Dana’s attorney, a sharply dressed woman named Patricia Halloran who seemed to thrive in adversarial settings, rose immediately and said, “Your Honor, we believe this coordinated appearance is intended to intimidate both the court and my client,” emphasizing the word intimidate in a way that suggested it should be self-evident.
Assistant District Attorney Martin Feld, flipping through his notes, added, “Mr. Mercer has a documented history of substance abuse and prior disturbances, and the presence of an organized group affiliated with him raises legitimate concerns about pressure tactics.”
The bailiff addressed the men at the back. “You will remain silent and seated. Any disruption, and you will be removed.”
Each man nodded once, almost in unison, and remained exactly where he stood, hands relaxed at his sides, no visible sign of protest, which only deepened the murmur of suspicion among the spectators.
Lucas finally lifted his head, revealing eyes rimmed red not from anger but from a kind of exhaustion that comes from too many sleepless nights and too many rehearsed apologies, and he cleared his throat before speaking in a voice that sounded rough around the edges.
“Your Honor,” he said, “I asked them to come.”
A visible jolt passed through Dana’s posture, and Patricia Halloran shot him a look that combined disbelief with calculation.
“You invited this… display?” Halloran asked sharply.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lucas replied, not flinching.
Judge Kincaid held her pen midair. “For what purpose, Mr. Mercer?”
Before Lucas could answer, one of the men at the back—tall, broad-shouldered, with a streak of gray in his beard—took half a step forward and then stopped himself as the bailiff lifted a warning hand.
“Your Honor,” the man said evenly, “if I may—”
