Chapter 9 - The Empty Courtroom
Three months later, I sat in the second row of the county courthouse.
The room was mostly empty. The grand drama of our family had boiled down to a quiet, procedural hearing.
My father was brought in wearing a standard orange jumpsuit. He had lost weight. The fake tan from his European trip had faded into a sickly pale color.
Aunt Linda sat on the opposite side of the room, refusing to look at him. She was on probation, having successfully thrown him under the bus to save herself from jail time.
My mother hadn't even shown up. She had filed for divorce the moment the bank seized their house, moving into a small apartment across town.
The judge hit his gavel, calling the room to order.
"Mr. Vance," the judge looked down over his glasses. "You are facing one count of elder financial abuse, and one count of bank fraud. How do you plead?"
My father hesitated. He looked back at the gallery, searching for a friendly face.
His eyes met mine. He looked pathetic. He mouthed the word "sorry."
I didn't smile, and I didn't frown. I just stared back at him with absolute indifference.
He swallowed hard and turned back to the judge.
"Guilty, Your Honor," he mumbled.
The gavel cracked again. It sounded like the final period at the end of a very long, very painful sentence.
He was sentenced to three years in a minimum-security facility, plus full restitution to the bank.
As the bailiff led him away in handcuffs, he didn't look back again.
I walked out of the courthouse alone. I felt a strange sense of closure.
There was no big explosive argument. There was no dramatic crying. There was just the cold, hard reality of consequences.
He had made a choice at the airport that day. And now, he had to live with it.
I pulled out my phone and called an Uber.
"Where to?" the driver asked when I climbed into the backseat.
May you like
I smiled, pulling my passport out of my bag.
"The international airport, please," I said. "I have a flight to catch."
