Chapter 4 - MY OWN LAWYER
Her name was Priya Nand.
She represented restaurant workers, assault victims, and people who discovered too late that being a witness could become a second job.
I liked her within eight minutes.
“You are not part of Marco Castellano’s defense team.”
“I know.”
“Say it.”
I stared.
“I am not part of Marco Castellano’s defense team.”
“Good.”
“And his attorney does not represent you.”
“I know.”
“Say that too.”
I did.
Good.
Priya reviewed police requests.
Vincent’s subpoena.
Workers’ comp.
My possible civil claim against the shooter and conspirators.
Not Marco automatically.
Good.
Then she asked:
“Do you want to sue Vincent?”
I thought.
“Maybe.”
“Do you want to sue Golden Rose?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“They didn’t shoot me.”
“Liability can be broader than direct acts.”
Good lawyer.
We reviewed security.
Private room.
Known high-risk customer.
Window exposure.
No ballistic glass.
Could restaurant foresee assassination?
Maybe not specific.
No clear duty to turn dining room into bunker.
Good.
Workers’ comp handled employment injury.
Separate negligence claim uncertain.
I did not want to attack employer without basis.
Fine.
Then Marco.
Could I claim against Castellano Security because Vincent used company access to facilitate plot?
Potentially.
But complicated.
Priya preserved claims.
Good.
No rush.
Then order pad.
Vincent’s defense wanted every page from prior months.
Why?
To show shorthand inconsistencies.
Priya narrowed.
Only relevant time window.
Privacy of other diners.
Good.
Court agreed partly.
Three weeks of pads.
I had two prior pads in my kitchen junk drawer.
I kept them because I used them to check tips and resolve the occasional seat dispute.
Why keep?
Taxes and tip disputes.
Good.
Priya turned them over through proper process.
No editing.
One page helped defense.
Interesting.
A week before shooting I had written:
VF S4
But Vincent had not sat in seat four all evening.
Why?
Because my notation sometimes meant requested seat, not final seat.
There.
Good.
Evidence imperfect.
Defense used it.
Fair.
But shooting-night note included:
move MC to S4 / window.
More explicit.
Good.
Other server testimony corroborated.
Fine.
Then forensic handwriting? Not needed.
My pad was real but not magical.
Good.
At preliminary hearing, I testified.
First time seeing Vincent since shooting.
He looked smaller.
No gray suit.
Jail clothes.
He stared.
I did not.
Prosecutor asked about seat change.
Blind.
Gray-coated man.
Push.
Shot.
Pain.
Fine.
Defense asked:
“Ms. Ward, your notes are not official restaurant records, correct?”
“Correct.”
“You use abbreviations only you understand?”
“Mostly.”
“You make mistakes?”
“Yes.”
Good.
“On March tenth, you wrote Mr. Ferraro at seat four when video shows him at seat six.”
“Yes.”
“Then your notation can be wrong.”
“Yes.”
There.
No defensiveness.
Then:
“So when you wrote that he moved Mr. Castellano to seat four, you may have been wrong.”
“No.”
“How can you know?”
“Because I remember him asking.”
Good.
“Memory can be wrong too.”
“Yes.”
Good.
No witness certainty theater.
Then prosecutor showed Alisha’s testimony.
Video showing chair movement.
Fine.
Evidence combines.
Good.
After hearing, judge found probable cause.
Case continued.
No victory.
Good.
Outside courthouse, Marco stood with his own lawyer.
I almost walked past.
He said:
“Tessa.”
I stopped.
“How did it go?”
“You have lawyers.”
“So do you.”
Good.
“My testimony went.”
He smiled slightly.
Then:
“Can I buy you lunch?”
“No.”
Immediate.
He nodded.
Good.
Not yet.
Then Priya pulled me aside.
“Do you want him talking to you during an active case?”
I thought.
“Not about case.”
“Then put that in writing.”
Good.
We did.
One email to Marco’s attorney:
Ms. Ward requests no discussion of pending criminal matters outside counsel or law enforcement. Social contact, if any, is her decision and does not imply cooperation.
Good.
Clinical.
Perfect.
Marco replied through counsel:
Understood.
No drama.
Then federal news.
Castellano companies received subpoenas.
Not about Vincent’s attempted murder only.
Older contracts.
Waste hauling.
Private security.
Trucking.
Bid coordination.
There.
Marco’s world.
Press exploded.
The shooter story became background.
MOB BOSS SURVIVES HIT AS FEDERAL PROBE WIDENS.
I hated “mob boss.”
Not because inaccurate.
Because it turned everything into genre.
I had been shot.
That felt less cinematic from inside.
Good.
Golden Rose reopened table fourteen after replacing window.
For weeks, nobody sat there.
Then ordinary customers did.
Good.
The restaurant offered me a return date.
I tried.
Week seven.
One lunch shift.
No private room.
Fine.
My hand shook carrying plates.
Not because weight.
Because glass breaking sounded like gunfire.
