by Kat Kenyon
Frenwhit nearly curls in on himself, his eyes bulging as he blanches.
“You did want the record to be clear, right?” Arnowsky tilts his head at him.
“Fine, you’re right, but how’s an eighteen-year-old boy supposed to help her?”
Looking over at Rayne, who hasn’t moved or made another sound, I have to fight the burn and shift my eyes to glare at the person responsible for her being knocked out and unable to talk for herself.
“Apparently, better than you. She wasn’t like that when she was home.”
“Your honor.” The prosecutor erupts before being waved down by the judge who directs his next question to our table.
“That’s what I want to know. How’s a teenage boy supposed to help her?” he asks Arnowsky.
“Your Honor, is the doctor going to take the stand so I can finish?”
“Yes, but I will want that answered,” the judge says.
And that’s how it goes. The doctor, the techs, the damn police officers are all called to testify, but none of it’s anything we didn’t already know.
We call Detective Gillete to the stand, confirming what we’ve already told them. Reports from her hospital visit are submitted to explain the bruises present at intake. None of it changes the reality that she was getting better before they took her, and they have nothing but therapy to offer her. Or drugs. Nothing to fix what they broke.
The last person called is Rayne’s piece of shit mother, Emily.
Dabbing at fake tears as she walks forward, she still avoids looking at her daughter. Emily directs a shaky smile at the judge before whipping her eyes to the prosecutor. Her tears and concern are as fake as the tan she’s sporting, and she lies as she testifies that she and Rayne were close until recently.
It makes me want to throw up.
“I don’t know what happened between Mr. Blackman and my daughter, but she hasn’t been the same. She doesn’t talk to me, refuses to come home. I don’t know if she’s afraid he’ll leave her if she has contact with her family or if she’s scared of him, but my daughter is a good girl and would never behave like this. She’s never treated me like this until she got together with that boy. He’s warped her mind.” Another fake dab of her tissue. “Whatever she went through at the end of last semester, signing a document giving him power over her just proves she’s not in her right mind.”
Her performance is stunning. She makes me sound like Svengali, as if I’m why she’s alienated from her daughter. Corey taps me on the shoulder, handing me a slip of paper, sharp angry black scrawls jumping off the page. Our eyes meet for a moment and I see a mirror image of rage.
The prosecutor asks a couple more questions but they don’t matter. Corey nods to Arnowsky, who turns to see us, and grabs the paper when offered. My lawyer’s eyes light up when he reads it, standing when the other side finishes.
“Ms. Donahue, do you know the young man sitting behind my client?”
Her gaze flies behind me. Her eyes harden, lips thinning. For a moment, her neck muscles tightening to steel cords before the tissue she’s been waving like a flag drops to her lap, hostility straightening her spine.
“Ms. Donahue, who is he?” Arnowsky asks again.
“My son, Corey.” A grimace replaces her fake tears.
“Your son. The son who left home as soon as he could?” Arnowsky waves at Corey.
Her tongue swipes at the red lipstick on her lips, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Ms. Donahue, did Corey leave home before or after he turned eighteen?”
The shake of her head precedes her jaw clenching as she turns away.
“Your Honor?” Arnowsky lifts a shoulder, then gestures to the witness box.
“Yes,” Emily snaps before the judge forces her. Waving a dismissive hand at her son, she continues, “He and I didn’t get along. He abandoned both me and his sister because he got some girl pregnant.”
“When did he leave?”
“He was sixteen.”
“Wow,” my lawyer says. “He left your home at sixteen, the end of his sophomore year, right?”
“Yes.”
“Before he left, what were his responsibilities at home?”
Emily waves a hand and lets a heaving breath come across the microphone in front of her. “I don’t know what you mean?”
“All kids have responsibilities at home. What were his?”
Getting flustered, she turns away again.
“Ma’am, who took Rayne to school in the morning when Corey lived at home?”
“Corey.”
