Page 62 of Ugly Duckling
The judge came stomping into the chamber, looking quite put out that he was having to be here in the first place.
Probably interrupted his round of golf for the day…
“Please be seated.” He threw himself into his chair, immediately scanning over the documents in front of him. “Lewis, what are we doing here today?”
Lewis, who was apparently the opposing council, stood up and tugged his shirt sleeve down into place before saying, “My clients have filed an emergency injunction to have Lottie Penn’s custody transferred to them because of an unsafe environment, and neglect.”
The judge blinked, then turned his eyes toward Malone on my right. “And your stance, Malone?”
Malone stood up, uncaring that the judge had used her first name instead of her last. “We’re here to refute that claim to the nth degree. It’s a gross, negligent, bald-faced lie that we vehemently disagree with.”
“What’s your proof that she’s getting neglected and living in an unsafe environment, Lewis?”
Lewis cleared his throat and said, “My clients have been having a private investigator following Mr. Penn around, and they believe they have enough evidence to prove that he’s abusing her.”
“Let’s see it then,” the judge snapped.
A woman came from the right side of the bench and walked toward “Lewis,” who was really Lewis Weston, the newest lawyer that the Combs had hired to represent them. He was young, inexperienced, and unhip to the bullshit that the Combs were trying to peddle. He had yet to learn that the Combs lied to get what they wanted, and when they didn’t get what they wanted, they moved on to someone that could hopefully get them what they wanted.
I’d been here, in this exact spot, so many times over the last few months that my ass was well acquainted with each divot in the seats that we were forced to sit in.
The woman brought the papers to the judge, and the judge started to sort through them.
“What, exactly, am I looking at?” the judge asked.
“Your honor, I can explain.” Paula stood up.
The judge’s bushy eyebrows lifted and he said, “Please. Explain.”
“The photo labeled number one is a time-stamped photo showing that my granddaughter was picked up well past closing time.” Paula sneered at me. “She was also dropped off at six-thirty that morning. She was there for a whole thirteen hours.”
The judge looked from her to me. “Not that I feel like this is something that is bad, but please explain this to me.”
“I drop Lottie off twice a week at daycare. It’s a twenty-four-hour daycare, which I have to pay extra for, because sometimes I’m required to be an hour and a half away before the school day starts.”
“What do you do for the school?” he interjected.
I was surprised he didn’t know.
Most did.
But…
“I’m the owner of Angel Security. A non-profit business that travels around the country ensuring that schools are protected during school shootings,” I replied quietly.
The judge sat back in his chair. “What got you into that? I thought you were a baseball player.”
My stomach sank. “I was. I quit four years into my career to start this business up. My son, Jett, was killed along with multiple other children during a school shooting at their elementary school. I now make it my life’s work to make sure that no other parent has to ever experience that.”
He nodded. “And that night that you were late picking your daughter up. What happened?”
“There was an accident on the interstate. I took an alternative route, but there was an accident on that road, too. It took me two hours of back roads and waiting for me to get to the daycare. I did call and let them know that I would be late, though. I actually called every thirty minutes to update them. I wasn’t the only one that was unable to pick their kid up on time.”
“It’s a twenty-four-hour daycare, is it not?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Then you’re not picking her up late. You were there when they were open.” He nodded his head. “It was just later than usual for your daughter to be there, correct?”
