Chapter 4: The Subpoena in the Aisles
The marble hallway of the county courthouse smelled of floor wax and damp winter coats. Outside Courtroom 3B, the bench was lined with people whose lives were falling apart in triplicate, but Richard’s legal team stood out like a corporate takeover in a church basement. Thorne was whispering instructions to a junior associate, while Richard sat near the front, checking his gold-plated watch every thirty seconds.
Then the heavy oak doors swung open, and Claire walked in alone.
She wasn't wearing her green dress today; she wore a simple, faded brown trench coat with no makeup, her dark hair pulled back into a messy knot. She looked ten years older than her thirty-eight years. When she saw me sitting on the wooden bench with Lily’s favorite green-eyed stuffed rabbit in my lap, she stopped dead.
“Mom,” Claire whispered, her voice trembling as she walked over. “They served me a subpoena at the grocery store this morning. Richard... Richard told the process server I was an uncooperative witness.”
“He’s trying to isolate you, Claire,” I said, standing up and taking her cold hand. “The judge is inside right now. Ms. Hayes is submitting the child welfare report into the record. If you go in there and tell the truth about what happened in that house—about the rules he made, the locked doors, the nights Lily spent screaming in the dark—we can break this cycle today.”
Claire looked toward where Richard was sitting. Her husband didn't look at her with anger; he looked at her with a flat, clinical stare of pure expectation—the look he used when a subordinate failed to meet a quota.
“He said if I testify against him, he’ll take the trust fund,” Claire whispered, tears finally spilling over her lashes. “He said I’ll be left with nothing on the street.”
“You have us,” I said, holding her shoulders until she had to look at me. “And you have your daughter’s future.”
May you like
Before Claire could answer, the bailiff stepped out of the courtroom, calling our names. Thorne stood up, smoothing his jacket, while Richard flashed my daughter a cold, warning look. As we filed through the double doors, Judge Harrison adjusted his glasses behind the high oak bench, looked down at the thick manila folder marked Vance v. Vance & State, and banged his gavel once.
“Let’s review the emergency protective order,” the judge said, his voice echoing in the quiet room. “Starting with the child welfare exhibits.”
