Chapter 14 David
"Mr. Harrison, please. You have to help me."
Maria Rodriguez sat across from my desk, her hands twisted in her lap, eyes red from crying. She was thirty-four, mother of two, and terrified. Her husband had put her in the hospital twice in the last year. The restraining order hearing was in two weeks.
And I had nothing.
"I have the police reports," I said, keeping my voice calm even though I wanted to put my fist through the wall. "And the hospital records from last year. But Maria, we need recent documentation. Medical evidence that shows the pattern of abuse. Without it, the judge might not grant the order."
"I have pictures." She pulled out her phone with shaking hands. "From last week. He… he pushed me down the stairs. I didn't go to the hospital because I was scared he would find out. But I took pictures."
She showed me her phone. Bruises on her arms, her ribs, her back. Dark purple and yellow, clearly recent. My stomach turned.
"These help," I said. "But pictures alone aren't enough. We need a medical professional to examine you, document the injuries, write a report for the court. Someone who can testify if needed."
"How much does that cost?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
I knew what her answer would be before I asked. "Do you have health insurance?"
She shook her head. "I have nothing, Mr. Harrison. He controlled all the money. I take the kids, I leave with nothing. I stay with my sister now. She helps, but..." She looked down at her hands. "I have no money for doctors."
"Okay." I pulled up my computer. "Let me make some calls. There are clinics that work with domestic violence survivors. Someone will help you."
She nodded, wiping her eyes. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
After she left, I spent two hours on the phone.
The first clinic had a three-month wait list. The second didn't do legal documentation. The third would see her but wanted $400 up front, even for a pro bono legal case. The fourth said they'd need two weeks to process the request, which put us past the court date.
I was running out of options.
I pulled up a list of women's health clinics in the area and started going through them one by one. Most didn't even answer. The ones that did gave me the same responses: booked out, no availability, can't do legal documentation, too expensive.
I was about to give up when I found it.
Riverview Women's Health. Comprehensive care, sliding scale fees, specialized program for domestic violence survivors.
I clicked through to the providers page.
And there she was.
Emma Peterson, NP-C. Women's Health Nurse Practitioner. Specialties: Reproductive health, trauma-informed care, domestic violence advocacy.
I stared at her photo on the website. Professional headshot, her hair pulled back, that calm, competent expression I remembered from when she'd handled crises in the ICU. She looked exactly like her strong and capable self. The kind of person you'd trust with your life.
The kind of person Maria needed.
I sat back in my chair and ran my hands through my hair.
Of all the clinics in the city, of course it was hers. Of course Emma was the person who could help. Because the universe had a sense of humor, and that humor was apparently punishing me for eternity.
I could call somewhere else, of course. Keep looking. There had to be another option.
Except there wasn't. I'd called everyone. And Maria's court date was in two weeks. Her safety—and her kids' safety—depended on getting this documentation.
I couldn't let my discomfort get in the way of that.
I picked up my phone and dialed before I could talk myself out of it.
The receptionist answered on the third ring. "Riverview Women's Health, this is Jessica, how can I help you?"
"Hi, I—" My voice came out rough. I cleared my throat. "I need to speak with Emma Peterson, please. It's regarding a legal case."
"Can I ask what this is in reference to?"
"I'm an attorney. I have a client who's a domestic violence survivor and needs medical documentation for a restraining order hearing. It's urgent."
"One moment, please."
Hold music. I stared at my desk, my heart pounding harder than it should have been. This was professional. Just a professional call. Emma was an NP, I was a lawyer, we were both trying to help someone. That was all this was.
The hold music cut off.
"This is Emma Peterson."
Her voice. Professional, measured, the same voice she'd probably used a thousand times answering calls from other attorneys about other patients.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
"Hello?" she said. "This is Emma Peterson."
"Emma." I forced myself to speak. "It's... it's David Harrison. I know this is awkward, but I have a client who needs help."
Silence. Long enough that I wondered if she'd hung up.
Then: "What kind of help?"
Straight to business. No pleasantries. I could work with that.
"I'm representing a woman pro bono. Maria Rodriguez.
Domestic violence survivor, two kids, fleeing an abusive marriage.
