Chapter 8 - The Paper Citadel Collapses
Becca left my driveway in a daze, barely able to put her car in reverse.
Less than twenty minutes later, Scott’s truck pulled up across the street. He didn't park in my driveway—he knew better than to step on my property after the warnings my attorney had already sent by email. Instead, he sat in his vehicle, furiously texting me.
*“You had no right to talk to my pregnant wife!”*
*“You’re trying to induce her labor with stress!”*
*“I will bury you in legal fees, Holly! You won't see a dime of child support when I'm done with you!”*
I didn't respond to a single text. I simply forwarded every screenshot directly to Evelyn’s paralegal.
The next morning, at 8:45 AM, Evelyn and I stood before Judge Harrison in Courtroom 3B.
Scott had scrambled to appear via Zoom, his face pixelated and flushed red from what looked like an office cubicle. He didn't have an attorney present; he hadn't had enough time to retain one after Evelyn’s emergency filing.
Judge Harrison was an elderly woman with silver hair, sharp horn-rimmed glasses, and a reputation for having zero tolerance for deadbeat or abusive behavior.
“Mr. Miller,” Judge Harrison began, looking up from the thick stack of exhibits Evelyn had provided. “I have here sworn affidavits from three attendees of your social gathering on Saturday. I have Venmo receipts showing you collected $415 for childcare services. And I have a formal report from the local fire marshal regarding an unpermitted deadlock on an egress door.”
Scott cleared his throat, leaning close to his camera. “Your Honor, this is a massive misunderstanding blown out of proportion by my ex-wife. June volunteered to help out. She was excited to be a big sister—”
“Mr. Miller,” Judge Harrison cut him off, her tone like dry ice. “Did you lock the basement door while six minor children were inside?”
Scott’s eyes flickered sideways. “The door latch was loose. I engaged the latch to prevent toddlers from falling—”
“Did you, or did you not, lock the deadbolt from the outside?” Judge Harrison slammed her pen onto the wooden bench.
Scott froze. He knew that lying under oath, with fire inspection records pending, was perjury.
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“...It was locked for a short period to manage safety,” he stammered.
“Safety?” Judge Harrison leaned forward, her voice echoing in the courtroom. “Locking six children under twelve in an enclosed space without adult supervision while you consume alcohol upstairs is not safety, Mr. Miller. It is reckless endangerment. It is gross negligence. And commercializing your twelve-year-old daughter’s labor without her consent to line your own pockets is fundamentally reprehensible.”
