Chapter 6
The criminal trial started a month later.
Olivia was 39 weeks pregnant.
Big, uncomfortable, her ankles swollen, her back aching, but she refused to miss a single day.
“I want to be there,” she said, when I tried to talk her into staying home.
“I want her to see my face when they read the verdict.
I want her to know she didn’t break me.”
So we went.
Every day for two weeks.
Sat through the same lies.
The same fake tears from Mom.
The same attempts by her lawyer to paint Olivia as unstable, violent, a liar who’d hurt herself to frame an innocent old woman.
But the evidence was overwhelming.
The photos of the bruises, dated and timestamped by the hospital.
The voice memos, clear as day, every threat captured forever.
The photo Mom had slipped under our door, the red marker still bright.
The testimony of the motel clerk who’d turned her in.
The fake will, proven to be printed on our home printer, the serial number matching the one in our office.
Mom took the stand in her own defense.
It was a disaster.
She started out calm, soft-spoken, the grieving widow and wronged mother.
But when our prosecutor cross-examined her, playing the voice memos one by one, asking her to explain each threat, she snapped.
“Those are fake!” she screamed, slamming her fist on the witness stand.
The jury jumped.
“That little bitch edited them!
She’s been out to get me from the day she married my son!
She only wanted the money!
And he’s too stupid to see it!
That baby is a mistake!
I should have finished the job when I had the chance!”
The courtroom went dead silent.
Mom’s face was red, her hair falling out of its perfect bun, spittle flying from her mouth as she screamed.
Her lawyer put his head in his hands.
The judge banged his gavel, over and over, trying to get her to be quiet.
“Order! Order in the court!”
It took three bailiffs to pull her off the stand, still screaming, kicking, calling Olivia every name in the book.
Olivia sat beside me, her hand tight in mine, her face calm.
No fear.
Just a quiet, steady resolve.
She’d been right.
Mom had finally shown the jury who she really was.
The jury deliberated for four hours.
We sat in the hallway outside the courtroom, Olivia’s head on my shoulder, the baby kicking hard against my side, like he was just as anxious as we were.
“Any minute now,” I said, rubbing her back.
“Then it’s all over.”
The bailiff called us back in.
The jury filed in.
No one looked at Mom.
The foreman stood up, the verdict form in his hand.
“On the count of aggravated assault of a pregnant person, we find the defendant guilty.”
A quiet gasp went through the gallery.
“On the count of harassment with a deadly threat, guilty.”
“On the count of violation of a protective order, guilty.”
“On the count of forgery of a legal document, guilty.”
Four guilty verdicts.
All of them.
Mom didn’t move.
She sat there, stiff as a board, staring straight ahead, like if she didn’t move, none of it was real.
The judge set sentencing for the next morning.
“Due to the violent nature of the crimes, and the defendant’s clear lack of remorse,” he said, “bail is revoked.
The defendant will be held in county jail until sentencing.”
The bailiffs stepped forward, cuffed her hands behind her back, and led her out.
This time, she didn’t fight.
Didn’t scream.
Just walked slow, her head down, the cuffs glinting in the courtroom lights.
We walked out into the hallway.
Ryan was waiting for us, a big smile on his face.
“Told you we’d get her,” he said, clapping me on the back.
“Four counts.
She’s not going to see the outside of a prison cell for a very long time.”
Olivia smiled.
A real, genuine smile, the first one that reached her eyes in months.
“Thank you,” she said, hugging him.
“For everything.”
That night, we went home.
Ordered pizza.
Sat on the couch and watched a stupid comedy, neither of us really paying attention.
We were too happy.
Too relieved.
It was finally over.
Mom was gone.
She could never hurt us again.
At 2 a.m., Olivia woke me up.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, breathing hard, her hand pressed to her lower back.
“Ethan,” she said.
Her voice was tight with pain.
“I think it’s time.”
I was out of bed before she finished the sentence.
Grabbed the hospital bag we’d packed weeks ago.
Helped her into the car, driving fast but careful to the hospital, one hand on the wheel, one hand holding hers through every contraction.
12 hours.
12 long, hard hours of labor.
Olivia squeezed my hand so hard I thought my fingers would break.
Cried.
Screamed.
Told me she hated me, then told me she loved me, then told me she hated me again.
Dr. Hale was there, calm and steady, guiding her through every push.
Then, at 2:14 p.m., we heard it.
A loud, strong, angry cry.
Our son.
Dr. Hale held him up, pink and screaming, his tiny fists clenched at his sides.
“It’s a boy,” she said, smiling.
“Perfectly healthy.
8 pounds, 2 ounces.
Strong lungs on this one.”
She laid him on Olivia’s chest.
Olivia cried, holding him tight, her fingers brushing his soft dark hair.
I cried too, leaning over them both, my hand resting on his tiny back, feeling his heart beat fast and strong under my palm.
We named him Thomas.
After my dad.
Thomas James Carter.
That night, after the nurses had checked him over, after Olivia had fallen asleep, exhausted, I sat in the chair beside the bed, holding Tommy in my arms.
He was asleep, his mouth open, soft little snores coming out.
I looked at Olivia, sleeping peaceful for the first time in months.
Looked at my son, warm and safe in my arms.
All the fear, all the guilt, all the pain of the last six months melted away.
We’d made it.
May you like
All three of us.
We were a family.
