Chapter 5 - The Emergency Protective Order
By Tuesday afternoon, the legal machinery had begun to grind into motion with terrifying speed.
My divorce attorney, a shark named Diane Vance (no relation to the detective, though they shared the same chilling efficiency), had filed an emergency petition for dissolution of marriage, an ex parte restraining order, and an immediate freeze on all remaining joint financial assets before Jackson could liquidate our shared savings to pay for his high-priced criminal defense lawyer.
We were sitting in a sterile, windowless conference room in downtown Minneapolis when Jackson’s lawyer, a slick man named Marcus Thorne who smelled aggressively of cheap cologne and desperation, tried to negotiate terms before the judge signed off on the permanent injunction.
Jackson was brought into the room through a side door, still wearing his orange detention center jumpsuit, his wrists unchained for the legal proceedings.
He looked terrible. The arrogant, smug smirk from Sunday night was entirely gone, replaced by a hollow, frantic desperation. His hair was unwashed, dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his shoulders slumped forward as he dropped into the metal chair across the table.
When he saw me—sitting upright, impeccably dressed in my charcoal suit, reviewing financial disclosures without a tremor in my hands—his face twisted.
"Ruby," he hissed, leaning across the table until Thorne grabbed his shoulder to yank him back. "Ruby, tell them to drop this. This is insane. You're ruining my life over a plate slip—"
"Mr. Miller," Diane Vance cut in, her voice slicing through the air like a razor blade. "Your client is addressing the wrong person. Your client is currently facing up to seven years in a state penitentiary for second-degree assault with a deadly weapon. A ceramic plate hurled at high velocity with intent to cause bodily harm does not qualify as a 'slip'."
Thorne adjusted his tie, looking sweating and miserable. He clearly hadn't expected the district attorney to refuse bail reduction or for me to come equipped with three years of meticulously documented financial and physical abuse.
"Ms. Parker," Thorne began, flashing a oily, conciliatory smile. "Let's be reasonable. Jackson acknowledges that emotions ran high at his parents' dinner. He’s willing to sign a mutual no-contact order, attend anger management classes voluntarily, and agree to a modest division of assets if you drop the criminal charges and sign an affidavit stating the incident was accidental."
I slowly closed my folder.
I looked at Diane, who gave me a microscopic nod of absolute support. Then I looked directly at Jackson.
"Mutual no-contact?" I asked softly.
Jackson nodded eagerly, his eyes wide and pleading. "Yes, Liv. Look, we can just part ways. You keep the condo, I’ll take my truck and my gear from the storage unit, and we can just... make this go away. We don't need to drag my family through this. My mother is beside herself—"
"Your mother can buy herself a new personality," I interrupted, my voice devoid of any warmth or hesitation. "And you are going to take every single consequence coming to you."
Jackson’s face drained of what little color it had left. "You're serious? You're actually going to let me sit in jail?"
"You threw a plate at my head because I told your mother she couldn't steal my home," I said, my voice cutting like glass. "You spent eleven months living off my labor while plotting to hand my property over to your parents. You thought I was small. You thought I was quiet. You thought you could break me and I would clean up the pieces because that's what good wives do in your twisted little family."
I leaned forward, placing both hands on the table, mirroring the exact stance I had used with Sterling earlier that day.
"You have no idea what I’m capable of, Jackson. And by the time the judge finishes sentencing you next month, you're going to know every single syllable of it."
Thorne slammed his folder shut, his face turning bright red. "We're done here. We'll see you in court, Counselor."
May you like
"Look forward to it," Diane replied without missing a beat.
As the guards hauled Jackson back toward the holding cells, he let out a strangled, furious cry, thrashing against the officers before the heavy metal door slammed shut with a definitive, earth-shaking thud.
