Baden (Pittsburgh Titans 1)

Hearing the name of the man who attacked me causes a sizzle of anger to flow along my veins. Sophie’s hand trembles slightly, and I squeeze it.

The judge leans over to a young man to her left at a desk slightly lower in elevation, and he hands her a folder. She opens it, peruses it for a few minutes, and then gives her attention back to Ms. DuBose.

“All right… it looks like a plea deal has been worked out between the State and Mr. Camarino, and that he’d like to proceed with sentencing.”

“We have the two victims here for statements,” Ms. DuBose replies, glancing back at us. “Mr. Baden Oulett and Ms. Sophie Winters.”

At the mention of my name, the judge’s head whips up and her eyes search the courtroom until they land on me. My name is famous in hockey circles, not just for being a Vengeance goalie but because my attack and injuries made national news.

“Mr. Oulett is in Phoenix due to their game schedule, as he is the current goalie coach for the Pittsburgh Titans,” DuBose explains. “It was a convenient time for him to provide his statement.”

“That’s understandable,” Judge Dobrovsky says, her eyes flicking to Sophie, then back to me for a second before giving her regard back to the DA. “Has the defendant been brought from the jail?”

A man in a suit, who I assume is an attorney, steps forward and moves to the table beside the prosecutor’s. “Tim McCabe, Your Honor. I represent Mr. Camarino, and he’s ready.”

“Very well,” the judge says and nods toward the bailiff who then leaves.

It’s a tense few seconds as we wait for the deputy to return. When I get my first look at Henry Camarino, I’m shocked that I don’t feel much of anything. I had more of a reaction when his name was first called out, but now I just feel… numb.

This isn’t the man who cut and stabbed me, but the one who hit me in the head with the crowbar. Not that I actually saw him do it, but that’s what Detective Gilmore pieced together after talking to all the defendants once they decided to plead guilty.

I shift to glance at Sophie sitting to my left. Her head is bowed, eyes fixed on our hands clasped together and resting on her thigh.

Camarino shuffles in, legs shackled and clanking. He’s skinny with greasy hair and a pockmarked face.

He doesn’t look around but takes a seat beside his attorney and bows his head, same as Sophie. Apparently neither one of them wants much to do with this hearing.

But I’m ready to say my piece.

After some preliminary back-and-forth wherein the judge is presented with the original charges, the reduction on some, and the suggested range of sentencing, Angela DuBose turns and fixes her gaze on me. We had agreed first thing this morning that I would go before Sophie.

“Mr. Oulett,” she says, nodding toward the swinging gate. “Would you come up and take the stand to give your statement?”

Lifting Sophie’s hand, I press it to my lips for a soft kiss before setting it back on her lap. I stand and note all eyes in the courtroom are pinned on me. I suspect, had this hearing not happened so quickly, there would be reporters here. I’m grateful that’s not the case.

All eyes are on me as I walk sure-footed with the same grace I had before the attack.

All eyes except Camarino’s.

After pushing through the gate, I have to walk in front of the table where he sits with his attorney. The numbness recedes, and I’m furious his eyes are averted.

I stop before the table, and the room hums with tension. From the corner of my eye, I see Angela DuBose take a step toward me, so I get my words out fast.

They’re calm, measured, and in a low tone so as not to disrespect the sanctity of the court. “I hope you’ll at least have the decency to look at me when I’m speaking up there.” I point to the witness stand. “I appreciate you accepting responsibility and pleading guilty, but I think you at least owe it to me to listen to what I’ve been through.”

The man does nothing except perhaps hunch his shoulders more. His face is flushed, pinched, but he doesn’t appear angry.

I’m not going to get satisfaction in that respect, but before I can move to the witness stand, a woman’s voice carries from the back of the courtroom. “You look at him, Henry James Camarino. You give me respect by looking at him.”

Several people gasp, and my eyes search for the source of that voice.

In the back stands an old woman. Her hair is gray, her face lined with deep wrinkles and her expression tortured.

Perhaps his grandmother?

Whatever her relation, the man sits up straight and slowly lifts his head, finally meeting my eyes. He doesn’t look ashamed. He doesn’t look apologetic. But he doesn’t look angry either.