August 2, Sunday
I'D PACKED and repacked my suitcase three times, which is a little insane since I was only allowed to bring essentials.
After perfunctory, sullen hugs and mumbled goodbyes, the kids had scattered in opposite directions.
I don't think they still fully understood the situation, but I had hope they would acclimate.
I wheeled my bag into the garage and pressed the garage door opener, then loaded my suitcase into the back seat. When the garage door raised, Warren stood beside his fancy new car in the driveway. I sighed.
"This is absurd," he said, by way of hello. "And it violates the custody agreement. I have a life, Isabel. A business to run."
"I have confidence in you. And it'll be good for the kids."
"Good for the kids, or good for you?"
That stopped me. "That's not fair."
"I think you're trying to punish me."
I straightened. "Warren, you get six uninterrupted months with your children. Most divorced dads would call that a gift."
His mouth tightened.
"Think of it as an opportunity," I added, opening the door to my SUV. "Get to know them. They can be great sometimes."
I swung inside and closed the door, then backed down the driveway. When I pulled away, I watched him shrink in my rearview mirror, arms crossed, standing in front of the house like a man guarding a fort he didn't want.
The hotel was nothing like I'd pictured. I'd imagined a Best Western with vending machines and fluorescent lighting. Instead, marble floors gleamed under chandeliers, and a bellhop reached for luggage that federal marshals promptly intercepted.
A stocky man with a lanyard and a clipboard introduced himself as Randall Mott, the jury coordinator, his handshake firm and his smile the practiced kind of professionals who manage groups of anxious strangers for a living.
Behind him stood Deputy Wells, unreadable as ever, offering me nothing more than a curt nod that somehow still managed to land somewhere near my sternum.
We were herded into a conference room where Randall collected phones, smart watches, and anything that might connect us to the outside world, sealing each item into a labeled envelope. I handed mine over and felt an odd, unexpected lightness.
Then came the rooms.
Mine had a king bed dressed in linens soft enough to make me question every sheet purchase I'd made.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline, glittering as dusk settled in.
A writing desk. A huge couch. An oversized television that, I was informed, would only display movie and music channels.
A kitchenette, stocked. And in the bathroom, a soaking tub.
I sat on the edge of the bed and laughed out loud. I could get used to this.