“Who took Rayne to dance class after school?”
Huffing, she looks at Arnowsky and answers, “Corey.”
“Who made dinner at night for the children?”
She points a finger at him. “I see where you’re going with this, and yes, as a teenager he had to help me. I had things I had to do.”
“Really? Did you have a job? What were your hours?”
“I don’t remember.”
Arnowsky gives her a sarcastic smile. “Well, can you tell me where you’ve worked in the last eighteen years?”
“I haven’t found a lot of work.”
“Okay, so if you weren’t working, why did Corey have to get his sister up, get her dressed, take her to school before he could go to his, take her to her activities, feed her, and keep her clothes clean?”
Glaring, she points a finger at Corey. “So, he had responsibilities. Like you said, all kids do.”
“You’re right, I did, but again, what were your responsibilities? I mean you weren’t working, so how did you afford your home, activities, food?”
Emily’s face goes blank. “Rayne’s father took care of things. He wanted to make sure she had everything she needed.”
“But it wasn’t her father who paid, was it? It was her grandfather. And the payments for all your living expenses were all made by him directly, so you didn’t even have to pay your own bills.” Arnowsky almost smiles and then walks up to the bailiff with a document. “This is a record of the care agreement worked out between the Mathews family and Ms. Donahue seventeen years ago. Please note paragraph eight G, where it states that when and if Rayne Mathews moved away from home, for any reason, that same support would follow her.”
The document is passed to the judge, who scans it quickly. “Accepted and noted.”
“Now,” my lawyer says, “isn’t it a fact Rayne moved out of your home at the beginning of fall semester and made it clear she wouldn’t be coming back? And the child support followed her? You were notified you’d be responsible for your own rent payments and other expenses starting September first, weren’t you?”
“Yes, but they misunderstood.” She snarls at my lawyer then at me. “She just moved to the dorm. She wasn’t moving away from me permanently.”
“Not true. She formally let them know she wouldn’t be moving back.” Arnowsky’s smile breaks through. “So, how were you supporting yourself?”
“Rayne would have come home.”
“No, she didn’t want to come home. She notified them and you that she was never returning. And she didn’t. She didn’t visit and she didn’t go home for a single holiday. And that’s when she started ignoring your calls. The Mathews family was very clear on her plans, as were her friends.” His smile hardens. “So, how were you planning to take care of yourself?”
This would make any other mother sad, but Emily’s angry, grinding her teeth. “I don’t know. Is that what you want to hear? I didn’t know for sure.”
“But you had an idea, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Her eyes narrow, the wrinkles around her eyes getting deep.
“Well, you called your son for the first time in several years to discuss the possibilities.”
Her voice goes flat. “I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember calling him daily in October? You don’t remember your idea to use your daughter’s romance with Mr. Blackman to make mo
ney from the media?”
Pure hate spreads across her face. “I just wanted to talk to my son about his sister. She wouldn’t return my phone calls.”
“Didn’t you tell Corey that with her new notoriety, you could make money?”
“I don’t remember saying that.”
Even the judge looks like he’s about to scoff when she says it, but Arnowsky just keeps going as if she didn’t say something ridiculous. “Didn’t you tell Corey that Rayne wasn’t doing her job as a daughter? She wouldn’t give you money from her paternal family and she wasn’t using the publicity from being Mr. Blackman’s girlfriend to make money. Money you needed for your drug habit.”
The prosecutor jumps to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor!”
“Counsel.” The judge leans over his desk, raising his brow.
“Your Honor, I have evidence.” Arnowsky almost sounds smug as he stares at Emily.
“Sidebar. Now.”
The court explodes into whispers. Not just our side of the room, but the people on the other side. No one checked anything out before they busted in on us and Detective Gillete reads them the riot act while the two attorneys talk to the judge.
The only person who doesn’t respond is Rayne, still sitting in the wheelchair, eyes now half-closed.