She has a restraining order hearing in two weeks, but we need medical documentation.
Recent exam, evidence of injuries, professional assessment for the court.
She can't afford to pay, and every other clinic I've called is either booked out or can't help on this timeline. "
More silence. I could hear her breathing on the other end of the line, could almost see her processing, weighing her options.
"Your clinic has a DV program," I continued. "I saw it on your website. I wouldn't call if I had any other option, but she's desperate. Her husband put her in the hospital twice last year. She's terrified he's going to get custody of the kids if this restraining order doesn't go through."
"What kind of documentation do you need?" Her voice was still neutral. Clinical.
"Physical exam, documentation of current injuries, medical history review, assessment for trauma. A written report I can submit to the court. And potentially testimony if the judge requires it."
"When's the hearing?"
"Two weeks from Thursday."
Another pause. Then: "I can see her Thursday at three PM."
Relief flooded through me. "Thank you. Emma, seriously, thank you—"
"But David." Her voice cut through, sharp now.
"This is professional only. You bring her to the appointment, you stay in the waiting room.
I'll do the exam and documentation. You don't come back to the exam room.
You don't try to talk to me about anything that isn't directly related to Maria's case. Clear?"
"Crystal clear," I said quickly. "I understand. This is about helping Maria. That's all."
"Good." A pause. "I'm not doing this for you."
"I know."
"I'm doing this because a woman needs help and I have the training and the time to provide it."
"I know," I said again. "And I'm grateful. Maria will be grateful. Thank you."
"Have her bring any medical records she has. Hospital discharge papers, police reports, anything relevant. And if she has photos of injuries, print those out. I'll need to see everything."
"I'll make sure she has it all."
"Thursday at three. Riverview Women's Health on Walnut Street. Don't be late."
"We won't be."
She hung up.
I sat there holding the phone for a long moment, my hand shaking slightly.
Emma had agreed to help. She'd set firm boundaries, ones I absolutely deserved and would respect, but she'd agreed. For Maria's sake, not mine. Because helping someone in danger was more important than whatever personal discomfort my presence caused her.
That was Emma. That was who she'd always been. The person who put others first, who showed up when people needed her, who did the right thing even when it was hard.
The person I'd taken for granted for eight years.
I put my phone down and pulled up Maria's file. I needed to prepare her for the appointment, make sure she knew what to bring, and reassure her that Emma would take care of her.
But first, I let myself sit with the reality that I was going to see Emma again. In three days. In her space, her clinic, where she was the expert and I was just the lawyer who needed her help.
Exactly how it should be.
I called Maria that evening to tell her about the appointment.
"She can see me?" Maria's voice was thick with relief. "This Thursday?"
"Thursday at three PM. Riverview Women's Health." I gave her the address. "The nurse practitioner's name is Emma Peterson. She specializes in working with domestic violence survivors. She's going to take care of you."
"How much does it cost?"
"Nothing. She's doing it pro bono for the case."
Maria started crying. "Thank you, Mr. Harrison. Thank you so much. I was so scared—"
"I know. But we're going to get through this. You're going to get that restraining order, and you and your kids are going to be safe. Okay?"
"Okay." She sniffled. "I trust you."
After we hung up, I sat on my couch in the quiet apartment and thought about Thursday.
I'd see Emma in her element. In the career she'd built without me, the one she'd given up medical school for but found her way back to anyway. I'd watch her do what she was born to do: help people, heal people, be the kind of medical provider everyone wished they had.
And I'd stay in the waiting room. Where I belonged.
Dr. Reeves would probably say this was good for me. A reminder that Emma had moved on, built a life, become someone extraordinary. A reminder that the world didn't revolve around me or my guilt or my desire for redemption.
A reminder that sometimes the best thing you could do for someone you'd hurt was to respect their boundaries and stay the hell out of their way.
I pulled out my phone and opened my notes app. Added to my list.
Things I need to work on:
Letting go of the past
Accepting that Emma has moved on
Believing I deserve happiness too
Not punishing myself forever
Respecting Emma's boundaries even when it hurts
I stared at that last one for a long time.
Then I closed my phone and went to bed.
Thursday came too fast and not fast enough.