I frowned and looked at Jonathan.
“You should go,” Sean said.
I whipped my head around to him. “No fucking way.”
“Why are you helping that sick bastard? Let us at him!” A female, late twenties with long, red hair, jabbed her finger in my direction.
Another asked the same question, then another.
Their attention was rapidly zoning in on me.
My heart rate quickened. I tried to control it the way I did when taking a shot. But it was hard, because the truth was I didn’t want to defend the piece of crap in the courtroom. I’d read the papers, seen the news. He was going to be found guilty—the evidence was indisputable.
“Freya,” Ricardo said, concern in his voice. “Maybe we should get you out of here.”
“No! Absolutely not.”
I stood my ground as my shield was jostled so hard I struggled to keep a hold of it.
“Bitch!” Another hard shove and a kick to my lower leg.
I’d had no intention of drawing a weapon but at that point I pulled my pistol from the holster on my leg.
If they’re going to get physical, what choice do I have?
“You should be in there on trial with him.” A mean-looking older woman yelled at me. “Bitch.”
What the ever-loving fuck!
“Stop!” I shouted, stepping forward and lowering my shield. “Just stop and listen to yourselves.”
“Freya,” Ricardo said as he and Jonathan flanked me. “What are—?”
“You’re protecting the motherfucker who rapes and degrades women yet pretends to be an upstanding member of office.” The older woman was in my face again.
“I hear you,” I said, holding up my hand—the hand with the gun. “I hear all of you, now listen to me.”
There was no response. If anything, the intensity of noise elevated.
I fired off a single round. Harmlessly. Into the air.
Silence.
A small cloud of plaster fluttered down.
A sea of horrified faces turned my way, including the police officers by the doors who’d been trying unsuccessfully to persuade angry women back through them.
“Now that I have your attention,” I shouted and flicked up my visor. “Perhaps we can all calm down and put a lid on the hysteria.”
“Hysteria? No, it’s anger.”
“And I get that.” I re-sheathed my gun and held my palm towards the woman who had spoken. “I am angry too.”
“You’re protecting him. You believe he’s innocent.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I don’t believe he’s innocent. But the truth is what I believe about his guilt or innocence doesn’t matter any more than a speck of dust does.” I wiped some white debris from my nose. “What matters is our belief in the justice system our good country has had faith in for over a century. That is what’s important.”
“What’s important is that man sits in an electric chair.”