He sighs through his nose, his eyes twitching, and finally, he says, “Addie’s at the hospital, and Drew’s at baseball camp.”
I breathe. “What do you want?”
“I want you to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
The pause sits between us, and as Gordon contemplates my newfound defiance, I wonder how I ever thought I loved this man. So much hate fills me, I’m certain, at this moment, my soul is black. Intellectually, I understand he’s handsome—well proportioned, strong—but I abhor him, and I hate that Addie shares his smile and that Drew has his eyes. I don’t want them to have any part of him.
Finally, he leans forward, interrupting my hatred, and says, “You need to get your job back. Addie’s still sick, so I can’t go back to work, so you need to start working again.” Unsaid is the fact that he was suspended from his job because he beat the crap out of Claudia.
“You want me to support you?” I say, incredulous.
“To support the family.”
I can only stare blankly in response.
“It’s the way it is. We have two kids…I mean, three kids. So, like it or not, we’re in this together.”
“Together? As in you and I?” I point back and forth between us. If it wasn’t so completely insane, I’d laugh, but because he’s looking at me with such sincerity, there’s absolutely nothing funny whatsoever about this conversation.
“For the kids’ sake and the baby’s sake, yes. Somehow we need to make this work.”
Silence lingers, until finally, I break it. “I’m not going to support you.”
I stand, and he stands with me. Then he smiles, his teeth white as a Crest commercial. His arm slides around my waist, and his lips press over my ear, his words vibrating against my skin. “You’ll never see them again. I’ll take them and…You. Will.
Never
. See. Them. Again.”
He sits back down, unwraps his burrito, and begins to eat.
My breath knots in the back of my throat, and every inch of my skin breaks out in a cold sweat.
I stare at the horizon beyond the parking lot until my eyes blur, but I don’t take a step. He’s telling the truth. All he has left is the kids. Nothing holds him here—his job, his reputation, his money. I destroyed these. Once Addie is better, he will leave, and they’ll be gone.
I want to tell him hell will freeze over before I give him a dime, that I’m not afraid; instead, I sit back down and meet his icy gaze.
“Eat,” he says.
Dutifully I unwrap my gyro and choke down a bite.
When I’ve swallowed, I speak. “I’ll talk to Harris, but he’s not going to hire me back if I’m facing trial for kidnapping and am possibly going to be sent to prison.”
This morning I met with Harris, and he practically begged me to come back, could have cared less about where I was or what I’d done, his only concern how soon I could return. He even offered me a raise. I negotiated for more vacation time and working flex hours from home in lieu of the money so I can work my job around the kids’ schedules, assuming I get the kids back.
But Gordon doesn’t know this, and money is definitely the one advantage I’ve always had over him, and I plan on using it. I could care less about money. Flying Goat changed me. I can live happily on eighty-six dollars a day. I can’t live without my kids. And in order to get the kids back, I need him to drop the charges against me.
“I’ll talk to the DA about dropping the charges.”
I nod and take another bite, chewing slowly. “Then I’ll talk to Harris.”
“Jill, at some point, you’re going to forgive me.”
My head shakes.
He stiffens almost imperceptibly, then slumps back to perfect amity and sighs a sound of mild disappointment. “You know you will. You always do.”
I look across at him looking so certain. Is it possible he really believes this is like the other times?
“You killed a man.”
His brow furrows. “I what?”
“You killed Jeffrey.”
“You think I killed someone? Who’s Jeffrey?”
I’m surprised how calm my voice is and how perplexed Gordon is, and for a flicker, I wonder if I could be wrong, if I could have jumped to the wrong conclusion—if it’s possible Jeffrey was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and the weapon just happened to be a shotgun.
“What are you talking about?” he asks.
“Jeffrey, my client, my friend. You killed him.”
He flinches, but only slightly, then reveals the truth. “Jill, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” My name pierces like a bullet and erases all doubt. He’s lying. He killed him.
“Jill, I know you’ve been under a lot of stress, but I didn’t kill anyone. That idiot called me, and we had a conversation and I told him to butt out, but that was it.”
I stare blankly.
“You honestly think I killed him?”
