Page 33 of Precise Justice

“You were right, she did not,” Marc said.

They were referring to a homicide case Marc had been retained to handle; a husband killed his wife during a domestic fight. Marc had asked for it to be dismissed as self-defense. The judge, Phyllis Cramer, had turned it down. The case was going to trial.

“The wife stabs your guy three times, he smashes a vase over her head while bleeding and Phyllis said he should have retreated,” Connie said.

“Yep,” Marc answered.

“Is she even going to let you plead self-defense?” Connie asked.

“She hasn’t ruled on it yet. She’s waiting for the medical examiner’s report on the stab wounds. Cramer thinks they may be self-inflicted after the wife was dead,” Marc said.

“Are they?”

“My pathologist says no. They are all too deep. Right up to the handle of the knife.”

“Good luck. How’s things with you and Margaret?”

Margaret was Judge Margaret Tennant; a woman Marc was dating.

“Good. She’s a nice lady. I gotta make a call,” Marc said.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Robbie? It’s Marc Kadella,” Marc said into his phone.

“Mr. Kadella, I can’t thank you enough…”

“Robbie, that’s not why I called. I’ve been meaning to ask you something. It’s probably none of my business and feel free to say so if you want to, okay?”

“Okay,” Robbie replied.

“Are you happy with the transgendering thing you’re going through? Are you sure this is what you want?” Marc asked.

There was a long, silent pause between them that lasted longer than a minute.

Finally, Marc broke the pause. “Robbie, you still there?

“Yes, Mr. Kadella. I was thinking. I’m a little worried, but everyone, all the people who know me, tell me it’s fine and I’m doing better.”

“What do you think? What does Robbie think about this? Not your mother or anyone else. What do you think and feel about it?”

Another long pause even though much shorter. Then Robbie answered, “I’m adapting. I have to go, Mr. Kadella. Thank you so much, again.”

Later that night, while preparing for bed, fourteen-year-old Robert Craig-Powell found himself looking in the mirror. Like he had done dozens of times before, Robbie lifted his shirt and pulled it over his head. His breasts were forming. That night, once again, Robbie fell asleep on a pillow made wet with his tears.

The next morning, while she sat in her car in The Wheaton Academy parking lot, Priscilla made a phone call. Robbie had told her about Marc’s phone call the previous evening.

“Mr. Kadella, this is Priscilla, Robbie’s mother. If you ever contact my child again to question my decision making, I will have you disbarred. In Minnesota, our governor has made interfering in a transgender of a child a crime and I’ll see that you are prosecuted.”

“Good morning, Priscilla. How are you?”

“Leave my daughter alone,” Priscilla said then hung up.

“Trouble ahead,” Marc said to himself.

FOURTEEN

Marc’s office door was closed but despite that, he could hear a commotion in the office common area. Reflexively he looked at his watch.She’s early, he thought.

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