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Thirty-Four

THE VICTORY ON Sunday was a million miles—or ninety-nine and a half yards—away as Scott sat in the courtroom on Wednesday morning.

Hoping to capture at least the essence of a win, he’d opted to wear his college championship ring, a gaudy thing, larger than his knuckle, but the weight of it on his second finger grounded him.

It also gave him something to do with his hands other than wring them in his lap.

Twisting the band, he rubbed his thumb over the face, a stylized version of his college mascot, rough with detail against the smooth stone behind.

Dylan sat in the front row, a single paper shaking in his hands, his statement for the judge asking to remain with his father. He’d written it with the guardian ad litem , who sat on one side, Lauren on his other.

Scott sat next to Mark, a file of papers before them, but the small table otherwise bare.

A side door opened, and Lindsay swept in, but not alone, as Scott had expected. Dr. Ferndale, the psychologist, accompanied her.

She crossed the aisle, the staccato click of her heels echoing in the chamber, knelt before Dylan, and brushed some hair from his forehead.

“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry I missed our Christmas together.” She paused, as if noticing the guardian beside her son for the first time. “Things will be different next year.”

Dylan reached up and ran his fingers through his bangs, pulling them back down and straight, but didn’t say anything.

She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then swept his hair to the side again as she stood.

Dylan’s brows knit as he reached up to fix his bangs a second time. His gaze followed his mother as she slid behind the second table, then turned and smiled at Dr. Ferndale, seated behind her in an obvious show of support.

Dylan frowned, slid closer to Lauren, and pressed himself into her side.

“I don’t like him,” he mumbled, almost inaudibly.

But Scott, attuned to his son, twitched.

He leaned toward Mark. “Did you hear that?”

Mark glanced across the aisle at Lindsay, head bent and studying the papers before her, then nodded.

“I thought...”

Mark shook his head, a subtle motion, but Scott stopped talking, forcing himself to stillness.

Mark spun in his chair, facing Dylan, seated behind them. But the banister—what lawyers call the “bar” —sat between them, the distance too far for a subtle conversation. Any movement on their part toward Dylan would catch Lindsay’s attention.

Scott clenched his hands, the bite of his ring grinding into his palm. Heat suffused his face. White-hot anger swept through him.

A hand on his sleeve brought him back to himself; Mark, head cocked, squeezed his arm and flicked his eyes behind them.

The susurration of voices too quiet to understand reached Scott’s ears, one, his son’s, the other less familiar.

He strained his ears but could make out no words, locked eyes with Mark, and raised his eyebrows.

Then, the voices stopped. Scott snuck a peek over his shoulder as fabric rustled behind them.

The guardian glided up the aisle, pressed aside the double door of the courtroom, then exited into the hall beyond.

He turned, words already on his tongue, but Mark shook his head again.

“Wait.”

He’d chosen Mark for his expertise; he’d trust his lawyer.

Scott had been his own worst enemy throughout the custody hearings, a fact he understood all too well. If he’d only managed to keep his mouth shut at the last one, maybe they wouldn’t even be here, today.

Minutes ticked past and Scott checked his watch.

Judge Farmer had been punctual to the previous hearings.

Mark had even warned him before the first one he had a bit of a reputation for it and wouldn’t have much patience for a parent who showed up late to discuss custody. Scott had always been early.

The rear doors opened again, and the guardian reentered the courtroom.

Moments later, the bailiff came in and, standing to one side of the bench, called the room to order. “Judge Farmer presiding.”

The judge entered, long, black robes sweeping the floor, and, settling himself, straightened the files on the table before him. It seemed to take longer this time than in their previous appearances.

Had his nerves gotten the better of him?

Satisfied, Judge Farmer cleared his throat. “Ms. Meyers, Mr. Edwards.” He paused and glanced behind Scott. “And you must be Dylan.”

Though he spoke firmly, the gaze he bent on the boy showed an unexpectedly paternal kindness.

“Yes, sir. Umm, Your Honor.” Dylan stumbled over the unfamiliar title and the edges of the judge’s lips twitched.

“Either is fine, young man.”

Judge Farmer paused again, cleared his throat, ruffled his papers.

