by Sandra Brown
Holly entered her chambers to find her assistant, Mrs. Debra Briggs, eating a carton of yogurt at her desk. “Want one?”
“No thanks. I just had a face-to-face exchange with my opponent.”
“If that won’t spoil your appetite, nothing will. He reminds me of an old mule that my grandpa had when I was a kid.”
“I can see the resemblance. Long face, big ears, toothy smile.”
“I was referring to the other end of the mule.”
Holly laughed. “Messages?”
“Marilyn Vidal has called twice.”
“Get back to her and tell her I’m due in court. I’ll call her after this hearing.”
“She won’t like being put off.”
Marilyn, the powerhouse orchestrating her campaign, could be irritatingly persistent. “No, she won’t, but she’ll get over it.”
Holly went into her private office and closed the door. She needed a few minutes alone to collect herself before the upcoming custody hearing. The encounter with Sanders—and she hated herself for this—had left her with an atypical uneasiness. She was confident that she could defeat him at the polls and retain the judgeship to which she’d been temporarily appointed.
But as she zipped herself into her robe, his parting shot echoed through her mind like a dire prediction.
* * *
Crawford?”
Having arrived early, he’d been trying to empty his mind of negative thoughts while staring through the wavy glass of a fourth-floor window of the venerable Prentiss County Courthouse.
His name brought him around. Grace and Joe Gilroy were walking toward him, their expressions somber, as befitted the reason for their being there.
“Hi, Grace.”
His mother-in-law was petite and pretty, with eyes through which her sweet disposition shone. The outside corners tilted up slightly, a physical trait that Beth had inherited. He and Grace hugged briefly.
As she pulled back, she gave him an approving once-over. “You look nice.”
“Thanks. Hello, Joe.”
He released Grace and shook hands with Beth’s dad. Joe’s hobby was carpentry, which had given him a row of calluses at the base of his fingers. Indeed, everything about Joe Gilroy was tough for a man just past seventy.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
Crawford forced himself to smile. “Great.”
Joe appeared not to believe the exaggeration, but he didn’t comment on it. Nor did he return Crawford’s smile.
Grace said, “I guess we’re all a little nervous.” She hesitated, then asked Crawford if he was feeling one way or the other about the hearing.
“You mean whether I’ll win or lose?”
She looked pained. “Please don’t think of the outcome in terms of winning or losing.”
“Don’t you?”
“We only want what’s best for Georgia,” Joe said. Interpreted, that meant it would be best for her to remain with them. “I’m sure that’s what Judge Spencer wants, too.”
Crawford held his tongue and decided to save his debate for the courtroom. Talking it over with them now was pointless and could only lead to antagonism. The simple fact was that today he and his in-laws were on opposing sides of a legal issue, the outcome of which would profoundly affect all of them. Somebody was going to leave the courthouse defeated and unhappy. Crawford wouldn’t be able to congratulate them if the judge ruled in their favor, and he wasn’t about to wish them luck. He figured they felt much the same way toward him.
Since both parties had agreed to leave Georgia out of the proceedings entirely, Crawford asked Grace what arrangements she’d made for her while they were in court. “She’s on a play date with our neighbor’s granddaughter. She was so excited when I dropped her off. They’re going to bake cookies.”
Crawford winced. “Her last batch were a little gooey in the center.”
“She always takes them out of the oven too soon,” Joe said.
Crawford smiled. “She can’t wait to sample them.”
“She needs to learn the virtue of patience.”
In order to maintain his smile, Crawford had to clench his teeth. His father-in-law was good at getting in barbs like that, aimed at Crawford’s character flaws. That one had been a zinger. Also well timed. Before Crawford could respond, the Gilroys’ attorney stepped off the elevator. They excused themselves to confer with him.
Within minutes Crawford’s attorney arrived. Bill Moore’s walk was as brisk as his manner. But today his determined stride was impeded by dozens of potential jurors who had crowded into the corridor looking for their assigned courtroom.
The attorney plowed his way through them, connected with Crawford, and together they went into Judge Spencer’s court.
The bailiff, Chet Barker, was a courthouse institution. He was a large man with a gregarious nature to match his size. He greeted Crawford by name. “Big day, huh?”
“Yeah it is, Chet.”
The bailiff slapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Crawford’s butt barely had time to connect with the seat of his chair before Chet was asking everyone to rise. The judge entered the courtroom, stepped onto the podium, and sat down in the high-backed chair that Crawford uneasily likened to a throne. In a way, it was. Here, the honorable Judge Holly Spencer had absolute rule.
Chet called court into session and asked everyone to be seated.