“Everyone, we’ll take a break while I review evidence and these reports,” the judge says, breaking away from the heated argument. “Expect to be back in here in thirty.”
The judge vanishes before we have time to stand and as soon as he’s gone, I get back up and head over to Rayne. Two steps from the table, I’m blocked by the bailiff as the two hospital workers take Rayne’s wheelchair.
“Why can’t I see her?”
The bailiff lifts his hand to block me while she disappears through the door she came out of, taking what little calm I had left. “She’s being taken into the judge’s waiting room, for now.”
Stepping into the bailiff, I press my chest to his open palm. “I have a right to see her.”
“Don’t do anything stupid, kid,” the bailiff says. Understanding and determination meet my pain. “You haven’t lost yet, don’t do something that’ll cause you to.”
I don’t get a chance to say more before Arnowsky’s hand comes to my shoulder, pulling me back.
There’s no air.
If she doesn’t break, I might.
• • • •
“Everyone wants what’s best for Miss Mathews.”
The judge sat down when he came back in and he didn’t look at me.
Fuck you.
You don’t know her. You don’t care. Fuck the prosecutor talking. Fuck all the cops who didn’t listen. Fuck the doctor keeping her drugged, and let me throw her mother in the nearest dumpster. I’ll make those crocodile tears real.
“If you don’t calm down, they’ll put you inside with her.” Corey’s hand lands on my shoulder and his nearly inaudible whisper directly in my ear makes me jerk. I almost brain us both when I whip around to look at him.
Corey gives me a little shake then nods my attention back to the judge.
“There’s really no unringing of the bell,” the judge says, shaking his head. “Mr. Blackman’s support was doing Ms. Mathews a great deal of good. And it’s clear the POA was signed with full knowledge of what it meant. But the fact is, we have a non-cooperative patient who needs help. Help I’m compelled to grant given the opinion from the hospital.”
Arnowsky objects, but the judge waves him off. “I know, you object. I’m not dismissing your points, which is why I want you to go talk this out.”
It only takes a second for the judge to disappear and for both attorneys to wave everyone into a small room across the hall. With Neil and Sam standing like pillars by the door, almost every interested party gets packed into a tiny conference room, including Mom and Aunt Margot, who sit directly behind Arnowsky and me.
The glare between Corey and his mother as he takes a seat beside me adds to the thick atmosphere of the room. Seated across the table are the prosecutor, the doctor, and Emily, with the officers, and Gillete against the wall. But Rayne’s missing, and she should be here.
Arnowsky waves me off when I open my mouth, opening a folder and directing his comment to the prosecutor. “Ms. Donahue doesn’t have Rayne’s best interests at heart. She never has. It’s the reason she gave her POA to Mr. Blackman. Ms. Donahue had no authority to step into a courtroom regarding her daughter. She has no business trying to use the courts to get back control of a grown woman. We want her removed.”
“I’m her mother. She belongs to me!” Emily snaps, rising from her seat.
Arnowsky snorts. “She’s not a car, you don’t own her. She made a choice to remove your influence, and so, legally, you have no right to be here.”
This is important to Rayne, and I made it clear before we got to court that this was wasn’t an option.
“I. Am. Her. Mother,” Emily says, nearly screeching.
“A mother who uses her daughter for drug money.” Arnowsky directs the demand to the prosecutor. “We want her gone.”
The two attorneys stare at each other for a long time. It’s a game of chicken to see who breaks first.
When Arnowsky doesn’t say anything, the prosecutor looks to me and asks, “Can’t you be reasonable? It’s her daughter.”
Rayne would be pissed if I budged. Besides, if that bitch stays much longer, I’m going to lose it. Every trigger my therapist and I worked on last semester has been tripped, and I’m not containing myself well. “That bitch needs to go,” I grind out.
Emily sputters as she launches to her feet and the prosecutor’s look of frustration flips between me and her. “Mr. Blackman—” he says.
