“Don’t I get a trial?”
“Nope.”
He stepped closer, pointing a finger at me. “I know the law. You can’t do nothing to me without a trial.”
My voice was sharp. “You gonna tell me about the law? This is an ex parte protection order. If you wish, you can request a hearing at a later date. It’s all set out on the form. I recommend that you read it thoroughly as soon as I give you your copy.”
He turned, gave his battered fiancée the evil eye. Then he turned that eye on me again. “So I’m supposed to read the paper? Don’t get to say anything in my own defense?”
“That’s right.” In my no-bullshit tone.
That man was itching for a fight, I could tell. And he couldn’t punch Ms. King, not in court. So he wanted to fight with me. He raised his voice—way too loud for a court of law. More like a volume he’d use in a barroom.
He said, “So you better explain this to me. How am I supposed to not have any contact with her when we live in the same house?”
I stood up. Because I was getting that urge, the one that frequently pushes me out of my chair and down from the bench. “Mr. Stuart, I have ordered that you be removed and excluded from the residence.”
He flat-out shouted, “I own that house! It’s mine!”
I was losing my cool. I could feel it slipping. My own voice made an echo in the big courtroom when I replied. “It doesn’t matter who owns it. You are removed from the residence until I order otherwise.”
“You can’t do that!”
“I already did!”
I was getting hot. In the figurative sense, my temper was getting out of hand. But the anger heated me up, making me perspire under the black robe. A trickle of sweat made a path between my shoulder blades and down my back.
He was hot, too. “You can throw that piece of paper in the goddamn trash! I’m not afraid of you!”
“You should be! If you’re not afraid, you’re a damn fool!”
Ross, the bailiff, had taken a position between the angry defendant and the battered plaintiff. There was nothing to be gained by my entering the fray. But I was itching to climb down those steps and get into his face.
I almost went down there. Had to stop myself.
I grabbed the gavel instead. Pounded it three times before I pointed it directly at the defendant. “Violation of this order is a Class A misdemeanor. You’ll do a year in jail for that. I promise that you will serve every single day of that time. I don’t want you within three hundred feet of this woman or her home, or place of work, or the children or their school. I’m not just talking about punching and kicking, you understand. You are restrained from harassing her, stalking her, threatening or annoying her.”
At that juncture, he wouldn’t look at me. He had his head turned toward her, was scowling at his fiancée.
“You understand me?” I demanded. I wanted to hear him acknowledge it.
He lifted his chin. Didn’t answer, didn’t look my way. Kepteyes on his fiancée while she backed away, like she thought he’d punch her out again in a court of law.
As part of standard courtroom equipment, I have a microphone at the bench. But I don’t actually need one. I raised my voice to maximum volume. “Mr. Stuart! Do you hear me?”
I knew he did. They could hear me across the street.
He gave a sullen nod. Muttered an acknowledgment. It wasn’t until Luna made copies of the order and they were served to both parties that I collected myself.
Sat back down in my chair and surveyed the back of the courtroom. As I pulled out a fresh box of tissues and used one to dab at my neck, I observed that we had an audience.
The DA was there, with a blond-haired woman wearing a sharp business suit. She had her arm around the shoulders of a young Black girl. I knew that girl on sight: Nova Jones.
Thirteen-year-old Nova Jones was in my courtroom. And it appeared that I’d just scared her to death.
CHAPTER
32