I dropped a fork.
Customer complained.
I went to bathroom and cried.
Good.
Trauma.
Not magic resilience.
My manager, Elena Ruiz, found me.
“You don’t have to finish.”
“I need hours.”
“We can move you to host stand temporarily.”
Same wage?
Less tips.
Bad.
She said:
“We’ll use transitional-duty wage supplement through workers’ comp.”
Good.
System.
I accepted.
At host stand, I could see street.
Bad.
So we moved podium angle.
Simple.
Good.
I worked.
Slow.
Then Marco arrived one afternoon.
Not for dinner.
He had a meeting with owner.
I froze.
He saw.
Stopped.
“Should I leave?”
Interesting.
I thought.
“No.”
Good.
“My reaction is mine.”
He nodded.
He waited in lobby.
No private dining room.
Fine.
When leaving, he asked:
“Coffee?”
I looked at Priya’s email in my head.
Social contact allowed.
My decision.
“Ten minutes.”
Good.
We stood at coffee bar.
Not hidden.
He paid for his.
I paid for mine.
Good.
Then:
“Federal agents interviewed me.”
I raised hand.
“No case talk.”
“Right.”
He stopped.
Good.
“What can we talk about?”
I almost laughed.
“Normal things.”
He looked suspicious.
“Such as?”
“Movies.”
“I don’t go.”
“Music.”
“Old.”
“Food.”
“Occupationally dangerous.”
I laughed.
Good.
Then:
“Do you have hobbies?”
Marco Castellano looked genuinely offended.
“No.”
“That is tragic.”
Good.
Ten minutes.
Ended.
No romance.
Still.
Then one week later, I found a small envelope at host stand.
I panicked.
Manager said:
“From payroll.”
Inside:
Back tip adjustment.
Forty-three dollars from the shooting night because pooled tips had been incorrectly excluded while I was hospitalized.
I laughed.
Forty-three dollars.
Evidence of ordinary systems working.
Good.
I deposited it.
No crown.
No promise.
Forty-three dollars mattered more.
Priya also taught me something no one had explained before.
Being a witness did not mean surrendering my entire life to discovery.
Vincent’s lawyers asked for my social media.
My therapy records.
Employment evaluations.
Why?
To test memory, damages, bias.
Some requests had legal basis.
Some were fishing.
Priya fought the broad ones.
Good.
The judge limited therapy disclosure to narrowly relevant material if I later claimed specific psychological damages in civil court.
That was my choice.
Not automatic.
Good.
I decided not to make every private grief part of the case.
My mother’s death had nothing to do with Vincent.
Owen’s divorce history had nothing to do with Vincent.
My old anxiety about money had some relevance to lost wages, not to whether Vincent moved a chair.
Specific.
That distinction gave me back a little control.
Then came the first deposition.
Not criminal trial.
Civil preservation.
Vincent’s lawyer asked:
“Ms. Ward, do you believe Mr. Castellano is a good man?”
Priya objected.
Relevance.
Good.
The lawyer rephrased.
“Do you feel loyalty toward him?”
I thought.
“I feel gratitude that he helped stop my bleeding.”
True.
“I also know he has admitted crimes.”
There.
No clean category.
The lawyer looked annoyed.
Good.
“Do you want to protect him?”
“No.”
“Do you care what happens to him?”
I paused.
“Yes.”
There.
Human.
Not bias automatically.
Priya later said:
“Truth is allowed to be inconvenient.”
Good.
I wrote that down.
Of course I did.
On a new pad.
Not yellow.
Legal pad.
Cheap.
Some habits survive bullets.
Returning to the Golden Rose also taught me how much a workplace can either help trauma or make it worse.
Elena Ruiz did not tell everyone my diagnosis.
Good.
She told managers only what they needed:
No surprise glass-breaking demonstrations near me.
No assigning me to table fourteen unless I volunteered.
Allow short breaks after acute startle response without disciplinary points during the transitional period.
That was it.
Specific.
Temporary.
No treating me like porcelain.
Good.
One bartender tried to be kind by warning me every time he opened sparkling wine.
That made it worse.
I asked him to stop.
He looked hurt.
Then:
“Okay.”
Good.
People can care badly.
Correction matters more than intention.
Another server asked if I wanted everyone to stop talking about the shooting.
“No.”
Because silence can make a thing bigger too.
I wanted normal conversation if I brought it up.
No questions if I didn’t.
Simple.
Hard.
Good.
The restaurant also offered an employee-assistance therapist who had no Castellano affiliation.
Important.
I used three sessions.
Then switched to my own therapist through insurance.
My choice.
Good.
Recovery was not one dramatic breakthrough.
It was sleeping four hours instead of two.
Carrying one tray.
Then two.
Hearing a dropped glass and needing only five minutes in the back hallway instead of twenty.
Progress is boring.
Useful.
By the time I testified at the preliminary hearing, I could sit with my back to a window if I chose.
May you like
Not always.
Enough.
