I have Parkinson’s disease. Early stage. I still drive my silver Buick to the grocery store on Tuesday mornings.

The DuPage County Courthouse on Monday morning was an ocean of charcoal suits, nervous litigants, and the clinking of briefcase latches.

Courtroom 204 was on the second floor, a sterile room with oak paneling, industrial fluorescent lights, and the heavy seal of the State of Illinois mounted behind the elevated judicial bench.

When Brian, Sarah, and I walked through the double doors at 8:45 AM, Megan was already seated at the petitioner’s table.

She looked entirely different from the woman who had sneered at me over a paper plate four days ago. She wore a modest, high-necked charcoal dress, no jewelry except for her plain gold wedding band, and zero makeup. Her eyes were artificially downcast, her posture hunched, playing the role of the traumatized, battered suburban mother to absolute perfection.

Sitting beside her was Donald Harris. He was a silver-haired, sixty-year-old predator with a five-thousand-dollar bespoke suit, a gold signet ring, and an expression of complete, bored confidence.

Behind them sat Evelyn and Richard Vance, their faces grim and triumphant.

When Harris saw Sarah Jenkins walk in, his eyebrows twitched with mild surprise. He stood up, adjusting his cuffs, and strolled over to the gallery railing.

"Sarah," Harris said, offering a patronizing, pitying smile. "I didn't realize you took on hopeless domestic cases on holiday weekends. I thought you preferred high-net-worth commercial divorces."

"I take cases where the truth matters, Donald," Sarah replied smoothly, setting her leather briefcase on the respondent's table.

Harris chuckled softly, leaning down toward her ear. "Save your client the legal fees, Sarah. I have an affidavit signed by three adult witnesses detailing an explosive domestic violence incident in front of minors. Thornton is going to grant my exclusive possession and sole custody motions before ten o'clock. Tell your boy to surrender his keys and take whatever supervised visitation schedule I feel like offering."

"We'll let the judge review the merits, Donald," Sarah said, not even looking up as she arranged her files.

At nine o'clock sharp, the side door clicked open.

"All rise," the bailiff barked.

Judge Arthur Thornton walked out. He was an austere, heavy-set man with thick spectacles and a shock of white hair. He climbed the steps to the bench, settled into his high-backed leather chair, and immediately opened the daily docket folder.

"Case number 24-D-8812, Vance versus Miller," Judge Thornton announced, his voice raspy from decades on the bench. "Emergency petition for temporary protective orders, exclusive possession, and temporary sole custody. Mr. Harris, you have five minutes to justify why this couldn't wait for the regular motion call."

Donald Harris stepped up to the podium, his voice instantly dropping into an emotional, theatrical cadence.

"May it please the court," Harris began, resting his manicured hands on the wood. "We are here this morning under circumstances of profound familial tragedy. On Thanksgiving evening, in the presence of their seven-year-old child and elderly guests, the respondent, Brian Miller, suffered a catastrophic, unprovoked violent outburst."

Megan produced a tissue from her sleeve, dabbing delicately at her dry eyes.

"Mr. Miller violently shattered antique porcelain against the dining room wall, inches from my client's head," Harris continued, raising his voice for dramatic effect. "He screamed obscenities, terrorized his young son, and forcibly abducted the child from the family home, fleeing into the night. We are requesting an immediate emergency protective order removing Mr. Miller from the marital residence, granting Mrs. Miller temporary sole legal and physical custody, and ordering a psychological evaluation before any visitation is considered."

Judge Thornton frowned deeply, his pen hovering over the order sheet. He looked down over his spectacles at Brian, his expression hardening.

"This is a very serious set of allegations, Mr. Harris," Judge Thornton said grimly. "Do you have sworn affidavits corroborating the violent nature of the incident?"

"I have three, Your Honor," Harris said proudly, handing three blue-backed legal documents to the bailiff. "Signed under penalty of perjury by the petitioner and two independent adult witnesses who were seated at the table."

The bailiff handed the documents to the judge, who began skimming them, his brow furrowing with disgust.

"Ms. Jenkins," Judge Thornton said, his voice flat and dangerous as he turned toward our table. "What does your client have to say for himself?"

Sarah Jenkins stood up slowly. She smoothed down her jacket, walked to the secondary podium, and placed both hands on the wood.

"Your Honor," Sarah said, her voice ringing clear, steady, and utterly devoid of fear. "My client denies every single allegation in Mr. Harris's petition. In fact, we are not merely denying them. We are stating, on the record, that Mr. Harris has just submitted three counts of criminal perjury to this court."

Harris sprang to his feet, indignant. "Your Honor! I object to this outrageous, unprofessional slander—"

"Sit down, Mr. Harris," Judge Thornton warned sharply. He looked at Sarah, his eyes cold. "Ms. Jenkins, that is an extraordinary accusation to make in my courtroom. You had better have ironclad proof, or I will hold you and your client in direct contempt."

"I have something better than proof, Your Honor," Sarah said calmly.