Confessions: The Private School Murders by James Patterson Page B
Authors: James Patterson
Tags: Family, Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, Love & Romance, Siblings, Juvenile Fiction / Family - Siblings, Mysteries & Detective Stories, Self-Esteem & Self-Reliance, Juvenile Fiction / Love & Romance, Juvenile Fiction / Mysteries & Detective Stories, Juvenile Fiction / Social Issues / Self-Esteem & Self-Reliance
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kill me.
16
I woke up with my heart pounding
like I was being chased by a herd of blank-eyed, gaping-mouthed walking dead. I’d had a bad dream, but of what? Dead girls? Snakes? The white rooms at Fern Haven?
As I clutched my blanket to my sides, I remembered. It was about Matthew.
Matthew’s trial was starting today.
I rousted my siblings, and we chowed breakfast down while standing around the kitchen island. Then we pooled our resources and cabbed it downtown to the Manhattan Criminal Court at 100 Centre Street.
The streets were knotted with morning traffic. We spent long minutes sweating in the backseat of the cab, catchingevery single red light as commercial vehicles and herds of pedestrians blocked the roadways.
I was frustrated and mad at myself for oversleeping. What was with the new slumber-loving me? Was it another side effect of not taking my parents’ drugs? And why today of all days? Philippe had warned me that if we were late, we would be barred from the courtroom until the lunch recess, and that just wasn’t acceptable. I wanted Matthew to see that we were there to support him.
Our cab did the stop-and-go thing for several more minutes, and I thought Hugo might burst with impatience. When we were finally within walking distance of Centre Street, Harry paid the fare, and we leapt from the cab.
Together we ran toward the biggest building around. The courthouse was an imposing seventeen stories high, faced with granite and limestone, topped with an Art Deco ziggurat crown. It took up a full New York City block.
We zipped between the large, free-standing columns guarding the entrance and entered the swarming marble lobby, where we were funneled into a security line. A man with a wand checked us for weapons, and then we charged toward the elevator banks. As we crammed ourselves inside with a dozen others, Hugo pushed the button for the ninth floor.
I tried to gather strength from the proximity of mybrothers, but still, my newly awakened emotions were roiling. My feet tapped impatiently beneath me while I watched the numbers light up over the door in what felt like slow motion.
Today New York City’s star prosecutor, Nadine Raphael, would give her opening statement, and then our family friend and attorney, Philippe Montaigne, would give his. Phil was a good lawyer and our family has trusted him for years, but criminal defense was not his area of expertise. Given our current financial constraints, we decided he was our best bet. But Nadine Raphael, on the other hand, was a Harvard-trained viper.
The elevator doors opened into a hallway that was jam-packed with lawyers and court workers by the hundreds. There was also a shifting phalanx of reporters jostling for a lead like a pack of hounds on the scent of a rabbit.
You have to understand: Our family was like raw-meat kibble for these oh-so-friendly, super-awesome, totally polite, not-at-all-invasive paparazzi. You can just imagine how many plays on words the brainiacs at places like TMZ had come up with for our name so far.
Fallen Angels. No Angels Among Us
. And my personal favorite, the one that almost inspired me to set the kiosk at the corner of Fifty-Seventh and Seventh on fire—the huge headline the
Post
slapped over Matthew’s mug shot: ANGEL OF DEATH .
So when the pack of reporters spotted us, they attacked. What could possibly be more exciting for inquiring minds?
A reporter I had seen hanging around the Dakota was the first to speak. “Hugo. Hugo! Why did Matthew kill Tamara? What did he tell you?”
Hugo snapped his head around. “Matthew is innocent! Get it right.”
Not that I didn’t enjoy a good stampede, but I’d had enough. Harry, Hugo, and I managed to get through the heavy wooden door to the courtroom a split second before the bailiff slammed it closed. The slam echoed ominously.
We three younger Angel children stood at the back of the courtroom in one tight line as every single person in the gallery turned to stare. If
16
I woke up with my heart pounding
like I was being chased by a herd of blank-eyed, gaping-mouthed walking dead. I’d had a bad dream, but of what? Dead girls? Snakes? The white rooms at Fern Haven?
As I clutched my blanket to my sides, I remembered. It was about Matthew.
Matthew’s trial was starting today.
I rousted my siblings, and we chowed breakfast down while standing around the kitchen island. Then we pooled our resources and cabbed it downtown to the Manhattan Criminal Court at 100 Centre Street.
The streets were knotted with morning traffic. We spent long minutes sweating in the backseat of the cab, catchingevery single red light as commercial vehicles and herds of pedestrians blocked the roadways.
I was frustrated and mad at myself for oversleeping. What was with the new slumber-loving me? Was it another side effect of not taking my parents’ drugs? And why today of all days? Philippe had warned me that if we were late, we would be barred from the courtroom until the lunch recess, and that just wasn’t acceptable. I wanted Matthew to see that we were there to support him.
Our cab did the stop-and-go thing for several more minutes, and I thought Hugo might burst with impatience. When we were finally within walking distance of Centre Street, Harry paid the fare, and we leapt from the cab.
Together we ran toward the biggest building around. The courthouse was an imposing seventeen stories high, faced with granite and limestone, topped with an Art Deco ziggurat crown. It took up a full New York City block.
We zipped between the large, free-standing columns guarding the entrance and entered the swarming marble lobby, where we were funneled into a security line. A man with a wand checked us for weapons, and then we charged toward the elevator banks. As we crammed ourselves inside with a dozen others, Hugo pushed the button for the ninth floor.
I tried to gather strength from the proximity of mybrothers, but still, my newly awakened emotions were roiling. My feet tapped impatiently beneath me while I watched the numbers light up over the door in what felt like slow motion.
Today New York City’s star prosecutor, Nadine Raphael, would give her opening statement, and then our family friend and attorney, Philippe Montaigne, would give his. Phil was a good lawyer and our family has trusted him for years, but criminal defense was not his area of expertise. Given our current financial constraints, we decided he was our best bet. But Nadine Raphael, on the other hand, was a Harvard-trained viper.
The elevator doors opened into a hallway that was jam-packed with lawyers and court workers by the hundreds. There was also a shifting phalanx of reporters jostling for a lead like a pack of hounds on the scent of a rabbit.
You have to understand: Our family was like raw-meat kibble for these oh-so-friendly, super-awesome, totally polite, not-at-all-invasive paparazzi. You can just imagine how many plays on words the brainiacs at places like TMZ had come up with for our name so far.
Fallen Angels. No Angels Among Us
. And my personal favorite, the one that almost inspired me to set the kiosk at the corner of Fifty-Seventh and Seventh on fire—the huge headline the
Post
slapped over Matthew’s mug shot: ANGEL OF DEATH .
So when the pack of reporters spotted us, they attacked. What could possibly be more exciting for inquiring minds?
A reporter I had seen hanging around the Dakota was the first to speak. “Hugo. Hugo! Why did Matthew kill Tamara? What did he tell you?”
Hugo snapped his head around. “Matthew is innocent! Get it right.”
Not that I didn’t enjoy a good stampede, but I’d had enough. Harry, Hugo, and I managed to get through the heavy wooden door to the courtroom a split second before the bailiff slammed it closed. The slam echoed ominously.
We three younger Angel children stood at the back of the courtroom in one tight line as every single person in the gallery turned to stare. If
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