adj. afraid to pursue what one loves
CHAPTER 18
MINJI
Most days,the courtroom feels like my natural habitat. Today, though, I’d trade it for a dentist’s chair. My body is a patchwork of aches—souvenirs from last night and this morning with Aaron. Sex with him was always mind-blowing and sometimes downright nasty. So, when Caleb assigns me a mediation hearing, my enthusiasm flatlines.
Now I’m hobbling a block to the courthouse in four-inch heels. Each step is a pointed reminder of my recent, deliciously bad decisions. Shifting my weight sends a jolt through a muscle that thought it had retired, until Aaron decided to turn me into human origami at sunrise. He offered me a ride, but I played it tough. “I can walk,” I said, channeling bravado while my body quietly begged for a hot bath.
I walk into the building, and Officer Perez, the cop by the metal detector, waves me through security with a sympathetic look.
“Rough morning?” he whispers, dropping his voice below the other guards’ threshold.
“You have no idea,” I mutter.
“I recommend a hot bath and two ibuprofens,” he advises, scanning my face for cracks.
“Three, minimum,” I counter, and we both almost smile.
Inside, my client is already waiting. Mrs. Boylan sits on a bench in her Ann Taylor suit—a full head taller than me in heels. But somehow, she still looks small and lost. Her hands shake as she holds her phone. The screen glows with a WhatsApp thread full of hearts and sad emojis. Mascara is smudged under her eyes, probably from crying.
I sit beside her and go full empathy mode. “How are we holding up?”
She blinks as if noticing me for the first time, then tries to compose herself. “I’m sorry. He’s just—he keeps posting pictures with our daughter on Instagram. Like he’s trying to prove something,” she stammers.
“He is,” I say, not unkind. “But the judge will see right through it.” I slide my yellow legal pad onto my knee and gesture for her phone. “Let’s see what the world’s worst co-parent is up to.”
I scroll through her ex-husband’s profile, which was set to private until two months ago. His latest post is a poorly lit selfie of him and his kid at Coney Island. The caption is passive-aggressive poetry: ‘No one can keep a real dad from being there for his princess.’ I feel a twinge of sympathy for Mrs. Boylan—her ex’s smile looks more haunted than happy.
“He always hated posting anything,” she sniffles, voice trembling. “Now it’s constant.”
“That’s because he’s prepping for mediation. Documenting ‘involvement with his child.’” I refrain from adding that this is textbook—she doesn’t need lawyerly cynicism right now. “Has he contacted you directly since Friday?”
She shakes her head. “He’s blocked my number. His mother did call though, said I’m breaking her heart,” she nearly whispers.
I scribble a note. Family pressure always appears in the soft underbelly. “If his mother calls again, hang up. Don’t respond to any DMs, even the ‘just checking in’ kind,” I instruct.
I let her take a moment to pull herself together. Even after years in this job, seeing clients struggle to stay composed is still hard for me. I don’t pretend I’m changing the world, but right now, I wish I could smash her ex’s phone and erase him from her life.
“If you want, I can sit next to you while you scroll. Sometimes it’s easier than being alone,” I offer. Though I wish she didn’t scroll. It’s only hurting her.
She only nods, scrolling through her phone as tears slip down her cheeks. The waiting room is a fluorescent purgatory. It casts everyone in the washed-out palette of a movie about heartbreak. I try to ignore it, zeroing in on my own aches—feet throbbing in these shoes, hips still humming from Aaron.
Mrs. Boylan’s fingers tremble as she zooms in furiously on a new post: her ex and his lawyer clink their to-go coffee cups together. The caption reads: ‘All smiles for the big day.’ I quickly take her phone away from her before she can melt down entirely. “He’s baiting you,” I reassure her as I hand the phone back. “I’ve seen a thousand of these mediations. They always try to act smiley and laid-back ahead of time, but the second we hit the table, he’ll be on the defensive.” It’s not entirely true, but she needs to believe it. So do I.
We sit in silence until the clerk calls us. I stand and escort Mrs. Boylan toward the mediation room. Inside, it’s the usual setup: battered wood table, a pitcher of courthouse water, and the mediator—a tired-looking woman who appears to have been alive since the 1960s—perched with a stack of legal pads and a single Bic pen. Opposite us, Mr. Boylan, whose suit is rumored to have been tailored during the Bush administration, and his attorney, the famously smug Brinton Fell.
Brinton gives me his patented ‘good to see you again, Lee’ smirk, then leans in so close he’s practically over the table. “Ready to talk sense today?” he asks, but smug as always.
I bare my teeth. “My only goal is the child’s best interest,” I reply, injecting just enough honey to make the threat land.
The mediator raps her pen to call us to order. Once everyone’s settled, the performance begins. “Both parties care deeply about their child.”
Brinton and I volley our opening statements. He clocks that I’m a little off my game and he manages to score a few early points. Mr. Boylan beams convinced his side is winning the optics war. He has no idea why I’m called the ‘Athena of Divorce Law.’Mr. Boylan’s smugness is impressive for a man who dodges responsibility for every late pickup, every argument, and every meltdown documented in the messages. He keeps insisting everything is perfectly normal. He’s like a malfunctioning robot stuck on the phrase ‘co-parenting is going well.’
Now it’s my turn, and I’m about to destroy not only Mr. Boylan but his attorney.
“I’d like to begin with a correction.” I clear my throat, opening my binder. My thumb is already pressed hard into the over-worn tab of the custody calendar. I make eye contact with the mediator, then flick my gaze at Brinton to show I’ve clocked his little maneuver. “Contrary to counsel’s assertion, my client is not ‘withholding’ the child. The parties are strictly observing the court-ordered schedule while the forensic evaluation is pending.”
