Chapter 7 - THE SUBPOENA
The trial date was set for mid-April.
As the primary witness for the prosecution, I received my official court subpoena three weeks in advance. The state was building an ironclad case, combining paramedic Miller’s medical testimony, the recovered community center surveillance footage, and my own eyewitness account of the night of December 18th.
On a bright Tuesday morning, Detective Reyes met me at a quiet coffee shop near the courthouse to review my testimony notes.
"Your brother’s defense attorney tried to file a motion to suppress the community center report on a technicality," Reyes said, taking a sip of her black coffee. "The judge threw it out within five minutes. Calling it 'unlawfully seized' didn't fly when the paperwork was found in your father's personal shredder bin during an executed search warrant."
"And my father?" I asked, wrapping my hands around my ceramic mug.
"His lawyer is desperately trying to negotiate a plea deal," Reyes said. "Plea to a lesser misdemeanor obstruction charge in exchange for testifying against Ryan, but the DA isn't biting. The prosecutor wants full accountability. Your father helped orchestrate the cover-up of a violent assault on a minor; he's going down with the ship."
"It's poetic, in a twisted way," I murmured, looking out the window at the bustling downtown traffic. "My father spent his entire life pulling strings behind the scenes to keep Ryan out of trouble. Now, those exact strings are the noose hanging around his own neck."
"Power without accountability always destroys the person wielding it," Reyes noted wisely. "How is Eli holding up with all of this?"
"He's doing remarkably well," I smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through my chest. "We started him with a wonderful child psychologist twice a week. He talks about his feelings, he draws pictures of his superheroes protecting him, and he knows that what happened was never his fault. Kids are resilient, Detective... as long as they know their parents have their back."
"You're a good mother, Clara," Reyes said softly. "Don't ever let anyone make you feel guilty for burning down a toxic house to keep your son warm."
When I returned to my office at Meridian Global that afternoon, my executive assistant, Jenna, handed me a pink phone message slip.
"A woman named Mrs. Brooks called about twenty minutes ago," Jenna said hesitantly, her eyes avoiding mine. "She sounded... well, she sounded pretty desperate. She refused to leave a voicemail, but she said it was an emergency regarding your father's health."
May you like
I took the slip of paper, crumpled it into a tight ball, and tossed it straight into the recycling bin.
"If she calls again, Jenna, block the number at the switchboard," I instructed calmly. "There are no emergencies in that household that concern me."
