Chapter 6 - The Courtroom Prep
I walked through the heavy glass doors of the courthouse, the familiar scent of lemon polish and old paper washing over me. The security guards at the metal detectors recognized me instantly.
“Good morning, Judge Vance,” the head guard smiled, waving me past the line. “Good to see you back. Visiting?”
“Just handling some personal administrative work, Frank,” I replied with a polite nod.
I took the elevator to the fourth floor, Probate Division. I walked into Courtroom 4B and took a seat at the defense table. I placed my leather briefcase on the wood, opening it perfectly parallel to the edge.
Ten minutes later, the double doors swung open. Marcus and Elena walked in, flanked by their sleazy attorney, Richard Kline. They were dressed in conservative, muted colors, trying to look appropriately somber and deeply concerned.
When Marcus saw me sitting alone at the defense table, without a lawyer, a cruel smirk touched his lips. He leaned over and whispered something to Kline, who chuckled. They thought I was defenseless. They thought my presence alone, without counsel, proved their claim of my declining mental state.
“Mom,” Elena said, walking over to the barrier. She used a sickeningly sweet, patronizing tone. “You shouldn't be here alone. This is for your own good. We just want to take care of you.”
I didn't look at her. I kept my eyes on my organized files. “Sit down, Elena. Save the community theater performance for the judge.”
The bailiff called the room to order. The door to the judge's chambers opened, and the Honorable Samuel Harrison stepped up to the bench.
Judge Harrison was a sharp, no-nonsense jurist in his late fifties. And more importantly, fifteen years ago, when he was a struggling public defender, I was the magistrate who had mentored him, taught him the rules of evidence, and endorsed his run for the bench.
Harrison looked up from his docket, his eyes scanning the room. When his gaze landed on me sitting at the defense table, his eyebrows shot up to his hairline.
“Judge Vance,” Harrison said, his voice echoing in the silent room. He didn't say Mrs. Vance. He used my title.
Marcus’s smirk instantly vanished. Kline, the sleazy lawyer, suddenly looked very pale.
“Good morning, Your Honor,” I said, standing tall.
“I see you are listed as the respondent in this conservatorship petition,” Harrison said, looking at Kline with a sudden, deadly glare. “Counselor Kline, you are attempting to declare one of the sharpest legal minds in the history of this circuit mentally incompetent?”
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“Your Honor,” Kline stammered, sweating through his cheap suit. “With all due respect to the respondent's past, cognitive decline spares no one. The family is deeply concerned about her recent erratic behavior and financial endangerment.”
“Let’s hear it then,” Harrison leaned back. “Proceed, Counselor.”
