hearings.
I walked up the granite steps of the courthouse, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, carrying a heavy leather briefcase.
As I pushed through the heavy glass doors into the security checkpoint, I saw them.
Tyler sat on a wooden bench near the entrance, flanked by my parents. Tyler looked sullen and nervous, wearing an ill-fitting blazer that made him look like a teenager forced to attend a funeral. My mother sat bolt upright, her face locked in a mask of bitter indignation, while my father stood beside her, whispering furiously to a high-priced defense attorney whose retainer fee alone could have bought a reliable used car.
When my father spotted me walking through the metal detectors, his face flushed a deep, mottled crimson. He stepped directly into my path, blocking the corridor leading to the third-floor courtrooms.
"You're actually going through with this," my father hissed, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "You're destroying your own brother's life over a stubbed toe."
"A fractured tibia, Dad," I replied, not breaking stride. I stopped three feet away from him, looking down into his eyes with a cold detachment that visibly startled him. "Two metal pins, eight weeks in a cast, and months of physical therapy. Call it what it is."
"It was an accident!" Tyler shouted, standing up from the bench, drawing the attention of two nearby court officers who immediately placed their hands on their utility belts. "Ethan shouldn't have been crouching by the flowers! I didn't mean to hit him!"
"You swung a four-foot steel rod at a nine-year-old child's legs, Tyler," I said, my voice cutting through the marble hallway like a razor. "You didn't miss. You aimed, you swung, and you hit. And Mom and Dad stood there and laughed when I called for help."
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"That is a lie!" my mother shrieked, marching up to us, her finger shaking inches from my chest. "We never laughed! You are twisting everything because you've always hated your brother! You've been jealous of him since the day he was born!"
"Save the performance for the judge, Mom," I said, stepping around them without another word. "You're going to need it."
