In A Faraway Land (Runaway Princess: Flicka, Book 3)
Page 18
Police officers were stationed all along the courthouse halls—most of them loitering on benches and tapping their sidearms—because this was, after all, a courthouse. Criminal trials were probably going on, too.
Surely Pierre wouldn’t try to kidnap Flicka, and if he tried, she sure as hell would be kicking and screaming in the clear view of a dozen police officers.
Although, Pierre might be able to convince them that he had diplomatic immunity so they couldn’t touch him. He had convinced a lot of people to do some odd things by citing royal privilege.
Flicka kept her head up and strode down the corridor with Dieter at her side. Energy crackled off him as he glared ahead of them. Clerks and lawyers scuttled out of their way.
She had assumed that Pierre wouldn’t show up for his own divorce hearing. He would send lawyers to contest and delay.
She was wrong.
His Serene Highness Pierre Rainier Grimaldi sat at the defense table, conferring with his lawyers.
He looked up when they walked in. His dark eyes stared solidly at her, neither angry nor begging. Just staring. He was glamorously handsome, as always, and his dark blue suit clung to his wide shoulders.
Flicka did not allow her stride to falter. She walked around the table where her lawyers, headed by Joachim Blanchard, were already installed and shuffling paperwork, looking competent and businesslike. Joachim pulled out a chair for her, and she sat with her back straight and her hands spread on the table for balance.
Joachim gently touched her shoulder. “Everything is in order. We are prepared for challenges from His Highness, and we have prepared a number of rebuttal briefs.”
Dieter sat right behind Flicka in the gallery, which had a fair number of people in attendance. Three dozen or so people sat on the wooden pews back there, but she wouldn’t turn to see who they were.
The mob back there didn’t say a word, though. Not a whisper. There was some jostling and a few male grunts.
Nervousness drew her eyes toward Pierre, though she tried not to look.
Their eyes met because he was still staring at her.
“All rise!” a woman’s loud voice said. “The court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Malone, presiding.”
Flicka stood, and her lawyers around her did, too.
A sparrow-like woman flitted up to the judge’s seat and scowled at them all. She spoke rapidly in a voice shaking with age. “Court will come to order. First case is Grimaldi versus Hannover. It appears that your prenuptial agreement is in order and very specific. Ms. Friederike Hannover—”
One of Flicka’s lawyers stood. “If it please the court, it’s Her Serene Highness Friederike von Hanno—”
Flicka grabbed his arm and yanked him back into his chair.
Joachim reached behind Flicka and backhanded the guy on his arm.
The grumpy sparrow judge glared at Flicka’s table. “Were you interrupting me to say something?”
“No, ma’am,” Flicka said.
“Good. Quite an entourage you have there, Ms. Hannover.” Judge Malone glanced over at Pierre’s table. “And you have a crowd, too. Oh, great. I was hoping to start the day with a damned goat rope.”
Flicka didn’t know if roping a goat was a good thing or a bad thing, but the lady judge sounded sarcastic when she said it. She should ask Rae about it later.
The judge scowled at the paper she held. The paper rattled in her grasp. “Ms. Hannover is the plaintiff, and I have your affidavit of residency and a dated water bill in your name to back it up. Excellent. Residency requirements have been met.”
One of Pierre’s lawyers rose. “Madam judge, my client, His Serene Highness Prince Pierre Grimaldi is not a resident of Nevada nor the United States, and thus this court does not have the jurisdiction to grant a divorce.”
Judge Malone peered at him over the top of her bench. “Was your client served with a summons and a notification of the divorce within the allotted time frame?”
“Yes, Your Honor, but—”
“No buts. He doesn’t need to be a resident. She is, and she’s the plaintiff. Her residency gives this case jurisdiction.”
“But she’s not a US citizen,” the lawyer argued.
“Doesn’t matter. For the purposes of this court, she’s a resident of the state of Nevada.” She squinted at him. “Have you been admitted to the bar in the state of Nevada?”
“No, Your Honor. But—”
“I said, no buts. Bailiff, escort this person unknown to the court out of the courtroom.”
A uniformed bailiff strode to the lawyer’s side and walked with him out of the courtroom. The heavy door slammed at the back.
Judge Malone asked, “Anybody else want to say the word ‘but?’”
A whole bunch of downcast head-shaking followed. Flicka tried to keep from grinning at the tiny titan on the bench.
“As I was saying,” the judge went back to looking at her paperwork, “from the paperwork received by the court, the conditions in the first section of the prenuptial contract have been met. The marriage ceremony was less than five years from the date of filing, and there are no children to discuss custody for. Is that correct? Also, you’re considered under oath as you are in a court of law. If you’d like to swear an oath, let me know, but you are speaking under the usual oath and must tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
Pierre didn’t speak.
The judge’s eyes crinkled in anger at Pierre’s table, and her shaking voice rose. “I asked if that information was correct.”
One of Pierre’s lawyers rose to his feet. “My client contends that this court does not have jurisdiction because he is a resident of neither the United States nor Nevada, and he claims diplomatic immunity as a head of a sovereign state. Thus, my client refuses to answer.”