Then, gathering himself, he spoke. “I have been a Family Court Judge for a number of years, now, and I believe it is one of the most difficult fields to work in. To ask any person to judge between two parents on the care of their child is a grave responsibility, and one I do not now, nor ever have taken lightly. Sometimes, the choice is simple and straight-forward. Other times, it is more complex. This case appeared to be of the latter type.”

Scott’s chest clenched at his words. I’m going to lose Dylan . The realization flooded through him, paralyzed him, stole his breath. I’m going to lose my son.

And, on the heels of that thought came another. I lost Abby for nothing...

Swiping his eyes, his gaze caught on Lindsay, across the aisle, hands folded on the table before her, lips turned up in a sharp smile of victory.

“However,” Judge Farmer’s voice hardened.

“Sometimes complex cases can be deceiving.” He turned toward Lindsay.

“Ms. Meyers, your reasons for requesting a change to your custody agreement were spurious at best, a waste of the court’s time and energy.

That said, I appreciate circumstances can change, and the presence of a child in one’s life can be the greatest catalyst for change of all.

With good faith, I allowed this case to continue.

As a judge, I must give each parent an opportunity to be a part of their child’s life, so long as it does not effect the well-being of the child, and, as such I was prepared this morning to render a judgment in favor of split custody. ”

Scott’s vision narrowed, his breath coming too fast. Dylan...

“Dr. Ferndale.”

“Your Honor?” He stood, hands dangling at his sides, relaxed, despite the razor-sharp eyes of the Judge upon him.

“Your professional evaluation suggested Ms. Meyers would be a better parental figure for Dylan Edwards based on a number of factors, including a...” He ruffled through his papers.

“‘Clear reduction in the grades of Dylan Edwards since his father began seeing Abigail Barclay.’ Not only that, but you go on to note, via hearsay, I might add, potential psychological factors of the aforementioned Ms. Barclay that could contribute to a clear and present danger to the child. Correct?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Hearsay is a legal term, and one I, as a mental health professional, am not subject to. Upon interviewing a number of subjects, it became clear to me Ms. Barclay is deeply disturbed and a continuing relationship between Mr. Edwards and Ms. Barclay could be not only detrimental, but dangerous to Dylan.”

“I see.” Judge Farmer paused. “And how much did Ms. Meyers pay you to perform the psychological evaluation for this case?”

Dr. Ferndale stiffened. “Pay, Your Honor?”

“Indulge me, for a moment, as I notice Ms. Meyers has not provided a receipt for your services.”

“Ah, of course, Your Honor. I believe the agreed-upon fee was... Well, I’d have to check on the exact amount...”

“An estimate, then?”

“Well, there were flights, of course, to interview Mr. Edwards...”

Beside him, Mark stood. “My client was interviewed once by Dr. Ferndale. No more than one round-trip flight would have been necessary.”

Dr. Ferndale scowled at Mark. “By flights, of course, I meant the one down here, then a return, and the custody hearings, this one included...”

Judge Farmer interrupted. “So, three trips, each with two flights. Six, total, correct? Upon receipt of an itemized invoice, I would see six flights listed.”

“Eight.” Wrought from him like a witness on cross-examination, he spoke barely above a whisper, as if by volume, alone, he could distance himself from the truth he’d been forced to speak.

“Eight?”

“There was one, additional trip, just before Thanksgiving.”

Scott clenched his fists. “The article...” It hissed through his teeth, against his will.

Mark leaned in close, his voice in Scott’s ear. “Don’t.”

“Thanksgiving.” The judge paused on that word. “Interesting. And what, exactly, were your plans over Thanksgiving?”

Lindsay jerked, a motion not at all subtle and more than enough to draw the attention of every eye in the room.

Dr. Ferndale cleared his throat. “I believe I spent Thanksgiving with my sister.”

“Indeed. You made no other stops?”

“Your Honor,” Lindsay had collected herself and rose to her feet. “I can’t imagine...”

“Neither could I, Ms. Meyers, and yet, here we are. Dr. Ferndale, please answer the question.”

