“Mr. Cress,” Owen said quietly. “You testified that this building is your valuable asset. Can you tell the court the last time you installed a working lock on the basement door?”
The case that found him, on a rain-slicked Tuesday in November, was a whisper of a thing. A teenager named Miguel Reyes had been picked up for a B&E at a shuttered textile mill. Open-and-shut, the DA said. Caught inside, crowbar in hand, duct tape on his fingers. owen brandano
So he became a public defender. Sal didn’t understand. “You defend thieves,” he’d grumble, scraping gravel from his boots on Owen’s welcome mat. “Brandanos build things. We don’t clean up after the people who tear them down.” Can you tell the court the last time
“Brandano,” they’d say, squinting. “Any relation to the Brandanos?” Caught inside, crowbar in hand, duct tape on his fingers
Harlan Cress took the stand. He was polished, confident, and lying through his perfect teeth. No, he said, he had no idea the mill was a haven for squatters. Yes, he had plans to redevelop. Eventually.
The silence that followed was thick as tar.