Chapter 5 - THE STRATEGIC RETALIATION
My father’s bail hearing was set for Tuesday morning.
By Monday afternoon, the story had already broken in the local papers. The headline on the Chatham County Herald website was simple but devastating: Local Construction Executive Arrested for Felony Child Abuse at 60th Birthday Party.
They had used his official business portrait—the one where he was smiling in a hard hat in front of a new office building—beside a small, grainy screenshot from Mrs. Gable’s video showing the belt raised in his right hand.
My brother Travis called my cell phone seventeen times before I finally answered.
“What the hell are you doing, Rebecca?” his voice was a raw, panicked shriek. “Dad’s business has lost two major municipal contracts since this morning. The county is reviewing the permits for our new commercial site on Highway 20. You’re destroying thirty years of work over a family argument!”
“It wasn't an argument, Travis,” I said, sitting at my kitchen table with a cup of black coffee that had gone cold two hours ago. “It was a crime. And you helped cover it up.”
“I didn't do anything!” he yelled. “I was just trying to keep the neighbors from gossiping! You know how Dad is. He’s got a temper, sure, but he’s sixty years old. He’s not going to survive a state prison, Becky. If he goes in there, he’s never coming out.”
“Then he should have thought about that before he unbuckled his belt in front of my daughter,” I said.
“You’re a monster,” Travis hissed, his voice dropping into a low, spitting growl that sounded exactly like our father’s. “You think you’re so much better than us because of your fancy degree and your big city husband. But you’re still a Hutchinson. You’ve got his blood in you, Becky. You’re just as cruel as he is.”
“No, Travis,” I said, looking out the window at the small swing set James had built for Lily in our backyard. “I’m not cruel. I’m just lawful. There’s a difference.”
I hung up before he could answer.
The doorbell rang. I stood up, my joints stiff, and walked to the front door.
A young man in a dark blue uniform stood on the porch, holding a large manila envelope. He didn't look at my face; he just handed me the packet and a small electronic terminal for a signature.
“Service for Rebecca Hutchinson,” he said.
I signed the screen, took the envelope, and walked back to the kitchen table.
Inside was a formal petition for emergency custody of Lily, filed by Patricia and Gerald Hutchinson, represented by a high-profile family law firm out of Atlanta. The petition claimed that James and I were "unstable," that we had exposed Lily to "extreme emotional distress" by dragging her into a public dispute, and that my father’s "disciplinary action" was an attempt to correct "chronic behavioral delinquency" that we had failed to address.
They were trying to take my daughter.
May you like
I looked at the signature on the bottom of the petition. It was signed by Richard Sterling, one of the most expensive family law attorneys in the state.
My mother had spent her entire personal savings account to hire him. She wasn't trying to save Gerald anymore; she was trying to destroy me.
