Chapter 8: The Hearing
The hearing was on a Thursday in October.
Carol Simms met me outside the courthouse at eight-fifteen.
She had a second coffee in her hand and gave it to me without comment.
We walked in together.
The courtroom was smaller than I expected.
My husband was already seated at the defense table in a gray suit I recognized — he'd worn it to our first anniversary dinner.
His attorney was a tall man named Garrett who had the careful posture of someone used to being watched.
My husband looked at me when I came in.
I looked at the judge's bench and sat down.
The hearing covered four charges.
Carol had walked me through each one the day before, but hearing them read aloud in that room was different.
Cr*minal @buse.
Unlawful imprisonment.
Fraud.
And the fourth — the one the DA had added two weeks earlier — reckless endangerment of an unborn child.
Garrett stood and began.
"Your Honor, my client maintains that the events in question were a private family matter that has been significantly mischaracterized.
The recordings submitted by the prosecution were made without consent and under circumstances my client had no knowledge of.
Furthermore—"
"The recordings were made by the victim," the judge said, "while she was partially buried on her own property.
Continue."
Garrett continued.
He used the word "unstable" twice.
He referenced my "history of emotional episodes" without providing documentation.
He suggested the financial transfers were part of a "mutually agreed investment strategy."
Carol did not interrupt.
She wrote three things on her legal pad and circled one of them.
When it was her turn, she stood and placed a single document on the table in front of her.
"Your Honor, the defense has referenced the victim's emotional history.
I'd like to submit the psychiatric evaluation completed four days ago at the request of this court.
The evaluating physician found no evidence of instability, delusion, or impaired judgment." She paused.
"What the evaluation did find was evidence of prolonged psychological @buse consistent with coercive control, beginning approximately two years into the marriage."
Garrett was on his feet.
"Objection, Your Honor — that report was not submitted in advance—"
"It was submitted yesterday at three p.m.," Carol said.
"Confirmation of receipt is attached."
The judge looked at Garrett.
Garrett sat down.
Carol continued.
"The prosecution will also submit seventeen audio recordings spanning forty-one hours, bank records documenting sixty-three thousand dollars in unauthorized transfers, and a voicemail left by the victim's sister the night before her d—the night before she was found.
We will further submit testimony from Detective Reyes and a forensic accountant retained by the state."
She sat down.
My husband leaned toward Garrett and said something I couldn't hear.
Garrett did not respond.
The judge set a trial date.
She denied the motion to exclude the recordings in four sentences.
She set bail conditions that included no contact with me, no travel outside the state, and surrender of both phones — including the prepaid one found in the storage unit.
My husband stood when the judge left the bench.
He turned toward me.
Garrett put a hand on his arm.
"This isn't finished," my husband said.
Not loudly.
The way he said things when he wanted only me to hear.
"I know," I said.
He waited for more.
I picked up my bag and followed Carol toward the door.
Outside, the October air was cold and clean.
"He'll take a plea," Carol said, pulling on her coat.
"Garrett knows the recordings are devastating.
He'll push for a deal before trial."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then we go to trial and the jury hears forty-one hours of audio." She glanced at me.
"He'll take the plea."
My phone buzzed.
A message from Detective Reyes.
*Jocelyn's attorney contacted us this morning.
She wants to cooperate.*
I stopped walking.
Carol read the message over my shoulder.
"There it is," she said quietly.
"When the people around a man like that finally understand he can't protect them anymore, they start protecting themselves."
The courthouse steps were wide and gray and caught the morning light.
I stood there for a moment with the coffee in my hand and the city moving below me and my daughter — we had learned she was a daughter, three days ago — pressing one small foot against my ribs.
May you like
She was already impatient.
I understood that completely.
