Page 45 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)
GOLDA
I ’ve worn a path in this courthouse linoleum, and if I keep pacing like this, I’m going to wear a hole clean through to the basement.
“You’re making me seasick,” Jessica says from her chair, not looking up from her legal pad where she’s been making the same notes for the past twenty minutes. “Sit down. Drink your coffee. Try to remember how to breathe.”
“Can’t sit. Can’t breathe. Coffee tastes like dirt mixed with anxiety and regret.
” I make another lap past the conference room table, past the motivational poster about justice, past the window that looks out onto the parking lot where I can see Evan’s black sedan sitting like a threat. “What time is it?”
“Same time it was two minutes ago when you asked. And three minutes ago. And five minutes ago.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“Neither is you pacing a trench in government property.”
The door opens and I jump like someone fired a starter pistol.
But it’s just Dex, back from his coffee run, looking annoyingly calm and put-together in a dark suit that actually makes me think of things that I shouldn’t be focused on right now.
His hair’s perfectly styled, his tie straight—he looks like someone who belongs in courtrooms and boardrooms, not like someone whose girlfriend is about to lose custody of her children.
“Any word yet?” he asks, setting a paper cup in front of me that smells better than the sludge I’ve been choking down.
“Nothing. They’ve been deliberating for over an hour.
” I pick up the new coffee, put it down, pick it up again.
My hands are shaking. “Is that good or bad? I can’t tell if that’s good or bad.
An hour seems like a long time, but maybe it’s not?
Maybe Judge Harris is just being thorough?
Or maybe she’s trying to figure out how to let Evan down easy? ”
“It’s normal,” Jessica says with the patience of someone who’s dealt with anxious clients before. “Judge Harris is thorough. She’s reviewing all the evidence, making sure she’s considered everything.”
Everything. Three years of documentation.
Photos of bruises that have long since faded.
Recordings of threats made in our kitchen, our bedroom, our car.
Witness statements from people who’ve seen Evan’s carefully constructed mask slip.
Medical reports. Police reports. All of it boiled down to whatever decision is happening behind that closed courtroom door.
“Here.” Dex pulls out a chair, pats the seat. “Sit with me for five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
I want to keep pacing—movement helps with the anxiety, gives me something to do with all this nervous energy. But something in his voice, the quiet certainty of it, makes me stop. I sit, and he immediately covers my hand with his.
“Your hands are freezing,” he says, frowning.
“My everything is freezing. I think I’m having hypothermia. Can you get hypothermia from anxiety? Or do I have anxiety hypothermia? Is that a medical condition?”
“Probably not, but let’s work on warming you up anyway.” He rubs my hands between his, and the simple contact helps more than it should. His hands are warm and steady, callused from hockey sticks and sure of themselves in a way I envy.
“What if she rules against us?” The fear I’ve been pushing down all morning finally spills out in a rush.
“What if Evan’s connections go deeper than we thought?
What if Judge Harris is just another Judge Willis?
What if there are more golf buddies and backroom deals and I lose them, Dex? What if I actually lose my kids?”
My voice cracks on the last part, and suddenly I’m crying in a courthouse conference room, which wasn’t part of the plan. The plan was to be strong and composed and professional. The plan was not to have a breakdown before we even get the verdict.
“Hey.” Dex’s voice is gentle, his thumbs wiping tears from my cheeks. “Look at me.”
I do, reluctantly.
“You’re not going to lose them. Judge Harris isn’t Judge Willis—she’s already proven that by how she handled the corruption allegations. She’s seen all the evidence. She knows what kind of father Evan really is.”
“But what if?—”
“Then we appeal. We fight again. We don’t stop fighting until those kids are safe.” His eyes are fierce, determined. “I promise you, Golda. We don’t stop.”
We. Not you. Even now, when this whole thing could blow up his life too, when he could walk away from all this drama and find someone whose biggest problem is deciding what to have for dinner, it’s we.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” I whisper.
“You didn’t have to do anything. You just had to be you.
” He leans forward, presses a soft kiss to my forehead.
