“They were deposed under oath, Your Honor. All six. Their testimony is a matter of public record.”
Judge Morrison looked at the documents, then at me.
“You’ve been thorough, Ms. Whitfield.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. I’d like to present one more exhibit.”
I pulled out a folder I’d been saving for the end. Inside were the records I’d obtained from the attack on the warehouse—ballistics reports, GPS data, photographs of the damage.
“Exhibit D. Evidence linking Wade Prescott to the armed assault on a private residence where Colton Decker was staying. Evidence includes eyewitness testimony from twelve individuals, forensic analysis of shell casings recovered from the scene, and documentation placing Mr. Prescott’s vehicle at the location during the time of the attack.”
Sheridan stood up, his face red. “Objection! My client has not been charged with any crime related to this alleged assault. These are accusations, not facts.”
“They’re facts supported by sworn statements from multiple witnesses, Your Honor. Witnesses who are prepared to testify.”
Judge Morrison looked at the documents for a long time. The courtroom was silent. I could feel the weight of everyone’s attention, the pressure of the moment, the knowledge that everything I’d done—everything I’d sacrificed—came down to this.
“Ms. Whitfield,” the judge said finally, “you’ve presented an extensive case. I’d like to hear from the child before I make my ruling.”
COLTON’S TESTIMONY
They brought him in through a side door. Harlon was with him, his hand on Colton’s shoulder, and when Colton saw me, he ran across the courtroom and wrapped his arms around my waist.
“You did good,” he whispered. “I could hear you through the door.”
I crouched down, ignoring the pain in my back, and looked him in the eyes.
“The judge wants to talk to you. She’s going to ask you some questions. All you have to do is tell the truth. Can you do that?”
He nodded. His face was serious, older than his years, but not afraid.
“The truth. Okay.”
Judge Morrison came down from the bench and sat in a chair beside the witness box. She’d taken off her robe, and she was wearing a soft cardigan that made her look less like a judge and more like a grandmother.
“Come here, Colton. Let’s talk.”
He walked over to her, his steps small but steady. She pulled a chair close to hers, and he climbed up, his legs dangling.
“You can call me Judge Morrison. Or you can call me Margaret. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
“Margaret,” he said. “That’s my bear’s name. Well, almost. His name is Margarine. Because I couldn’t remember Margaret.”
The judge smiled. “Margarine is a very good name for a bear. Is he here?”
Colton held up the stuffed bear. It was missing one eye and the fur was worn thin in places, but it was clearly loved.
“He goes everywhere with me. Lena got him for me. Well, actually, Moose got him. But Lena asked.”
“Lena is Ms. Whitfield?”
“She’s my mommy. She’s not my real mommy. But she’s my mommy now.”
The judge’s expression didn’t change, but I saw her eyes flick to me for a moment.
“Colton, I need to ask you some questions about the man who says he’s your father. His name is Wade Prescott. Do you know him?”
Colton’s face changed. The openness disappeared, replaced by something careful and guarded.
“I know him.”
“Can you tell me about him?”
He looked at his hands for a long time. Then he looked at me. I nodded.
“He hurts people,” he said. “He hurt my mom. Before I was born. He hurt her so bad she had to run away. And then he found her again, and she had to run again. And again. And again.”
His voice was small, but it carried through the silent courtroom.
“Sometimes she would leave me with Mrs. Peton. She said it was safer that way. She said she’d come back. Most times she did. But sometimes she didn’t for a long time.”
“Did Wade ever hurt you, Colton?”
