dressed like he always did, wondering if there should be some sort of flare to a wardrobe when one was picking up a child. He opted for his normal, jeans, a t-shirt, and boots.
His hair was tied back and his face freshly shaved. He grabbed his keys, his phone, and his book. Something told him it would be his bible over the coming months.
It was strange that babies were exchanged at the same courthouse he paid his parking tickets. The waiting room smelled like stale coffee. Various civilians sat in the blue plastic chairs along the wall. The paneling needed updating and there was a watermark on the ceiling.
Phones rang on the other side of the glass divider as women efficiently went about filing paperwork. A man was called up to the window and Shane watched as he discussed an agreement advised by his parole officer.
A young pregnant woman came to the window. “Shane Martin?”
He stood. “That’s me.”
“You need to sign in. Joanne and Tabitha from the DPW are already here. They asked that I send you back.”
He scribbled his name on the clipboard and looked expectantly at the girl. This was it. His gut pinched with a cross between excitement and anxiety. Aiming for nonchalance, he wiped his clammy hands down the front of his jeans. She came around the counter and led him to a door marked Room C. Inside sat Joanne and Tabitha. No baby.
His head was clouded with too many thoughts. He’d been on a two day adrenaline rush and was crashing hard. He was stuck somewhere between hyper and exhausted, which caused his pulse to beat rapidly no matter if he was moving or sitting still.
“Hi, Shane. How are you today?”
They exchanged niceties as he awkwardly lowered himself into the chair across from them and waited. Finally he asked, “Where’s the baby?”
“Oh, the baby’s with one of our advocates. You need to speak to the judge first.”
Was there a chance he’d be shot down? “Should I have brought anything?”
“No, we have all your paperwork,” Tabitha said.
“Tabby’s going to speak on your behalf. You just need to answer any questions the judge directs to you. It’s basically everything we already went over. Don’t be nervous. Everything will be fine.”
He didn’t think he was nervous, just unsure of what to expect. He was anxious to get to the next stage of the game, whatever that might be.
There was a knock at the door and a uniformed officer stepped in. “The judge will see you now.” In such a stuffy office setting, the officer’s holster and guns seemed obtrusive.
He followed the women into the courtroom. It was smaller than Judge Judy’s court, which he found disappointing because he was ready to blow this shit up like Johnnie Cochran.
There were four rows of wooden chairs, two on each side. A meager railing divided the floor from the onlookers, but there were no onlookers—just them.
The entire room was carpeted. It was basically a glorified office with a fancy flag and the big desk for the judge. They shuffled behind one table and stood there. A beaten Bible rested forgotten on the surface.
A man with a shiny bald head and a black robe walked in. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” they echoed.
The judge sat at his desk and sifted through papers hidden by the lip of his table. “We’re here to discuss the custody of a Shane Logan Martin, son of Noel Martin who is now deceased?”
“That’s correct,” Tabitha said.
“You’re Shane Martin, uncle to the baby?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Place your hand on the Bible.”
Shane did as asked. How did the judge know if he believed in that Bible? Maybe he followed the Koran.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do.”
“Be seated.”
They sat and Tabitha began a detailed explanation of his situation. The judge made very little eye contact as he scribbled down notes. When she finished her exhaustive synopsis the judge asked, “Has a new caseworker
His hair was tied back and his face freshly shaved. He grabbed his keys, his phone, and his book. Something told him it would be his bible over the coming months.
It was strange that babies were exchanged at the same courthouse he paid his parking tickets. The waiting room smelled like stale coffee. Various civilians sat in the blue plastic chairs along the wall. The paneling needed updating and there was a watermark on the ceiling.
Phones rang on the other side of the glass divider as women efficiently went about filing paperwork. A man was called up to the window and Shane watched as he discussed an agreement advised by his parole officer.
A young pregnant woman came to the window. “Shane Martin?”
He stood. “That’s me.”
“You need to sign in. Joanne and Tabitha from the DPW are already here. They asked that I send you back.”
He scribbled his name on the clipboard and looked expectantly at the girl. This was it. His gut pinched with a cross between excitement and anxiety. Aiming for nonchalance, he wiped his clammy hands down the front of his jeans. She came around the counter and led him to a door marked Room C. Inside sat Joanne and Tabitha. No baby.
His head was clouded with too many thoughts. He’d been on a two day adrenaline rush and was crashing hard. He was stuck somewhere between hyper and exhausted, which caused his pulse to beat rapidly no matter if he was moving or sitting still.
“Hi, Shane. How are you today?”
They exchanged niceties as he awkwardly lowered himself into the chair across from them and waited. Finally he asked, “Where’s the baby?”
“Oh, the baby’s with one of our advocates. You need to speak to the judge first.”
Was there a chance he’d be shot down? “Should I have brought anything?”
“No, we have all your paperwork,” Tabitha said.
“Tabby’s going to speak on your behalf. You just need to answer any questions the judge directs to you. It’s basically everything we already went over. Don’t be nervous. Everything will be fine.”
He didn’t think he was nervous, just unsure of what to expect. He was anxious to get to the next stage of the game, whatever that might be.
There was a knock at the door and a uniformed officer stepped in. “The judge will see you now.” In such a stuffy office setting, the officer’s holster and guns seemed obtrusive.
He followed the women into the courtroom. It was smaller than Judge Judy’s court, which he found disappointing because he was ready to blow this shit up like Johnnie Cochran.
There were four rows of wooden chairs, two on each side. A meager railing divided the floor from the onlookers, but there were no onlookers—just them.
The entire room was carpeted. It was basically a glorified office with a fancy flag and the big desk for the judge. They shuffled behind one table and stood there. A beaten Bible rested forgotten on the surface.
A man with a shiny bald head and a black robe walked in. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” they echoed.
The judge sat at his desk and sifted through papers hidden by the lip of his table. “We’re here to discuss the custody of a Shane Logan Martin, son of Noel Martin who is now deceased?”
“That’s correct,” Tabitha said.
“You’re Shane Martin, uncle to the baby?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Place your hand on the Bible.”
Shane did as asked. How did the judge know if he believed in that Bible? Maybe he followed the Koran.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do.”
“Be seated.”
They sat and Tabitha began a detailed explanation of his situation. The judge made very little eye contact as he scribbled down notes. When she finished her exhaustive synopsis the judge asked, “Has a new caseworker
Similar Books