“You have no right!” Emily shouts.
She has no idea what I know, and the prosecutor has no idea what she’s done. I won’t give this woman access to Rayne when it’s one of the things my girl fears most. “Rayne gave me the right. If and when Rayne ever wants you, she’ll call.”
The prosecutor shakes his head and taps his pen. “This isn’t a great way to start, Phil,” he says to Arnowsky before motioning to Emily. “Ms. Donahue, you’ll need to step out.”
“No, I’m staying right here.” She practically throws herself into her seat. “She’s my daughter and I decide.”
“But you don’t.” My hands shake as I lean across the table. “Get out. She wants nothing to do with you, and I’m not allowing you to do an end run around her.”
Emily bares her teeth at me, yellow and dark. “Fuck you, you arrogant little prick. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Maybe not.” My hands slide across the table. “But I can kick your ass out of here. You’re not using her on my watch. And it’s my. Fucking. Watch.”
Skeletal fingers turn white from her grip on the table. “What are you going to do, make me leave? That’d be assault.”
The door opens and a security guard comes in and waves at Emily. “Ma’am, please come with me.”
Behind him, Sam smirks. It’s clear he slipped out and got backup. But, even then, she refuses until the guard grabs her bag and lets her know she’ll be detained if she stays. A moment later, she finally storms out, flashing a finger my direction, pupils blown. “You’re gonna be sorry for this. You’re gonna wish you’d stuck to running that little ball.”
My mom inhales sharply, but it’s the prosecutor who says something first. “You really shouldn’t get between family, Mr. Blackman.”
Shifting my eyes to him, a hazy red filter over my vision.
One. Two. Three. Four.
The therapy that helped me calm down last fall is my desperate attempt to not explode. My therapist recommended counting when I want to beat someone with their own arm and the exercise helps…some…until the doctor adjusts his glasses and inserts himself.
“Mr. Blackman, family ties are very important, and I just don’t believe you have the knowledge or maturity to be making these decisions for her,�
� the prosecutor says.
I am wildfire raging in the wind.
Out of nowhere, I’m slammed back into my seat by a strong hand. Corey’s standing beside me, his firm grip trying to ground me. The stunned looks of both the doctor and attorney let me know I was moving.
“Excuse me, but you don’t know shit about my family.” Corey’s voice cuts through the fog. “Emily Donahue isn’t a mother, she’s a vampire. She doesn’t give a shit about my sister. I don’t know why she’s doing this, but it isn’t for Rayne.” Corey’s around five eleven so when he leans forward, hands braced, he takes up a healthy chunk of the table. “I don’t know what my mom’s up to, I don’t know what you guys are playing at, but my sister was getting better. And based on what I just saw, you fucked it up. Now give her back to Tyler.”
His hands are shaking when he sits back down. When our eyes connect, we nod. He knows I love her, and I know he wants to help, and we both choke on guilt and devotion.
The prosecutor takes a big breath and shakes his head. “I’m not the one who did anything, gentlemen. I’m just here to help.”
Arnowsky finally offers, “Great, then release my client to the care of her boyfriend.”
“I don’t feel comfortable doing that based on what Dr. Frenwhit has told me.”
Snorting, Arnowsky dismisses the doctor and focuses his ire at the prosecutor. “You mean the hospital wants to cover its ass.”
“Phil,” the prosecutor sighs.
“No, John, you saw.”
I didn’t realize they knew each other, but as they face across each other, they may be acquainted, but are completely at odds.
“They fucked up and they want to cover it up.”
“I don’t know that. I saw a girl who was drugged because she bit someone. She bit cops.”
“You mean when they attacked her in our home?” I accuse the cops behind him, both having the decency to look uncomfortable.
“Tyler, tone it down,” Arnowsky tells me.
I shake my head. “She’s already been assaulted twice, beaten, and raped, and you’re surprised she fought back? Fuck you.”
