The Cold Hand of the Law
The hallways of the county courthouse felt like they were made of ice.
My mother was on my left, her hand a firm, warm weight on my elbow, and Nick was on my right.
He wasn't in his work shirt today; he was wearing a clean flannel, his hair combed back, looking like a different kind of mountain—immovable and stern.
I was sixteen weeks today. My bump was just beginning to make a real shape under my maternity dress, a small, stubborn curve that I kept my hand over as we walked toward the hearing room.
This wasn't the trial. This was the arraignment and the hearing for the permanent restraining order.
We rounded the corner, and I felt the air leave my lungs.
Chloe was there. She was wearing an orange jumpsuit that made her skin look sallow and sickly.
Her wrists were shackled to a chain around her waist, the metallic clink-clink of her movements echoing off the marble floors.
Two deputies stood behind her, their faces bored but their hands near their belts.
She didn't look like the girl from the Hamptons. She looked like a caged animal.
And then I saw Brandon. He was sitting on a wooden bench further down the hall, talking frantically to a man in an expensive suit—the lawyer he'd clearly flown in from the city.
Brandon looked up as we approached, his eyes instantly finding my stomach, then flicking to Nick with a look of pure, concentrated venom.
Nick didn't even acknowledge him. He just stepped closer to me, his shoulder brushing mine, a silent wall of muscle.
"All rise," the bailiff called out a few minutes later.
The room was small, smelling of old paper and floor wax. Judge Miller—Anthony's boss's cousin—sat behind the high mahogany bench. He looked at the paperwork in front of him with a deep, weary frown.
"Chloe Vance," the Judge said, his voice a low gravel. "You are charged with felony breaking and entering, trespassing, and aggravated assault on a pregnant woman. How do you plead?"
"Not guilty," her lawyer said quickly, stepping forward. "Your Honor, my client was in a state of emotional distress. This is a personal matter between former friends—"
"A personal matter?" the Judge interrupted, his eyes snapping up.
"I have a sworn statement from a deputy and a witness report from a neighbor who saw this woman kick in a deadbolted door.
I have medical records showing the victim had to be transported to the ER for a fall.
In this county, 'emotional distress' isn't a license to break into a home and assault a woman and her unborn child. "
I felt a tear slip down my cheek. I didn't wipe it away. I just watched Chloe. She was staring at the floor, her lip trembling. She wasn't looking at me. She wasn't looking at the "best friend" she'd shoved.
"The prosecution is requesting a permanent order of protection," the District Attorney said, stepping forward. "Given the history of harassment and the violent nature of the break-in, we believe the defendant poses a significant threat to Aubrey's safety."
"I object!" Brandon's lawyer stood up. "Your Honor, my client, Brandon Sterling, has a vested interest in the welfare of that child. A restraining order would interfere with his paternal rights—"
"Mr. Sterling is not the defendant in this criminal matter," the Judge snapped, hitting his gavel once. "And until a court of law establishes paternity, he has no standing in this room. Sit down."
The silence that followed was heavy. I looked at Brandon. He was white-faced, his jaw working as he stared at the Judge. He looked like he wanted to scream, to demand that the world recognize his importance, but in this small room in the middle of the mountains, he was just a spectator.
"Order of protection is granted," Judge Miller declared.
"Defendant is to have no contact, direct or indirect, with the victim.
She is to remain at least five hundred feet away from the victim's home, place of work, and the hospital at all times.
Bail is set at fifty thousand dollars, cash only. Next hearing in thirty days."
Clink. Clink.
The deputies moved in, grabbing Chloe by the arms. As they led her toward the side door, she finally looked at me. There was no apology in her eyes. There was only a cold, jagged resentment—a look that said she blamed me for the handcuffs on her wrists.
"Aubrey!"
Brandon was on his feet as soon as the Judge stepped down. He tried to move toward the aisle, but Nick stepped into his path. Nick didn't touch him, but he didn't have to. He was a foot taller and twice as wide, his shadow completely swallowing Brandon.
"Stay back," Nick said, his voice a low, vibrating warning. "Five hundred feet, Sterling. That includes you by proxy."
"You can't do this!" Brandon shouted, his lawyer trying to pull him back. "That's my kid! I'm going to have the DNA tested, Aubrey! I'm going to take everything!"
"You've already taken enough," I said, my voice surprisingly steady as I looked at him one last time. "You took my past. You took my trust. But you are never, ever taking my future."
I turned my back on him.
We walked out of the courtroom and into the bright, midday sun. The air felt cleaner out here. The "city" was locked behind bars and lawyers, and for the first time in sixteen weeks, I didn't feel like I was waiting for the blow to fall.
Nick led me to the truck, his hand never leaving the small of my back. He helped me in, then leaned in close, his forehead resting against mine for just a second.
"It's over for today," he whispered. "We're going to the diner. Your mom is making that pot roast you like."
"Nick?" I reached out, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Thank you. For being the one who stood there."
"Always," he rasped. "I'm the only one standing there from now on."
As we pulled out of the parking lot, I saw Brandon standing on the courthouse steps, looking small and alone. He looked like a man who had realized too late that the things he could buy were worth nothing compared to the things he'd thrown away.
The legal battle was just beginning, but I realized that the "beat down" was happening exactly the way it should.
In a room full of truth. And in a heart that had finally found its home.