The judge’s scowl deepened. “And have you been admitted to the Nevada state bar?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Bailiff.” That lawyer was escorted down the aisle and out the doors in the back of the courtroom. “Let’s save some time. Have any of the defendant’s attorneys been granted a license to practice law in the great state of Nevada?”
“No, ma’am,” they all answered.
“Bailiff,” the judge spat.
Flicka kept her head down and stared at the table. She knew better than to laugh at this turn of events. The lawyers at her table also engaged in the utmost decorum while Pierre’s attorneys were led from the courtroom.
The judge scribbled a note and held it out to her clerk, who took the paper out of the courtroom through a door near the judge’s podium.
“But her attorneys—” Pierre said.
“—Haven’t said anything stupid,” the judge finished for him. “I’ll ask you once again, Mr. Grimaldi, and I remind you that you are under oath. The marriage ceremony was less than five years from the date of filing, and there are no children to discuss custody for. Is that correct?”
Pierre stared at the table, not responding.
Several more uniformed bailiffs sidled into the courtroom through the side door.
“I can and will hold you in contempt of court,” the judge told Pierre. “Answer the question right now.”
Pierre folded his hands. “I do not recognize this court’s jurisdiction in the matter of my marriage.”
“Yeah, that’s too bad for you.” The judge turned toward Flicka. “Will you answer the question?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Flicka said quickly. “It’s been less than five years, and there are no children and will not be any children from the marriage.”
“You’re positive? Woman to woman?”
“Yes, ma’am. I haven’t seen Pierre Grimaldi for over nine weeks, and I’m sure. I’m sure, twice.”
“Excellent. If this prenup weren’t so nailed down, I’d give you that palace in Monaco. As it is, however, I’m directing your attorneys to prepare the decree with the conditions as laid forth in this contract. Unless you’d like to in
voke the penalties for him contesting the divorce?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Too bad. I might have had some fun with those.”
“I’d rather this be handled quickly, if it’s possible,” Flicka said.
“May it please the court, Most Honorable Madam,” Joachim Blanchard said, standing and holding a piece of paper.
Flicka thought Joachim was laying it on kind of thick, but this was not a judge to piss off.
Her lawyer continued, “We have prepared a decree of divorce with the conditions exactly as stated in the prenuptial agreement.”
Judge Malone stared at him. “Bring the decree forward.”
Joachim approached the bench and gingerly handed her the paperwork as if she might snap his arm off.
She adjusted her reading glasses and leafed through the paperwork, apparently spot-checking clauses. “You stipulate this is exactly as stated in the prenuptial contract?”
“Yes, Most Honorable Madam,” he said, nearly cowering. “We do stipulate.”
“All right.” She plucked a pen from the set at the front of her podium. “I’ll sign it. The decree of divorce is hereby granted, effective immediately.”
“No!” Pierre shouted, standing. “I won’t allow it! You have no right!”
“Contempt of court. Twenty-four hours remand.” Without looking up, the judge flicked her hand in Pierre’s general direction. “Bailiff.”
Bailiffs led His Serene Highness Prince Pierre Grimaldi out of the courtroom while he shouted threats at the judge.
Four burly men wearing black business suits followed him out.
After the heavy wooden doors at the back of the courtroom cut off Pierre’s tantrum, Judge Malone looked over the frames of her half-glasses at Flicka. “I like to read the magazines, and I recognize you. It only lasted six months, did it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Flicka said.
The judge signed the decree of divorce and handed the paper to Joachim, who scurried back to Flicka’s table, clutching it to his chest. He passed one set of papers to Flicka, and she shoved them in her purse.
The judge asked, “Why?”
Flicka glanced downward. “Is this a matter of public record?”
“No. The decree is granted, and the trial is over.”
“He has another family. He married another woman in a church several years ago but not legally, and they have four children together.”
“You could get this annulled for bigamy.”
“There’s no legal documentation at all. The lawyers looked for it. As far as Monaco is concerned, if it’s not legal, it’s not real.”
The judge nodded and scowled, her lips thinned. “That’s a problem. Proving bigamy would have taken longer. Divorce was quicker.”
“When I found out, he beat me up, he assaulted me, and he tried to kill me. He said he would lock me up in Monaco as his prisoner.”
Judge Malone didn’t flinch. “And since?”
“He’s tried to kidnap me at least twice.”
“Damn,” the judge said, her voice softer. “I wish I’d known all that. I would have let you keep the throne of Monaco, too.”
Flicka smiled at her. “It doesn’t work quite like that.”
“Yes, but it would be interesting to watch their lawyers litigate that, wouldn’t it? Go with God, child,” the judge said, tapping the paperwork. “Have your lawyers make sure they file that decree. Indeed, you there,” she pointed to Joachim, “the clerk is right through this door at the front. You should do that right now. And give her that other copy.”
Joachim Blanchard gathered the paperwork and breezed through the door near the judge’s stand.
