Chapter 17 Emma
The courthouse smelled like old wood and anxiety.
I'd been here before; twice, actually, for other DV cases where my testimony had been required. But it never got easier. There was something about the fluorescent lights and the hard wooden benches and the hushed conversations that made everything feel heavier than it should.
I'd worn my most professional outfit. Navy slacks, a cream blouse, my white coat over it with my credentials clearly visible. Hair pulled back and minimal jewelry. The goal was to look competent, trustworthy, unshakeable. A medical professional whose testimony couldn't be questioned.
My phone buzzed with a text from Jess.
You've got this. Go save that woman and her kids.
I smiled and texted back: Thanks. Talk later.
Another buzz. Connor this time.
Good luck today. Dinner tonight to celebrate?
I hesitated, then replied: Sounds good. I'll text you when I'm done.
I put my phone away and looked around the hallway. Other people waiting for their hearings—lawyers in suits, families clustered together, a woman crying quietly while her attorney spoke to her in low tones.
Then I saw them.
David and Maria, sitting on a bench near the courtroom door. David was leaning forward, explaining something, his hands moving as he talked. Maria was nodding, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands gripped her purse.
David noticed me first. He said something to Maria, then stood up.
I walked over, focusing on Maria, not him.
"Hi, Maria. How are you feeling?"
Maria looked up at me, and her eyes filled with tears. "Nervous. Very nervous."
"That's completely normal." I sat down next to her, deliberately putting space between myself and David, who remained standing. "But we've got this. You've done everything right. The evidence is solid. And I'm going to tell the judge exactly what I found during your exam. Okay?"
She nodded, wiping her eyes. "Thank you for coming. For helping."
"Of course."
David cleared his throat. "Ms. Peterson, can I go over the testimony sequence with you? Just so we're all on the same page?"
I looked up at him. Professional… this was professional. "Sure."
He sat down; not next to me, but on Maria's other side, maintaining appropriate distance.
"I'll present opening arguments first, then introduce the police reports and hospital records.
Then I'll call you to the stand. The judge will want to hear about the medical examination, your findings, and your professional assessment. "
"I've reviewed my notes," I said. "I'm prepared."
"I know you are." He paused. "The opposing counsel might try to suggest that the injuries could have been accidental, or that Maria could have fabricated the timeline. Just stick to the medical facts. What you observed, what you documented, what the evidence shows."
"I know how to testify, Mr. Harrison." My voice came out sharper than I intended.
David nodded once. "Of course. I just…" He stopped himself. "You're right. I'm sorry."
An awkward silence settled between us. Maria looked between us, clearly picking up on the tension.
The courtroom door opened. A bailiff stuck his head out. "Rodriguez versus Rodriguez? We're ready for you."
Maria's hand found mine and squeezed. Hard.
"You've got this," I told her. "Just tell the truth. That's all you have to do."
She nodded and stood on shaking legs. David offered her his arm, and she took it, leaning on him as they walked toward the courtroom.
I followed behind, my heart rate picking up despite myself.
This wasn't my first testimony. I knew what to expect. But Maria's case felt different. Maybe because I'd seen her injuries firsthand, had heard her story, and had documented the evidence that could save her life.
Or maybe because David was the one presenting the case, and some part of me—the part I was actively ignoring—wanted him to succeed.
For Maria's sake, I told myself. Only for Maria's sake.
The courtroom was smaller than the ones I’d been in before. Wood paneling, a judge's bench at the front, tables for each side. Maria sat next to David at one table. Her husband's attorney sat alone at the other; apparently he hadn't bothered to show up to his own restraining order hearing.
Good. That would help.
The judge was a woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair and sharp eyes. She looked like she'd seen everything and wasn't impressed by any of it.
I took a seat in the gallery and waited.
David stood. "Your Honor, I'm David Harrison, representing the petitioner, Maria Rodriguez. We're here today to request a permanent restraining order against the respondent, Carlos Rodriguez, based on a pattern of domestic violence and credible threats to Mrs. Rodriguez and her children's safety."
His voice was steady, professional. Not the nervous young associate I vaguely remembered from firm parties years ago, but someone who knew what he was doing. Someone who believed in his case.
"The evidence will show a clear pattern of escalating violence," David continued.
"Police reports dating back three years.
Two hospital admissions. And recent medical documentation that demonstrates ongoing abuse.
Mrs. Rodriguez fled the marital home six weeks ago with her two children, ages eight and ten, and has been in hiding since.
We're asking this court to grant a permanent restraining order and award Mrs. Rodriguez sole custody of the minor children. "
The judge made a note. "Proceed."
David walked through the evidence methodically.
Police reports—Maria had called three times in the last two years, though her husband had only been arrested once.
Hospital records from a broken wrist two years ago and a concussion last year, both attributed to "accidents" at the time.
Text messages where her husband had threatened her, said he'd make sure she never saw her kids again if she left.
It was damning. Even I could see that, and I wasn't a lawyer.
Maria testified next. She was terrified—I could see her hands shaking from where I sat—but she was clear and detailed. She told the judge about the first time he hit her, about the escalation, about the night she finally took the children and ran.
The judge listened without expression.
Then David called me.
"The court calls Emma Peterson."
I stood and walked to the witness stand. The bailiff swore me in. I stated my name and credentials: Emma Peterson, Nurse Practitioner, Riverview Women's Health, specializing in women's health and trauma-informed care.
David approached the stand. Our eyes met briefly. His expression was professional, neutral. Like I was any other expert witness.
"Ms. Peterson, did you examine Maria Rodriguez on March 21st of this year?"
