Chapter 3 - THE FAMILY ATTORNEY
The county courthouse was a three-story brick building that sat in the center of the town square, surrounded by old oak trees and benches where old men sat in the mornings to watch the traffic. At six in the evening on a Saturday, the building was dark, save for the glass-walled annex that housed the magistrate’s booking office.
I walked through the metal detector, my identification badge from the bar association held flat in my palm. The deputy at the desk—a young man named Miller who had seen me in court fifty times—didn't ask me to empty my pockets. He just looked at my face, then at my clothes, and quickly pressed the buzzer to let me through to the secure corridor.
In the small, fluorescent-lit waiting room outside the magistrate’s office, my mother was sitting on a plastic bench.
She had not changed her clothes. She still wore the pale yellow silk dress she had chosen for the birthday party, but the hem was now dusty from the jail house floor, and her perfect pearl earrings seemed too large for her hollow, drawn face. Beside her sat Harold Vance, the family’s longtime civil attorney, his leather briefcase resting on his knees like a shield.
When my mother saw me, she didn't stand up. Her eyes went to the blood on my pants, her mouth curling into an expression of profound disgust.
“You’ve always wanted to destroy this family, Rebecca,” she said, her voice a sharp, venomous hiss that carried in the quiet hallway. “From the day you left for that school in Atlanta, you’ve looked down on us. You’ve looked down on your father, on the way we live, on the way we raise our children. And now you’re using your own daughter’s clumsiness to put your father in a cage.”
I walked over to where she sat and stopped three feet away. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to.
“She didn't slip, Mother,” I said, my voice dropping into that quiet, rhythmic pace I used when presenting a closing argument to a jury. “She was struck with a three-inch brass buckle because she was three years old and wanted a soda. And you stood over her while she was bleeding and told me she deserved it.”
“She was being disrespectful!” Patricia cried, her hands clenching into small, tight fists on her lap. “Gerald built everything we have. He built the house you grew up in. He paid for the clothes on your back. If he wants to discipline his grandchild in his own home, that is his right as the patriarch of this family!”
“There is no patriarch’s right to felony child abuse in the state of Georgia, Mother,” I said.
I turned my eyes to Harold Vance. The old attorney looked down at his leather case, refusing to meet my gaze. He knew the law. He had spent his career writing land deeds and resolving boundary disputes; he had no business in a criminal court, and he knew it.
“Harold,” I said, my voice cold. “If you file that emergency bond petition before the state’s attorney arrives with the formal warrant, I will personally file an ethics complaint with the state bar for conflict of interest. You’ve represented Gerald’s construction company for thirty years; you cannot represent him in a criminal matter where the victim is a minor child of a family member you’ve also represented.”
Harold’s face turned a dull, spotted red. “Rebecca, let's be reasonable. This is a family tragedy. We can resolve this with a consent agreement. Gerald will go to anger management. He’ll agree to stay away from the girl until she’s older—”
“No,” I said. “There will be no agreements. There will be no mediation. In exactly twelve minutes, the assistant state attorney is going to walk through those doors with a non-bailable warrant signed by a state supreme court justice. If you are still in this room trying to use your friendship with Judge Miller to get Gerald out, I will ensure the local media receives the cell phone video of the assault before the ten o'clock news.”
Patricia gasped, her hand flying to her throat. “You wouldn't dare. The family name... your father’s business...”
“I don't care about the business, Mother,” I said, leaning down until my face was inches from hers. “And I don't care about your name. The only name that matters to me right now is Lily Hutchinson.”
The heavy glass doors of the annex buzzed, and a young woman in a sharp gray pantsuit walked in, carrying a thick blue folder with the seal of the State of Georgia on the cover.
May you like
She looked at me, then at Harold, and smiled—a cold, professional expression that told me she had already watched Mrs. Gable’s video.
The fight for Gerald’s freedom was over before it had even begun.
