Chapter 13 - The Trial of the Syndicate
May brought the trial of the United States versus Patrick Sloane and Arthur Velez in the Dirksen Federal Building.
Roman didn't attend the first week of testimony. He spent his mornings walking Jack and Rosie to their neighborhood school—a normal school with bright yellow doors and a playground where children screamed and played without secret rules or hidden ledgers. He sat on the bleachers during their Saturday soccer matches, cheering louder than any father had a right to, completely unbothered by the fact that other parents whispered about the former logistics king who now brought juice boxes and orange slices in a cooler.
By the second week, however, Roman received a subpoena to testify regarding the corporate restructuring of the Sloane-Romano holding company.
He arrived at the federal courthouse wearing a dark charcoal suit, his hair neat, his French cuffs buttoned without a speck of dust or blood.
In the courtroom, Patrick Sloane sat at the defense table. The old syndicate boss looked smaller, his shoulders hunched beneath a cheap grey suit, his silver hair uncombed. Beside him, Arthur Velez sat staring blankly at his own fingernails, a broken man waiting to be sentenced to five years in a federal penitentiary in West Virginia.
When Roman took the witness stand, the gallery fell completely silent.
The prosecutor, a young assistant U.S. attorney named Miller, stepped up to the podium. “Mr. Romano, for the record, describe your relationship with the defendant, Patrick Sloane, prior to February of this year.”
Roman looked out over the courtroom—at the judge’s high mahogany bench, the rows of reporters typing furiously on laptops, and finally at Patrick Sloane, who glared up at him with eyes full of bitter, impotent hatred.
“It was an arrangement of convenience,” Roman said, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet room. “Based on mutual protection and shared assets.”
“And the proposed marriage between yourself and Patrick Sloane’s daughter, Camille?”
“It was a corporate merger,” Roman said calmly. “Designed to secure logistics routes across the Indiana state line.”
“Did that merger involve any provisions regarding your minor children?”
Roman paused. He thought of Rosie standing barefoot on the Persian rug, repeating I make everything hard. He thought of Jack standing like a soldier with his hands glued to his trouser seams, reciting If Dad sees weakness, he sends it away.
“No,” Roman said, his voice dropping into that low, heavy register that made the entire courtroom lean in. “The merger didn't involve my children. Because my children were never part of the assets. They were just collateral damage in a war fought by men who forgot what a home was for.”
A murmur rippled through the press gallery.
Patrick Sloane half-rose from his chair, his mouth opening to shout an objection, but his defense attorney yanked him back down by the sleeve of his jacket.
“No further questions, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said quietly.
May you like
When Roman stepped down from the witness stand and walked out of the courtroom, he didn't look back at Patrick Sloane, and he didn't look at the reporters shouting questions from behind the brass barricade.
He had a soccer game to catch at four o'clock, and Barnaby needed to be walked before sunset.