I nod.
“Jill, that’s insane. I was pissed off, but I’m not a murderer.”
After a full minute with no response, he continues. “I’m concerned about the baby.” He looks at my stomach. “We need to put this all behind us and do what’s best for the kids.”
My eyes squint as I try to process his words.
“You need to come home,” he clarifies.
I
’ve been working for two weeks, and without the burden of having to rush home to a husband, a house, and kids, I’m finding the job remarkably easier. I stay until the work is done, answer e-mails sitting on my bed at night, and even have time to take long walks and work in the garden.
Each day, Connor and I review our strategy for challenging Gordon for custody. Connor is not a divorce attorney, but this is hardly a standard divorce, and he’s the only one I trust to handle this. He’s brilliant, and though I’ve not actually seen him in action, his reputation as a ruthless litigator was what got him the job with Harris.
Our strategy is the same as it was when he spoke to me at Las Brisas: destroy Gordon and redeem me—not an easy task.
True to Gregg’s word, the DUI charges have been dropped. Now all we are waiting on is for the kidnapping charges to be dismissed. Gordon spoke to the DA the day after we met for lunch.
Each day is impossibly long as I wait for the slow wheels of bureaucracy to spin.
A week ago, I gave Gordon half my first paycheck in exchange for a visit with Addie in the hospital and an afternoon with Drew.
“Morning, beautiful,” Connor says, poking his blond head into my office.
“What are you grinning about?”
He whips a paper out from behind his back. “You, my gorgeous, wonderful friend, have been exonerated. You are no longer being charged with kidnapping.”
“What?”
“It’s true. The charges have been dropped, and you cannot, will not, be charged again.”
We do an impromptu jig in the doorway that causes stares from everyone around us.
“Grab your purse,” he says.
“Where are we going?”
“The courthouse. We have one hour to file a petition for emergency custody change, unless, of course, you’d rather wait.”
I don’t even bother to close the door as I sprint past him and toward the parking lot.
T
he emergency custody hearing is set for tomorrow morning, and Gordon will be served his subpoena this afternoon. Connor assured me this was the only way, but I can’t help the feeling of dread that grows with each passing minute.
This is an ambush, and all my weapons are in place.
Gordon has no idea Mr. Rousseau is going to testify or that my mom and dad will be there and that my mom’s hoping to tell the story about Martha’s butchering.
Connor says our strategy is twofold. First we’ll destroy Gordon, then we’ll prove I can provide a stable environment for the kids. Michelle has agreed to be a character witness if I need her, and Harris has provided an affidavit affirming my secure position at the firm and my economic stability.
I’ve tried to plan it right. Bob’s taken Drew and Max camping in the mountains, so Drew’s safe and out of reach. Gordon only has Addie tonight, and I’m counting on the fact that he won’t leave without both of them.
All my ducks are in a row, but as soon as Gordon is served, there’s no predicting what he’ll do. My parents and I are staying at a hotel tonight, and Connor is going to stay at Pete’s.
The bear is about to be poked.
G
ordon arrives at court looking rabid. He carries Addie on his hip like she weighs no more than a sack of flour. She wears her Cinderella nightie and has on only one slipper. Her thumb is in her mouth, and she looks tired and ill, which she is. Her chemo treatment was only three days ago.
I start to stand to move toward her, but Connor’s hand on my arm settles me back into my chair.
Gordon smashes through the swinging gate that separates the audience from the participants and sits down with Addie in his arms. He doesn’t have a lawyer with him, and I wonder if he plans to represent himself.
My side of the courtroom is half-full, his is empty. Gordon doesn’t seem to notice. The only person he sees is me, his eyes savage.
“It’s okay,” Connor whispers. “You’re safe.”
For how long? This moment, the next five, a day, a week?
“All rise, the honorable Judge Morrison presiding.”
I stand awkwardly with my extra load, and Gordon does the same, Addie listlessly sucking her thumb against his shoulder.
The judge is a birdlike woman with a lazy eye and teeth that slant to the right, but she has an intelligent face, and I’m relieved to see she’s not at all taken by Gordon as a lot of women are.
