Chapter 6
The first hearing was packed.
Reporters filled the courthouse steps.
People shouted Mom’s name.
Some shouted mine.
Grandpa kept his arm around my shoulders and guided me through the crowd.
Mom wore a gray coat and dark glasses.
Her face was pale, but she walked on her own.
Aunt Rebecca walked behind us.
Detective Quinn met us inside.
“You don’t have to see him today,” she told me.
But I wanted to.
Not because I missed him.
Because monsters are scarier when you only imagine them.
Dad sat at the defense table in a navy suit.
Clean-shaven.
Hair perfect.
Hands folded.
He looked like the father who used to pack my lunch.
That made my stomach hurt.
Then he turned.
Our eyes met.
For one second, his face softened.
My heart jumped before I could stop it.
Then his mouth tightened.
Like I was a problem.
Not a son.
A problem.
That helped me look away.
Marissa sat two rows behind him with her lawyer.
She wore black, as if she were still at the funeral she helped create.
Dr. Lowell sat at another table, older-looking than before.
The judge read the charges.
Attempted murder.
Conspiracy.
Fraud.
Forgery.
Abuse of a corpse, though Mom was not dead, and the lawyers argued over the language.
Insurance fraud.
Trust fraud.
Obstruction.
Each charge sounded too small for what happened.
How do you charge someone for making a child almost bury his mother alive?
There was no word big enough.
The prosecutor argued for no bail.
Dad’s attorney said he was a respected businessman, a father, a community member.
A father.
Mom’s hand found mine.
I squeezed it.
The prosecutor played a short clip from the church.
Someone had filmed on their phone.
The video showed me swinging the candle stand.
People shouting.
Wood cracking.
Then the scream when Mom’s eyes were seen through the hole.
The courtroom went completely silent.
The judge denied bail.
Dad’s face changed.
For the first time, he looked trapped.
Marissa cried.
Dr. Lowell stared at the table.
Outside the courtroom, Dad’s mother was waiting.
My other grandmother.
I had not seen her since the funeral.
She stepped toward me.
“Eli, sweetheart.”
I moved behind Mom.
Her face crumpled.
Mom straightened.
“Not today, Diane.”
Diane looked at Mom.
“I didn’t know, Clara.”
“You raised him,” Mom said.
The words hit like a slap.
Diane began crying.
“I raised him, but I did not make him do this.”
Mom’s voice broke.
“No. But you taught everyone around him to excuse him.”
Diane looked down.
I remembered Christmas at her house.
Dad breaking a glass and blaming Mom for distracting him.
Diane saying, “Your father has pressure, Eli. We forgive family.”
Forgive family.
Those words had hidden so much.
Diane whispered, “Can I see him?”
Mom looked at me.
My choice.
I liked that.
Even if the choice was hard.
“Not yet,” I said.
Diane nodded, crying.
“Okay. I’ll wait.”
Waiting was something adults were finally learning to do.
The trial started three months later.
By then, Mom could sleep four hours at a time.
I could walk past a church without throwing up.
Progress, Dr. Miller said.
Not fixed.
Progress.
I testified in a special room, not in open court.
A camera recorded me.
The judge, lawyers, and Dad watched from another room.
I was scared.
My hands sweated.
Dr. Miller sat nearby.
Detective Quinn had told me to tell the truth, no more and no less.
So I did.
I told them about the tapping.
The candle stand.
The tape.
The blue key.
The argument I heard.
The way Dad looked when Mom was found alive.
Dad’s lawyer asked if I was angry at my father.
I said yes.
He asked if maybe that made me remember things wrong.
I thought about it.
Then I said, “I was angry after. I heard before.”
The room went quiet.
Even the lawyer paused.
Later, Mom hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe.
“You were wonderful.”
“I was scared.”
“I know.”
“Was Dad watching?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She pulled back.
“Good?”
“I wanted him to hear me this time.”
May you like
Mom cried.
But she smiled too.
