Disorder in the Court

Trafford Publishing

Contents

Prologue..........................................ixPart I. That Morning..............................1Part II. That Afternoon...........................50Part III. That Evening............................122Part IV. Outside Intervention.....................169Part V. Brian's Demands...........................233Part VI. Show Time................................279Epilogue Five years later.........................311

Chapter One

That Morning

Jim and Monica's Home

Monica was lucky to have slept at all last night. It was exactly the same as it had been all week. She had made the attempt, lying next to her husband Jim, but all she could think of was today's trip to court. She rubbed her tired, swollen eyes, like some women do when they get out of bed. Her husband, to whom she had been married for sixteen years, was already up, chipper and shaving in their large master bathroom. He looked around the corner, his face half-covered with shaving cream, and spoke to her.

"Oh, good. You're up."

His prematurely gray hair was already in place perfectly for the day even though he was not through with his shave. Monica looked into the dresser mirror and saw her black hair looking more like a haystack or an old wig. How does he do it, she wondered? She asked aloud, "How can you sleep like that, knowing what's going on?"

Obviously finished with his shave, Jim walked out with a towel around his neck, drying his face. He had put on weight during their marriage, but not a lot, just enough to make him appear married and comfortable. He sat down on the bed next to his wife, kissed her on the cheek, and answered her question, "Things are going to be the same whether I get a good night's sleep or not. You need to realize that."

Jim got up and looked at himself in the mirror.

"I think that I've lost some weight since this happened. It must be the stress," he announced.

Monica said nothing because, if anything, he had put on weight recently. But looking at her tired face in the mirror combined with the crazy hairdo, she figured if he loved her the way she looked, she could love him the way he was. After a long silence, she answered, "I think maybe you have. What time is this stupid thing?"

"It's at noon."

"Have you checked on our little angel?" Monica sneered, filling the Jacuzzi tub.

"I would think that she would be responsible enough to not make us late for her own trial."

Monica slipped out of her nightgown and sank into the soothing water. After a long, "Ah," she quipped, "Why do you have to keep calling it a trial? It was just a group of high school girls getting into a little trouble."

While buttoning his bright white Oxford shirt, Jim replied, "Because it is a trial. That's the way our system works. You break the law, you are presumed innocent, and then you have a trial to determine whether you're guilty and, if you are, to find out your punishment."

If it weren't for her husband's mini-lecture, Monica might have actually fallen asleep, enjoying the jets of warm water cascading over her tired body. Without any additional provocation, Jim became irritated and turned up the volume.

"They were destroying a boy's car! How the hell do you just shake that off like a harmless prank?"

"The police in Apple Lake have always had it in for people with money," Monica replied. "Maybe she didn't even do most of the damage. Maybe she was just a bystander?"

"She was there," Jim said angrily. "That should be enough! She should know better, for Christ's sake! Everyone in town knows who we are; they're going to be watching her."

"I told you that she should not be going out with trash like that," Monica argued while washing her face.

"I'm not blaming that boy. It's time that things change around here!"

Each time that their daughter Heather got into trouble, it was the same lecture, Monica thought as she submerged herself completely into the soapy water, holding her breath long enough to chase her husband away momentarily. She didn't want the argument to get to the point where she had to admit that he was right. She knew that the recent mistake her daughter made was not because of the boy she was dating. She had been through three other boys in the last six months and had been caught cheating in school, skipping class, drinking, and now this.

It's no wonder I look like hell.

Jim had obviously left the room, either to finish getting dressed or to go wake up their daughter. She finished her bath and began getting ready. Unlike her husband, Monica's hair was coal black, no gray streaks anywhere. She started the lengthy process of drying her substantial locks, but could not get away from the gaze of the woman in the mirror. Unlike her husband, her body was still slim and taut. It was just her tired eyes that made her look twice her age. She finished with her hair and sat down to the daunting task of doing her makeup.

Jim started his walk down the long hardwood hallway towards Heather's room. As he passed by the occasional tables loaded with silk flower-filled vases and family portraits hanging on the walls, he thought, like most fathers do, of his daughter's being ten years old and her world revolving around him and Monica, not her disrespectful friends. As he got closer, he could hear more clearly the thumping bass and shrill heavy metal voices pouring from inside Heather's door. He promised himself that no matter what he was not going to get angry, no arguments about her boyfriend, her outfit, or anything. As he pounded on the door repeatedly, his promise melted away.

Heather finally opened the door. She stood inside her room throwing the look that only sixteen-year-olds know how to cast towards their fathers. It was that, "Why are you bothering me?" look. Just one look, and her father knew what some of the problem was. She was too pretty, and she knew it. Heather had long black hair, like her mother, dark eyes, and a slim, attractive figure.

That's what gets her in trouble, Jim thought, as he looked away from her.

"I think it's best if you wear something conservative today," he yelled over the music.

Heather had already picked an outfit, which she felt was fine. Her father looked at the clothes hanging on the outside of her walk-in closet, a tight-fitting, short black skirt along with a snug turtleneck, an outfit designed more for clubbing than court.

"I thought that I would wear this."

"You thought wrong, little girl. This is not some sort of fashion show! It's a trial, a trial that could wreck your future," Jim explained.

"It's not a big deal, I mean, how I look."

"Yes, it is. I've been a lawyer in this town for twenty years, and I know how juries react. First impressions make all the difference. You're already going in there with a strike against you, being a rich girl."

Heather seemed disinterested in what her father was trying to tell her as she walked to the stereo and changed the CD.

"You and Mom are the only people that care, and the only reason you do is because you're both worried about your reputation," she fired at her father.

He had already broken the promise to himself about not getting upset so now it was easy to make the argument full-blown. He could feel that she wasn't listening and saw the look of the defiance on her face, which resembled the look that his wife gave him whenever she was upset.

"It's your reputation! Maybe I should not even be defending...