“Good afternoon,” the judge said. She asked the attorneys if all parties were present, and when the formalities were out of the way, she clasped her hands on top of the lectern.
“Although I took over this case from Judge Waters, I’ve familiarized myself with it. As I understand the situation, in May of 2010, Grace and Joe Gilroy filed for temporary custody of their granddaughter, Georgia Hunt.” She looked at Crawford. “Mr. Hunt, you did not contest that petition.”
“No, Your Honor, I did not.”
William Moore stood up. “If I may, Your Honor?”
She nodded.
In his rat-a-tat fashion, the lawyer stated the major components of Crawford’s petition to regain custody and summarized why it was timely and proper that Georgia be returned to him. He ended by saying, “Mr. Hunt is her father. He loves her, and his affection is returned, as two child psychologists attest. I believe you have copies of their evaluations of Georgia?”
“Yes, and I’ve reviewed them.” The judge gazed thoughtfully at Crawford, then said, “Mr. Hunt will have a chance to address the court, but first I’d like to hear from the Gilroys.”
Their lawyer sprang to his feet, eager to get their objections to Crawford’s petition on the record. “Mr. Hunt’s stability was brought into question four years ago, Your Honor. He gave up his daughter without argument, which indicates that he knew his child would be better off with her grandparents.”
The judge held up her hand. “Mr. Hunt has conceded that it was in Georgia’s best interest to be placed with them at that time.”
“We hope to persuade the court that she should remain with them.” He called Grace to testify. She was sworn in. Judge Spencer gave her a reassuring smile as she took her seat in the witness box.
“Mrs. Gilroy, why are you and Mr. Gilroy contesting your son-in-law’s petition to regain custody?”
Grace wet her lips. “Well, ours is the only home Georgia has known. We’ve dedicated ourselves to making it a loving and nurturing environment for her.” She expanded on the healthy home life they had created.
Judge Spencer finally interrupted. “Mrs. Gilroy, no one in this courtroom, not even Mr. Hunt, disputes that you’ve made an excellent home for Georgia. My decision won’t be determined by whether or not you’ve provided well for the child, but whether or not Mr. Hunt is willing and able to provide an equally good home for her.”
“I know he loves her,” Grace said, sending an uneasy glance his way. “But love alone isn’t enough. In order to feel secure, children need constancy, routine. Sinc
e Georgia doesn’t have a mother, she needs the next best thing.”
“Her daddy.” Crawford’s mutter drew disapproving glances from everyone, including the judge.
Bill Moore nudged his arm and whispered, “You’ll have your turn.”
The judge asked Grace a few more questions, but the upshot of what his mother-in-law believed was that to remove Georgia from their home now would create a detrimental upheaval in her young life. She finished with, “My husband and I feel that a severance from us would have a damaging impact on Georgia’s emotional and psychological development.”
To Crawford the statement sounded scripted and rehearsed, something their lawyer had coached Grace to say, not something that she had come up with on her own.
Judge Spencer asked Crawford’s attorney if he had any questions for Mrs. Gilroy. “Yes, Your Honor, I do.” He strode toward the witness box and didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “Georgia often spends weekends with Mr. Hunt, isn’t that right?”
“Well, yes. Once we felt she was old enough to spend a night away from us, and that Crawford was… was trustworthy enough, we began allowing him to keep her overnight. Sometimes two nights.”
“When she’s returned to you after these sleepovers with her father, what is Georgia like?”
“Like?”
“What’s her state of mind, her general being? Does she run to you crying, arms outstretched, grateful to be back? Does she act intimidated, fearful, or traumatized? Is she ever in a state of emotional distress? Is she withdrawn and uncommunicative?”
“No. She’s… fine.”
“Crying only when her father returns her to you. Isn’t that right?”
Grace hesitated. “She sometimes cries when he drops her off. But only on occasion. Not every time.”
“More often crying after a lengthier visit with him,” the attorney said. “In other words, the longer she’s with him, the greater her separation anxiety when she’s returned to you.” He saw that the Gilroys’ lawyer was about to object and waved him back into his seat. “Conclusion on my part.”
He apologized to the judge, but Crawford knew he wasn’t sorry for having gotten his point across and on the record.
He addressed another question to Grace. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Hunt intoxicated?”
“It was a while ago. I don’t remember exactly.”
“A week ago? A month? A year?”
“Longer than that.”
“Longer than that,” Moore repeated. “Four years ago? During the worst of his bereavement over the loss of his wife?”
“Yes. But—”
“To your knowledge, has Mr. Hunt ever been drunk while with Georgia?”
“No.”
“Lost his temper and struck her?”
“No.”
“Yelled at her, used abusive or vulgar language in front of her?”