The man fidgeted, rubbed his forehead, tugged his cuffs straight. “Ah, I might have made another call or two on my way home. Professional courtesy, of course.”

Judge Farmer sat back in his seat, and, in that moment, Scott caught a glimpse of the kind of lawyer he must have been before ascending to the bench. The kind of lawyer he’d be grateful to have on his side, and afraid of going up against.

“And did one of these, what did you call them? ‘Professional courtesy calls,’ include Ms. Meyers’ residence?”

Dr. Ferndale shot Lindsay a desperate glance.

“Well, I think I have my answer. Of course, though I loathe to stoop so low, I could ask Ms. Weiring, the court-assigned guardian ad litem what Dylan remembers of that... professional call.” The words left his lips dripping with disdain, emphasizing the clear difference between the objectivity of the lawyer and the guardian.

“As a child, I could not, of course, countenance requiring him to repeat it a second time this morning.”

The psychologist wilted under the judge’s penetrating gaze, then shook his head.

“No, Your Honor. That won’t be necessary.

” Shame colored his voice. “I did make a brief stop at Ms. Meyers’ residence.

What was meant to be a brief stop. Ah, poor choices were made.

” His glance slid sideways, to Dylan. “I don’t believe I understood what an early riser a child could be. ”

“I see.”

Perhaps in an actual trial, a lawyer might have pressed, but for a custody hearing, Judge Farmer had already risked his objectivity enough.

Scott waited, not daring to hope, hands clenched now not in anger, but as a desperate attempt to keep himself from leaping to his feet and shouting for joy.

“Dare I pursue the subject of your fee, Dr. Ferndale?”

The man shook his head, and his face paled. “Ten thousand, Your Honor. Plus, expenses.”

Even Mark’s eyebrows shot up and a low whistle broke the silence.

“Mr. Lystead.”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor.”

“Ten thousand...” Judge Farmer spent a long time looking at Dr. Ferndale, who refused to meet his eyes, then, shifting his attention to Lindsay, he remained silent, studying the woman.

Finally, he sighed. “Never, in all my years... Well. I will not so dishonor this courtroom as to ask if the... fee Ms. Meyers paid you included a foregone conclusion. Testimony already given today is more than enough for a dismissal of this case. If Mr. Edwards chooses to take up civil charges—and, given the expense of this circus, any competent lawyer would recommend he do so—he can get to the bottom of this sordid affair. As for me...” He shuffled several papers, setting a small stack to one side, then nodded to the bailiff.

“All rise, please.”

Scott lurched to his feet.

“I do not appreciate individuals who choose to use the legal system as a weapon against their former spouse, even less so when a child gets caught in the crossfire. I do not appreciate having my or the court’s time wasted on frivolities.

This case is dismissed with the contempt it deserves and there will be no mandated change to the custody agreement for Dylan Edwards. ”

Scott’s knees gave way, and he caught himself on the edge of the table, already turning toward his son as the judge continued.

“As a further note, I understand, Ms. Meyers, your practice is not within family law, and perhaps things are different in your corporate law firms in New York, but we take seriously any number of infractions you have committed before this bench. Rest assured, a strongly worded letter to the appropriate disciplinary committee will be forthcoming.” His gavel smacked the desk, and with a small cry, Dylan launched himself over the banister and into his dad’s arms.

Scott clutched his son.

Beside him, Mark shook hands with the guardian. “Thank you.”

“It’s my job, Mr. Lystead.” She turned to Scott. “I’m sorry you had to go through this, but I’m glad we were able to get to the truth in time.”

He reached out and took her hand. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I don’t even know what to say...”

“Mr. Edwards,” she paused. “Dylan is still a bit too young to have his preferences taken into account in court, but I found him to be a precocious child with a solid sense of what he wanted out of this situation. With respect to that, I’m pleased with how things turned out for you today.”

While Scott parsed the words for meaning, Mark frowned. “Ms. Weiring...”

“Oh, Mark, did you see the way that woman slunk out of here? She won’t be appealing.”

“Still...”

“Oh, fine, then, I’ll say no more.” But she smiled as she offered her hand once again to Scott. “Mr. Edwards, Dylan, it was a pleasure to meet you both. Good luck.”