“The woman who left an abusive marriage to protect her kids. The woman who documented everything even when it was terrifying. The woman who stood up in court and told the truth even when it was hard. You deserve everything good, Goldie. Don’t ever doubt that. ”
Before I can respond, the door opens again. This time it’s the bailiff, a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a clipboard.
“Judge Harris is ready with her ruling.”
My legs don’t want to work. The coffee I managed to drink earlier threatens to come back up. Dex has to help me stand, his hand steady on my elbow as we walk back into the courtroom.
The courtroom feels different now, charged with anticipation and finality.
Evan’s already at his table with his expensive attorney, looking confident in his perfectly pressed uniform.
Behind him, Lieutenant Davis sits like a show of force, along with two other officers I recognize from Evan’s precinct.
The police union representative is there too, a woman with steel-gray hair and the expression of someone ready for a fight.
On our side, Roman and Luca take up most of a bench, both of them somehow managing to look intimidating even in their best suits. Behind them are Brody and Rodriguez, and to my surprise, Coach Barrett himself, looking uncomfortable in formal wear but undeniably present.
When I catch Evan’s eye across the room, something cold slides down my spine. He looks... satisfied. Confident. Like someone who knows something I don’t. Win or lose, he’s not done with me. I can see it in his face, in the slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“All rise for the Honorable Judge Harris.”
We stand as Judge Harris enters, and I have to grip the table to keep steady. This is it. After three years of court battles and custody negotiations and walking on eggshells, this is the moment that determines everything.
Judge Harris takes her seat, adjusts her glasses, and surveys the packed courtroom with raised eyebrows.
She’s not what I expected—smaller than she seemed from the witness stand, with graying hair and laugh lines around her eyes.
But there’s steel in her expression, an authority that fills the room.
“Please be seated.” She opens the file in front of her, and the room falls silent except for the sound of twenty people trying to breathe quietly. “Before I deliver my ruling, I want to address the elephant in the room.”
My heart stops.
“This case has been complicated by allegations of judicial misconduct and professional conflicts of interest. I want to be clear that this court takes such allegations extremely seriously. I have reviewed all evidence related to these claims, and I have referred my findings to the appropriate oversight committees for further investigation.”
She looks directly at Lieutenant Davis, whose face has gone pale.
“Now, regarding the matter at hand.” Judge Harris returns to her notes. “I have reviewed all testimony and evidence presented in this case. I’ve considered the psychiatric evaluations, the medical documentation, the witness statements, and the physical evidence.”
Get on with it, I think desperately. Just tell me if my children are safe.
“Detective Adler,” she says, looking directly at Evan.
“Your conduct toward your minor son constitutes clear physical abuse. The photographic evidence is unambiguous. The witness testimony is consistent and credible. Your own admission that you struck the child, regardless of your characterization of it as ‘accidental,’ is deeply concerning.”
Evan’s confident expression flickers slightly.
“Furthermore, the pattern of controlling and intimidating behavior toward your ex-wife is well-documented and troubling. Most concerning to this court is the apparent attempt to manipulate judicial proceedings through professional connections and conflicts of interest.”
Lieutenant Davis shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“I am granting the petition for a permanent protective order. Detective Adler will maintain a minimum distance of five hundred feet from Ms. Adler and the minor children except during court-supervised visitation.”
My heart pounds so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it.
“Those visits will occur twice monthly for two hours each, at a court-approved facility with a professional monitor present. Detective Adler will complete court-mandated anger management counseling and parenting classes before any modification of this arrangement will be considered.”
Jessica grabs my hand under the table, her grip tight with controlled excitement.
“Furthermore, I am awarding sole legal and physical custody to Ms. Adler. She will have final decision-making authority regarding the children’s education, healthcare, extracurricular activities, and general welfare.”
My ears are ringing so loudly that I can’t quite process the words. Sole custody. Legal and physical. Final decision-making authority.
“I am also removing Detective Adler’s rights to information regarding the children’s school records, medical care, and activities unless specifically related to the supervised visitations.”
Judge Harris sets down her papers and looks directly at me.