Sweet Violet and a Time for Love by Leslie J. Sherrod

adjourn for lunch.” The judge pounded his gavel and the courtroom came alive, making the last few hours of quiet but brutal, repetitive testimony seem like a distant dream.
    You think you know what dreams are? Humph, you don’t even know what sleep is. You livin’ life with your eyes closed, thinking you’re awake. Sweet Violet’s raspy voice jarred my consciousness, her words to me as clear and as puzzling as they had been some weeks ago when we met in the War Memorial Plaza, the grassy area in front of city hall. We’d had several conversations like this over the months. My mind had been occupied with dissecting distant memories for most of the time I’d been up on the witness stand.
    â€œSienna, let’s grab lunch while we can.” Leon pulled me close to him as I pressed my way through the courtroom. Joe Koletsky, a young attorney who served as Alisa Billy’s assistant, did his best to try to shield me from the throng of reporters and gawkers with smartphone cameras who swamped me from every side.
    And Leon actually thought we were going to be able to eat in peace?
    If the killer had stopped at Sister Marta, or even the second victim, there would probably be far less interest in this case; but the last victim had been too high profile for the media not to notice. His picture had been plastered to every news story about the trial, much like his image had already been plastered to billboards and press releases in Baltimore over the decades. Add to these facts that I, a recent media darling after last year’s terror attack, was the key witness, and the current camera frenzy was inevitable.
    â€œI have a place for us to eat,” Leon whispered in my ear, as if reading my thoughts. “It’s quiet. We’ll be alone.”
    The three of us, Leon, Joe, and I, continued to press through the sea of reporters, microphones, and flashes, through the hallways of the courthouse, out the front entrance, and down the marble steps. I noted a car waiting at the bottom.
    I also noted Roman standing by a light post across the street. He stood out in the crowd as he was the only one standing still and the only one looking off in another direction. His hands were deep in his pockets and an Orioles baseball cap was pushed down low over his eyes.
    â€œWait.” I grabbed Leon’s wrist and he pulled his head closer to me. “I need to talk to Roman,” I whispered.
    â€œNo. It’s just going to upset you.”
    I felt his hand tug mine a little harder as we headed down the steps toward the waiting car.
    â€œLeon, wait.”
    â€œNo. Sienna. This day is trying enough. This isn’t the time. Roman is a grown man, twenty-one, old enough to make his own choices. You can’t change that. Can’t change his mind. Can’t change him. Even if you could, this is not the day to try. Let’s go get lunch. I made reservations.”
    We were at the car, a black sedan, and I recognized the driver. One of Leon’s old partners from when he served with the Baltimore police department, Mike Grant. They’d been hanging out more lately.
    â€œCome on, let’s get out of here.” Leon kept his hold on my hand firm as he opened the back door and gently nudged me, doing his best to get me out of the view of the swarm of cameras and reporters.
    I felt like I was in a dream.
    But my son was across the street.
    â€œI’m going to talk to Roman. Now.” I pushed Leon’s hand off of mine and then considered that I may have spoken too loudly. The last thing I needed was for the news outlets and social media platforms to get wind of my family business in the midst of this courtroom spectacle.
    â€œSienna.” Leon’s voice was barely a whisper, but might as well have been a yell.
    There was a time in my life that I never could imagine Leon yelling, but as of late, I’d known his yells too well.
    What’s happening to us?
    â€œHe is