Judge Malone squinted, looking past Flicka. “The problem now, as I see it, is that there are an unusual number of musclebound men in the gallery of this courtroom. I’ve already pressed the alarm button and passed a note to the authorities here. We’ll have police and bailiffs here to ensure the peace as you leave. Once you get out on the street, there’s only so much we can do. We’ll have officers with you until you leave the premises, and they’ll arrest anyone who attempts to commit assault or kidnapping. Are some of these magnificent specimens with you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Flicka pointed to Dieter, right behind her. “He is.”
“Your name?” she asked him.
“Raphael Mirabaud,” he replied, his Swiss accent as strong as she’d ever heard it. He growled the R in his throat, Rah-fail. He sounded French.
Flicka whipped around, but Dieter’s strong features were impassive, just looking at the judge.
“All right, Mr. Mirabaud, do you have people with you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Flicka looked around the courtroom and recognized the guy who had driven them to the airport in Geneva and the one who had driven them around Paris.
“Good. And are there some people here whom you don’t recognize?”
Dieter said, “Yes, ma’am. Twenty-three of them.”
The judge’s fumbling mouth set in a grim line. “I want you and Ms. Hannover out of this courtroom first, then your people. Point out anyone who isn’t with you to the police who will be escorting you out of the building. I’m giving you a head start. Go now.”
Flicka snatched up her purse and edged out through the crowd of her attorneys. Dieter met her at the opening in the rail.
The other Rogue Security people moved toward them, and they funneled toward the doors in the rear of the courtroom.
Dieter glared at some of the people, and some hesitated.
The others, Dieter pointed out to the police officers who had entered the back door. The officers moved toward them.
The guys that Flicka recognized gathered around them, their arms out to shove people away.
Beyond them, the other guys paced and swarmed, dozens of them.
“There are too many of them,” Flicka whispered to Dieter.
“Rogue Security has a car waiting for us. It’s just around the corner. If we can get to it, we can lose them.”
They clattered down the steps and trotted to the front doors. Morning sunlight blazed through the glass doors like a nuclear explosion was roiling outside.
They pushed the heavy doors aside and hurried to the street.
Someone shoved Flicka, and she toppled sideways.
Hands reached for her, grabbing.
A finger caught in her hair and pulled, and she yanked away from him.
A hand chopped down on the arm that was grabbing her and wrenched it away.
More people swarmed around them. Dieter stiff-armed a man out of their path. A police officer caught the guy and flung him to the sidewalk.
More men in dark suits were coming. Quentin Sault’s face loomed out of the crowd, his hand swiping at her shoulder.
The fight turned more focused. Men at the edges fought the newcomers off, but more Monegasque Secret Security officers kept arriving. Some of them, Flicka didn’t know, and she suspected they were military.
The intense sunlight stung Flicka’s eyes, and she blinked, scattering a tear. She raised her hand to shield her sight from the glare.
A man grabbed her wrist. He pulled her away from Dieter and into the crowd of men.
Dieter punched out, smashed his snarling face, and grabbed her back from the guy. She tripped over her own feet and nearly fell. Dieter’s arm around her waist kept her from tumbling to the sidewalk.
Chaos.
Hands reached for her to drag her into the crowd and under their legs.
Mass chaos and the melee of fighting limbs and howling faces coming at her.
Flicka covered her head and ran with Dieter as he shoved through.
A series of vehicles waited at the curb.
She asked, “What are we looking for?”
“A Honda mini-van. Dark blue.”
Flicka thought she saw a dark van toward the corner. Dieter pulled her the other way, in the direction where several other large, dark vans were waiting.
The man said, “Raphael, come back to us.”
Escape
Dieter Schwarz
Dealing with devils.
The Monegasque Secret Service was closing in.
They had brought reinforcements from the Monegasque military, expanding their strength ten-fold. More barreled around the corners of the courthouse, swarming toward them.
Rogue Security’s van was parked farther down the street.
Beside Dieter, Magnus and Aaron fought the Monegasque men, blocking blows, while he defended Flicka.
The terror in her eyes nearly stopped him dead, but she kept up with him as they pressed through the crowd toward the street.
The desert sun flooded the street and dazzled his eyes with bright, white light.
The Monegasques stripped Magnus and Aaron away from him, dragging them into the scrum where they fought hand-to-hand.
They weren’t going to make it.
Beside him, a man’s voice said, “Raphael, come back to us.”
When he turned, the blazing glare of light settled around the man, on his silver hair, and on his dark blue suit.
Dieter blinked, and the man’s harsh features resolved themselves into a face much like his own, a virtual copy of the man who looked out his mirror while he shaved his jaw. Older, yes. The man’s gray eyes held decades of anger. “Father?”
“Raphael, they’re going to take her. Our van is only steps away. You can’t hold out much longer.”
Evil can speak the truth, which makes it even harder to resist.
In a fraction of a second, Dieter knew his choice: allow Pierre’s men to take Flicka to Monaco, or willingly walk into the fires of Hell that had forged him.
“Yes,” he told his father. “Save her.”
His father touched his elbow.
Men piled out of a van just twenty feet away, heavily armed like riot police. They broke through the crowd, forming a path.
The black-armored men surrounded them, forcing the Monegasque attackers back.
Dieter dragged Flicka as she stumbled toward the van.