“Be seated.”
Judge Morrison whispers something to the bailiff, and the bailiff walks to Gordon’s table.
“Is there someone who can watch the child for you?” the man asks with a southern drawl and soft voice that belies his enormous linebacker size.
My mom speaks up from behind Gordon, who has started to shake his head.
“Gordon, give her to me. I’ll watch her.”
I feel Gordon wanting to say no, but also calculating the risk of such a move. My mom looks exactly like what she is—a doting grandmother, concerned for her granddaughter.
Everyone’s eyes watch.
To my astonishment, Gordon stands, and with a gentle kiss to Addie’s cheek and a pained look on his face I feel to my bones, hands Addie over the balustrade. Addie melts into my mom’s softness as my mom coos softly in her ear and pats her bald head.
“Your Honor,” my mom says, “do you mind if I take her home to rest?”
“You are?”
“The grandmother.”
The judge rifles through some sheets on the bench. “Any objection, Mr. Kane?”
Again Gordon’s cornered, and I catch a glimpse of Connor beside me. His smile is that of a Cheshire cat, and I realize this was orchestrated. If Gordon says no, he’ll look uncaring, and if he says yes, he concedes my mom’s not a threat, making my parents the ideal backup plan for custody if Gordon and I both destroy each other and the judge doesn’t want either of us to raise our children. Insisting Connor represent me was a good choice, even if divorce isn’t his specialty.
“No, Your Honor, that would be fine.”
“Good. Then let’s proceed.”
I hear my mom’s thighs swishing as she walks away with Addie.
“Where’s Mr. Rousseau?” I whisper.
Connor looks behind us. “Where’s Frank?” he repeats to my dad, who’s directly behind us, and I hear my dad stand and hobble away.
Connor presents a compelling opening statement outlining the main points of our assertion that sole custody should be granted to me and that a restraining order needs to be issued against Gordon. He talks almost twenty minutes, and even to me, my resume as a professional woman is impressive, overshadowing my reputation as a mom, which is sparse. He follows with his argument against Gordon and the reason we’ve petitioned for a restraining order. Connor does a brilliant job portraying Gordon as the Jekyll and Hyde husband he is, and even though the story is mine, I’m caught up in his narrative. The problem is, no matter how well Connor delivers the argument, our case rests solely on the abuse. In every other respect, Gordon’s been an outstanding father. And since this is a he says/she says hearing, the only objective evidence we have that proves Gordon’s not who he pretends to be is his abuse of Claudia.
I feel Gordon’s blood pressure rising as Connor talks, and I’m amazed by his restraint. He sits motionless, silently seething at his table.
When it’s his turn, he nearly topples his chair as he leaps to his feet.
“Your Honor.” His voice is smooth, and only I know how violent he is at this moment. “The accusations against me are nothing but a bunch of lies, designed with the sole purpose of undermining my parental rights. Listen carefully and you will see there’s not a shred of evidence to support them. My ex-wife is unstable. She’s been hospitalized and medicated for her condition, and unfortunately refuses to accept that it’s not in the best interest of our children for them to be raised by her. Three months ago, she kidnapped them, and our daughter nearly died from her neglect. Listen to the facts, Your Honor, and you will see this petition for what it is, an unstable woman’s desperate attempt to win back her children, a right she justifiably lost because she’s not well.”
“He’s good,” Connor says under his breath beside me, and I want to cry.
Where’s Mr. Rousseau?
Connor calls me as the first witness.
He leads me through our marriage chronologically, hitting on the overall abuse, as well as a few specific episodes including the near-fatal choking. We decided against having Drew testify to what he saw that night. I’m unsure how much Drew witnessed, and it would be too easy for Gordon to discredit an eight-year-old’s testimony or argue that the ideas were planted in his impressionable young mind. Plus, I was scared to death to put Drew in that position, both for the damage it would do to him to testify against his father and the subsequent damage Gordon would do to him if we didn’t win.
So the only evidence of Gordon’s abuse against me is my own testimony and a few medical records that corroborate a chipped tooth, several cracked ribs, and a broken wrist that, at the time of care, I claimed were caused by mishaps.