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TWENTY

DR. BEN, EXHIBITING FORMULA 1 skills I didn’t know he possessed, gets me to Mineola with time to spare.

Rob Jacobson is already inside the courthouse waiting for me, as is Jimmy Cunniff. So is the esteemed Judge Alicia Kane, whose reputation for being an all-time, all-world hard-ass is well documented in my world.

Any photographers walking through the parking lot after we pulled in might have gotten a good shot of the attorney for the defendant changing into court clothes in the back seat of Ben’s Range Rover as he pulls up to the curb.

I lean forward and kiss Ben with enough force and feeling that when I finally pull back it’s clear I’ll have to redo my lipstick.

As I smooth my skirt and blouse and reach for my makeup bag, Ben informs me that he plans to stick around, that he’s ready to finally see me in action. I call Jimmy and tell him to save a seat for Ben.

“Good luck,” he says.

“Feel like I’m owed at least a little.”

“The papers have been saying there’s no way he’s getting out on bail.”

“They were only still saying that when he was represented by someone other than your sweetie.”

The proceedings about to begin have drawn a big crowd, even bigger than when Jacobson turned himself in. It’s not just him they’re packing the steps to see, all the way down to the sidewalk and nearly into the street. Today I’m as much the story as he is. Maybe more.

Ben waves as I get out of the car and dash up the courthouse steps, rocking the ridiculously expensive short leather jacket I bought yesterday in Geneva.

Definitely more media today, but who’s keeping score?

Well, I am, actually.

Mommy’s home.

Katie Phang, a legal analyst from NBC, calls out to me. “As I recall, Jane, the last time you were here you said you didn’t miss this.”

“Hold on,” I say. “Doesn’t a girl reserve the right to change her mind?”

“So you’re here because you did miss the action?”

“I’m here because my client is innocent and shouldn’t spend another night in jail, and I’ll prove that for a second time.”

Running on pure adrenaline at this point, I clear security, then make a quick stop in the ladies’ room for a hair-and-makeup check. I drink some water out of the bottle in my bag, pat my cheeks, say what I always say before I walk into court:

“Showtime!”

Only this time, out of nowhere, I suddenly feel myself start to cry. I put my hands on the sink and try to deep-breathe the tears away.

A woman comes in and sees me standing there with red eyes.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

For some reason, I think of Fiona Mills, hear her voice inside my head.

“Brilliant,” I say.