As I finished and headed downstairs, I glanced at the time on my phone. I had two hours before I had to meet the lawyer, so I decided to get a leg up on the research for the Witches Guild. I walked into my office. Without the door on it, the room felt more spacious. I’d had the contractors widen the doorway to bring in more of the open concept to my house. I settled at my desk, set an alarm so I wouldn’t be late for the meeting, and then powered up my laptop.
Finally, ready to begin, I dove into the research abyss, wishing I had a better grasp on how to say “No” to people.
At eleven-forty, I printed out a couple of the documents I thought that the Witches Guild might like and started the download on a large file that I found on one of the historical sites. It was a zip file that was supposed to contain a number of obscure and arcane rituals. Even though I had high-speed internet, it was taking longer than I wanted, so I decided to leave my computer working while I headed to court. I sorted through the hall closet next to the powder room, and found my military-style jacket that hit me mid-thigh. With gold buttons in a double row down the front, it cinched at the waist with a tie belt. One last peek in the mirror and I headed out.
My car—an Ocelot—was still new enough that I smiled every time I saw her. She replaced the decades-old Subaru that Ellison had bought for me. Cookie had bit the dust last winter and I finally broke down and bought myself a new car for the first time in my life. I plugged my phone into the dashboard and clipped it into the holder.
As I headed toward City Central, Killian texted me.
“Read text, Jerica,” I said. The hands-free AI that was standard in new cars was named Jerica.
best of luck in court today, love. let me know how it goes. you know i’m rooting for you.
I dictated my return text to Jerica. thank you. i’m pretty sure ellison doesn’t have a leg to stand on and you know me, i’m willing to kick him when he’s down, the jerk.
“Send to Killian.” I snorted, shaking my head. But it was the truth. When it came to Ellison, he could do no good in my eyes.
I pulled into the parking lot in front of the City Central complex. I gathered my purse, a tote bag full of notes about our divorce, and my copy of the restraining order. Hustling into the building, I looked for Tangier’s Coffee Express, the coffee shop located in City Central. I pushed open the doors at eleven fifty-five and glanced around, looking for someone who could be a lawyer. There were at least half a dozen men and women who could fit the bill, but a man stood up, waving at me. I wondered if I looked like someone with an ex who would violate a restraining order.
“Mr. Meier?” I asked.
“January Jaxson?” He pulled out the chair for me. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Triple-shot mocha, please.” I settled myself at the table while he ordered my drink. I sorted out the documents from my tote that I thought he might need.
When he returned, he handed me the mocha and I went to hand him a ten-dollar bill, but he waved it away. “Consider it on your ex. By the time we’re done, he’ll be liable for your court fees and everything else.”
I held up the restraining order. “Do you need to see a copy of this?”
“I have a copy, as well as of your divorce proceedings. Your grandmother mentioned Ellison cheated you?”
“Yeah, but there’s nothing to do about that now unless I can prove that he misled me. I certainly didn’t hand him over ownership of the magazine, or anything else. But right now, my goal is to get him out of my life. I don’t want him calling me, I don’t want him showing up on my doorstep…I don’t want him living in the same state as me, though I doubt if I can manage to manifest that.” I leaned back, sipping my drink. “Ellison is persona non grata to me—pariah.”
Almanzo read the police report. “Well, we shouldn’t have a problem, not since the cops arrested him on your doorstep and he was drunk. His blood alcohol was .15, which is pretty high. He also admitted to them that he drove over to your house, which means he was driving while under the influence. I think we can nail him on a DUI, as well.”
“What does all of this mean?” I asked. “Will he go to jail?”
“Are you concerned about that?” the lawyer asked me, glancing up.
“I’m hoping for it,” I said.
He relaxed. “Sometimes, even if you’re afraid of the person you get the restraining order against, there’s a chance you might feel sorry for them and—”
I laughed. “You can stop worrying right there. I have no sympathy for Ellison. I want him out of my life, and if putting him in jail’s the ticket to doing so, then so be it. He’s been a thorn in my side for years—most of those while we were married. I’m stick a fork in me done with him.” I paused. “If I’m called on to testify, is there anything I should be aware of?”
“Given there’s no evidence you ever tried to win him back, or that you invited him in…you didn’t, did you?”
I shook my head. “I’ve tried to have as little contact as possible since I left.”
“I see here that he filed a report that you damaged his car when you left?”
I shrugged. “I was angry. I filled his convertible with water and burned our wedding clothes. I admit it. But the car wasn’t totaled. He was able to recondition it, and I figure he didn’t come after me for the money because he already had bilked me out of most of our common assets. Oh, in case you don’t know, he negligently burned down the building our magazine was based in and there are a dozen people in line to sue him, I believe.”
“You’re right on that,” Almanzo said. He closed the file, leaning forward. “All right, here’s the plan. You avoid getting riled. You play up the factor that you’ve never called him, that you wanted him out of your life, but don’t get angry. Please, keep your temper. Don’t go off on a rant or a tangent. Just answer the questions you’re asked. If they start getting pushy, look my way and brush your hair back and I’ll do something to give you extra time, if I can’t stop the question altogether. I know the defense lawyer, though, and he has a real issue with domestic abusers. He’ll do his job for Ellison, but I have the feeling he won’t go the extra mile.”
Still feeling anxious, but more secure than before, I relaxed and finished my mocha.
The outcome was not what I had hoped for. I played my part perfectly, Almanzo said afterward, but the judge was still a good ol’ boy and I could tell he wasn’t sympathetic to my side of the argument, though the law was clear and there was no doubt Ellison had violated the restraining order and—even more—wasn’t the least bit sorry.
I was grateful that Ellison’s lawyer didn’t fight the length of the sentence or the fine, even though he made a lethargic but successful stab at convincing the judge that Ellison was needed at home to help take care of his aging mother. Granted, his father had recently had a stroke, but Ellison’s parents could afford good in-home health care.
“He’s on house arrest? What does that mean?” I asked as court wrapped up.
“He’s been sentenced to two years’ house arrest, his driver’s license is suspended for two years, and if he breaks the order of no-contact, he’ll automatically go to prison for the rest of his sentence. So that’s one win. Document if he calls or shows up, and call the police regardless of how he tries to contact you,” Almanzo said. “I have a feeling Ellison won’t be able to help himself. He’s a classic narcissist. And just one text will break the camel’s back.”