“No.”
“Failed to feed her when she was hungry?”
“No.”
“Failed to secure her in her car seat? Not shown up when she was expecting him? Has he ever neglected to see to his daughter’s physical or emotional needs?”
Grace dipped her head and spoke softly. “No.”
Moore turned to the judge and spread his arms at his sides. “Your Honor, this proceeding is an imposition on the court’s time. Mr. Hunt made some mistakes, which he readily acknowledges. Over time, he’s reconstructed his life. He relocated to Prentiss from Houston in order to see his daughter regularly.
“He’s undergone the counseling that your predecessor mandated twelve months ago. A year hasn’t diminished his determination to regain custody of his child, and I submit that, except for their own selfish interests, there are no grounds whatsoever for Mr. and Mrs. Gilroy to be contesting my client’s petition.”
The Gilroys’ lawyer surged to his feet. “Your Honor, my clients’ grounds for contesting this petition are in the file. Mr. Hunt has proved himself to be unfit—”
“I have the file, thank you,” Judge Spencer said. “Mrs. Gilroy, please step down. I’d like to hear from Mr. Hunt now.”
Grace left the witness stand looking distraught, as though she had miserably failed their cause.
Crawford stood up, smoothed down his necktie, and walked to the witness box. Chet swore him in. Crawford sat down and looked at the judge—in the eye, as Moore had coached him to do.
“Mr. Hunt, four years ago some of your behavior brought your ability to be a good parent into question.”
“Which is why I didn’t contest Joe and Grace being awarded temporary custody of Georgia. She was only thirteen months old when Beth died. She needed constant care, which circumstances prevented me from providing. My obligations at work, other issues.”
“Serious other issues.”
That wasn’t a question. He kept his mouth shut.
The judge flipped through several official looking papers and ran her finger down one sheet. “You were arrested and pled guilty to DUI.”
“Once. But I—”
“You were arrested for public indecency and—”
“I was urinating.”
“—assault.”
“It was a bar fight. Everyone who threw a punch was detained. I was released without—”
“I have the file.”
He sat there seething, realizing that his past would devastate his future. Judge Holly Spencer was cutting him no slack. After giving him a long, thoughtful appraisal, she again shuffled through the pages of what she had referred to as his “file.” He wondered how bad it looked with his transgressions spelled out in black and white. If her frown was any indication, not good.
Finally, she said, “You went to all the counseling sessions.”
“Judge Waters made clear that each one was mandatory. All twenty-five of them. I made certain not to miss any.”
“The therapist’s report is comprehensive. According to her, you made remarkable progress.”
“I think so. I know so.”
“I commend your diligence Mr. Hunt, and I admire your commitment to regaining custody of the daughter you obviously love.”
Here it comes, he thought.
“However—”
The door at the back of the courtroom burst open and a figure straight out of a horror movie ran up the center aisle, handgun extended. The first bullet struck the wall behind the witness box, splitting the distance between Crawford and Judge Spencer.
The second one got the bailiff Chet Barker square in the chest.
A Letter from the Author
Dear Reader:
Early in my career I wrote two books under the pseudonym Laura Jordan. The name had no significance other than that I liked the sound of it! However, the books themselves were significant, each in its own way.
Prior to The Silken Web, I had written only romances for various series, where word count was specified to fit a particular format. I had no such restrictions with The Silken Web, so it became my first “long” book.
A year or so after it was published, the editor Star Helmer told me she had heard through the grapevine that I had written a western romance, set in Texas around the turn of the twentieth century. I had, but since I was focusing on contemporary romances, I had never submitted the manuscript.
Ms. Helmer asked to see it. I took it off the shelf, spent a month or so rewriting and revising, and sent it to her. She bought it. I’ve published only four books with a historical setting. Hidden Fires was the first of them.
The commonality of The Silken Web and Hidden Fires ends with their having been originally published under the Laura Jordan pen name and both are love stories. I hope you enjoy them!
—Sandra Brown
About the Author
Sandra Brown is the author of sixty-three New York Times bestsellers. There are over 80 million copies of her books in print worldwide, and her work has been translated into thirty-four languages. She lives in Texas. For more information you can visit www.SandraBrown.net.
Friction
Mean Streak
Low Pressure
Lethal
Mirror Image
Where There’s Smoke
Charade
Exclusive
Envy
The Switch
The Crush
Fat Tuesday
Unspeakable
The Witness
The Alibi
Standoff
Best Kept Secrets
Breath of Scandal
French Silk
LOOK FOR SANDRA BROWN’S THRILLERS
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
A Preview of Friction
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Also by Sandra Brown
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Copyright
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
