Maybe I was a little bitter.
But I was a lot of other things as well—relieved, elated, confused, remorseful, anxious. I was hungry for every word that came out of his mouth and yet too bewildered to concentrate on anything he said. I yearned for his arms to lie on me instead of on the rests at the side of his chair. I ached to yell at him and slap him and tell him I hated him. Then I wanted to cover him in kisses and tell him how much I loved him.
Each emotion was so vivid, so intense, so overwhelming that I could hardly bear it. They were agony and ecstasy all at once, too tumultuous and contradictory. The only thing I knew to do was swallow them all, bury them deep. Make myself cold and frozen and immune. The way I’d been before I’d ever met JC. The way I’d dealt with all the other hard emotions in my life.
So I did.
I took a deep breath and let myself go numb.
And then I could finally pay attention to the proceedings.
“Was Ms. Jackson expecting you that evening?” the prosecutor asked.
Since I’d missed a day of testimony and hadn’t been able to focus earlier, it took me a few minutes to catch up.
“She was expecting us, yes,” JC answered. “We were going to catch a Rangers’ game.”
I didn’t even know he liked hockey.
“You said, ‘us,’” the lawyer said. “Could you tell the court who else was with you?”
Maybe it had been Corinne who liked the sport.
“Two guys that I was working on a project with. Tom LaRue and Steve Stockbridge.”
“So, Mr. Bruzzo, these two, Thomas LaRue and Steven Stockbridge were with you when you arrived at Ms. Jackson’s office?”
“Yes. They both were there. They saw everything I saw. They aren’t here to testify, though, because Mennezzo had them both killed after he found out they were called as witnesses.”
The defense attorney called out an objection. “My client hasn’t yet been charged with the deaths of Mr. LaRue and Mr. Stockbridge.”
“Yet being the key word,” someone muttered at my side as the judge said, “Sustained.”
I forced my eyes away from JC to study the defendant, the man who was to blame for all of this—Ralphio Mennezzo. From where I sat, I could only see a partial profile as he turned to consult with his lawyer. Then he shifted his attention forward, and all I could see was the back of his head.
I stared at the bald spot in the center of his near-black hair, and a sour taste formed in my mouth. I was keenly aware that, when I let myself feel again, I would hate him. Hate him for killing another person. Hate him for taking away something that JC had loved. But mostly hate him for taking JC away from me.
I hadn’t even yet heard his crimes, and I already hoped he’d rot in jail.
And then I did hear his crimes, slowly, through the story that emerged from JC’s testimony. Heard how Mennezzo had bought votes in his last election—that remark had of course been met with an objection. Then heard how he’d funneled client funds into his own bank account. Another objection. Then, the worst, heard how, when his young female assistant confronted him about his wrongdoings, he’d taken out a gun from his desk drawer and shot her.
It had been late. A cold winter night, and everyone else in the office had gone home except Corinne, who was working until her fiancé came to pick her up for a hockey game. Who knew why she’d picked that night to say something? No one was even positive that’s what she’d done to provoke him, but only the week before she’d shared her suspicions with JC, who guessed that had to be the reason.
And when JC had arrived to meet her, he’d come just in time to see Mennezzo fire the gun, see the woman he loved crumple to the floor, blood pooling around her. His friends had held him back when he’d wanted to rush to her. They’d covered his mouth and stifled his screams, pulling him into the shadows where they heard the state representative make a phone call to someone. Heard him saying he had a mess that needed to be cleaned up. They’d stayed quiet and hidden while Mennezzo calmly turned off all the lights, locked up the office and left like it was the end of any other work day.
“Did you call the police then?” the prosecutor asked.
“Tom did. Or Steve. I’m not sure who.” JC’s tone was as cold and empty as I’d made myself. He’d told me once he had that in him, but I’d never seen it until now.
“What about you? What did you do?”
“I ran to Cori. I put my hand over her wound to try to stop the bleeding. I tried to get her to open her eyes or say something. Anything.”
“But she didn’t respond?”