I read the e-mail.
Dear Mr. Dickhead,
Don’t drink beer before court. We need you to smell fresh. Meet you in an hour for prep.
Soberly yours,
Jenna Davis.
I look at my beer and frown.Shit.
“More borscht,” Mom declares.
In an instant she’s up and her ladle is already hovering over my half-full bowl, and I know better than to protest when she’s using that tone. So, I slide my phone deeper into my pocket and push my bowl forward for her to fill.
Two hours and thirty-three minutes until I need to be in court.
Two hours and thirty-three minutes to pretend I’m not counting every second. Enough time to brush my teeth three times and gargle with enough mouthwash to sterilize a hospital wing.
TWELVE
Jenna
If you have ever wondered what purgatory feels like, allow me to introduce you to the family court mediation room: a pale-green chamber with soundproof walls, ergonomic chairs seemingly engineered to keep one’s lumbar spine in a state of low-grade distress, and a single faux-wood oval table positioned between opposing parties like the world’s most passive-aggressive Maginot Line.
I occupy the north pole of this formation, legal pads and my pastel highlighters arrayed before me in a way that says,Yes, I am the kind of woman who color codes emotional traumas.Colton has shown up on time and in a navy suit that’s the closest he’ll ever get to blending in, I guess. I’ve never seen him this nervous. In high school he always gaveunbothered jock. Today he’s different. He’s silent, eyes fixed on the middle distance as if it might check him into the boards. I tried to lighten his mood a bit with silly jokes, but it didn’t work and also, I don’t need to cheer him up. I’m an attorney. Not a clown. But then again, seeing him like this, sitting next to me, his strong leg shaking like an eel, and his expression between losing it and crying… If I could, I’d hug him.
To my right sits John, my junior associate.
Directly across the table, Mira Kirillov.
That she still has his name even after divorce says it all. She reclines with all the practiced grace of a Real Housewife who’s been through two seasons and an NDA settlement. Her blazer is so white it’s legally distinct from the color of the table, her hair so smooth it looks like she finally gave up on Photoshop and just painted it on. To her left, her attorney.
And of course I hate him. They fit together though.
It’s Marshall Goldblatt. Selfish prick. I always call him Botox Batman behind his back. Because, well. He looks like it. It was surprising that Mira didn’t storm into our preparation room and unleash a tirade on Colton. Typically, the ex-wives I have to deal with have a flair for dramatics, but perhaps Botox Batman had given her a solid briefing. She could jeopardize her case if she engaged with Colton without the lawyers present.
The mediator, Ms. Antonelli, is a former prosecutor whose presence fills the room with a kind of weary authority. Her hair is tied up in a no-nonsense black ponytail and glasses that seems to have seen every shade of human folly. She’s clad in a tailored beige suit and holds a yellow legal pad like a shield.
“Let’s call this session to order,” she says, then turns to me. “Very well. Ms. Davis, present your opening.”
“Your Honor,” I start. “My client, Koltun Kirillov, is seeking emergency custody of his daughter, Olivia Kirillov. The evidence demonstrates a pattern of neglect by the mother, including, but not limited to, failure to provide timely medical care, repeated lateness to supervised pickups, and a home environment that the child herself has described as ‘scary’ and unsafe. We have corroboration from daycare logs, medical providers, and photographic evidence detailing the child’s injuries alongside documentation of the mother’s late-night partying habits. Myclient has exercised all available legal remedies prior to this hearing.”
The judge holds up a hand, shutting me down mid-flow. “We’re not here for a closing argument. Stick to the facts.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” I say, tucking my hands together to keep them from fidgeting.
Mira fixes me with a gaze so cold I can practically feel my freckles wither off my face. “That’s all lies! Livy’s been perfectly cared for, he kidnapped my child!” she says, her voice sharp enough to slice through the too-thick silence.
The air tightens. My assistant starts to say something, but I give him the fractional eyebrow—let the alpha wolves scrap before the cubs get involved, okay.
I lean in, channeling every ounce of senior associate steel that got me a windowed office before I turned thirty. “Ms. Kirillov, anything you say in this room goes on record and can influence the judge’s decision,” I say. “If your position is that documented neglect is ‘perfectly’ acceptable, I’ll let you clarify that for the court.”
Mira’s jaw ticks—an almost imperceptible contraction, but I’m trained to spot microaggressions at a hundred paces. Botox Batman shifts. For a moment he’s just a human gym towel, but then I spot the vein in his temple.
The mediator taps her pen against the pad, three sharp clicks that echo around the dead space. “Ms. Kirillov,” she says, and I notice Colton tense up next to me. Yeah, it’s strange that she can still call herself that. “We’re not here to relitigate personal grievances. Let’s stick to custody and the facts at hand.”
I slide a manila folder across the table. “Photographs, timestamps, and daycare logs,” I say, not bothering to dress it up. “My client’s daughter was found on three separate occasions with visible injuries and no adult supervision. Is there a reasonthose logs show Olivia being picked up late over a dozen times in two months?”