"I did."
"Can you describe what you observed?"
I pulled out my notes—though I didn't really need them, I remembered every detail—and walked through the examination.
Multiple contusions in various stages of healing, indicating repeated trauma over time.
Defensive wounds on her forearms. Bruising on her ribs consistent with being kicked or struck with a blunt object. Old scars on her back.
I kept my voice level, clinical. These were medical facts. This was my job.
"And based on your examination and your professional experience, what conclusions did you draw?"
"In my professional opinion, Mrs. Rodriguez's injuries are consistent with ongoing domestic violence. The pattern of bruising, the location of the injuries, and the various stages of healing all indicate repeated physical abuse over an extended period of time."
"Could these injuries have been accidental?"
"No. The pattern is too specific. Accidental injuries don't typically present in this manner: multiple contusions in protected areas, defensive wounds, injuries in different stages of healing. This is consistent with what we see in domestic violence cases."
David nodded. "Thank you, Ms. Peterson. No further questions."
The opposing counsel stood. He was younger than I expected, maybe early thirties, and he looked uncomfortable.
"Ms. Peterson, you examined Mrs. Rodriguez six weeks after she left the marital home. Isn't it possible that some of these injuries occurred after she left? Perhaps in an altercation with someone else?"
"No. The bruising patterns indicate the injuries occurred over a span of weeks to months. Some were quite old; weeks old at the time of examination. They all occurred prior to her leaving."
"But you can't say with certainty that Mr. Rodriguez caused them, can you? You weren't there when the injuries occurred."
"I can say with medical certainty that the injuries are consistent with the timeline and mechanism Mrs. Rodriguez described. Combined with the police reports, hospital records, and documented threats, the evidence strongly supports her account."
He tried a few more questions, attempting to poke holes in my testimony. I answered each one calmly, factually, without defensiveness. This wasn't personal. This was evidence.
After ten minutes, he gave up. "No further questions."
I stepped down and returned to my seat. My heart was pounding, but I kept my face neutral.
David called one more witness: a police officer who'd responded to one of Maria's calls. Then he rested his case.
The opposing counsel didn't call any witnesses. Couldn't, really, since his client hadn't even shown up.
The judge reviewed her notes for what felt like an eternity.
Then she looked up.
"I've reviewed the evidence presented today.
The medical documentation is compelling.
The police reports are consistent. And Mrs. Rodriguez's testimony was credible.
" She paused. "I'm granting the permanent restraining order.
Mr. Rodriguez is to have no contact with Mrs. Rodriguez or the minor children.
Mrs. Rodriguez is awarded sole physical custody, with supervised visitation only if Mr. Rodriguez completes a batterer's intervention program and the court deems it appropriate. "
Maria gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth.
"Furthermore," the judge continued, "I'm ordering that Mr. Rodriguez surrender any firearms within 24 hours. This order is effective immediately."
She brought down the gavel.
Maria started crying. Not quiet tears but full, shaking sobs of relief. David put a hand on her shoulder, saying something I couldn't hear from where I sat.
I stood and slipped out of the courtroom, giving them space for their moment.
I was halfway down the courthouse steps when I heard my name.
"Ms. Peterson. Emma."
I turned. David was jogging down the steps, slightly out of breath.
"I just wanted to say thank you," he said. "Your testimony… it made the difference. Maria's going to be safe now because of you."
"I just reported what I found. You're the one who put the case together."
"We both did." He paused, and for a moment we just stood there, two people who used to know each other, who'd worked together today to help someone in danger. "You were incredible up there. Calm, clear… strong. I knew you would be, but still. It was impressive."
I didn't know what to say to that. "Thank you" felt wrong. "You too" felt too personal.
"Maria wants to thank you herself," he said. "She's still inside, but—"
"Tell her I'm glad I could help." I adjusted my bag on my shoulder. "I should go. I have patients this afternoon."
"Of course." He stepped back, creating space. "But Emma… if you're willing, I'd like to keep your clinic in mind for other cases. I have more DV clients, and they all need medical documentation. If you're open to it."
I considered. This was professional. This was helping people who needed it. This had nothing to do with David and me and our history.
"Have your clients call the clinic directly," I said. "We have a DV advocate on staff who handles intake. They'll get prioritized for appointments."
"I'll do that. Thank you." He hesitated, then added, "It was good working with you today. Really good."
I nodded once, then turned and walked away.
Behind me, I heard him head back up the steps, back to Maria and whatever post-hearing work needed to happen.
I made it to my car before I let myself exhale.
That had been fine, hadn’t it? We'd worked together, helped Maria, and kept appropriate boundaries. Exactly how it should be.
So why did I feel so off-balance?
I sat in my car for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, letting the adrenaline from testimony fade.
I checked my phone. A text from Connor.
How'd it go?
I smiled and typed back: Good. Maria got the restraining order. Dinner sounds great. Pick me up at 7?
His response was immediate: Perfect. Proud of you.
I started the car and headed back to the clinic. I had three patients this afternoon and paperwork to finish before Connor picked me up.
This was my life. My normal and good life.
The kind of Tuesday where you testified in court, helped someone get safe, and then went back to your regular schedule like it was just another part of the job.
Because it was.
I pulled into the clinic parking lot and grabbed my bag. My next patient was in twenty minutes. Mrs. Williams, follow-up for her hypertension. Then the college student who needed her IUD replaced. Then the new patient intake for prenatal care.
Work I loved. Work that mattered.
I walked into the clinic, waved at the front desk staff, and headed to my office. I pulled up Mrs. William’s chart and got to work.