Part 1
An unsettling silence permeated the air of courtroom 4B before anyone dared utter a word.
Unlike the peaceful silence that blankets many churches after uplifting hymns or homes that are quiet well into the early hours of a new day, this silence felt threatening. It hung heavy on polished wood benches and climbed the white-washed walls of the courtroom before settling across Natalie Reynolds’ throat, making it difficult to take deep breaths.
Sitting at the petitioner’s table in what appeared to be an expression of smug satisfaction, Grant Reynolds wore a broad smile.
This was not a nervous grin or an expression of overwhelming relief—it was a triumphant smile.
One hand casually laid against the black leather briefcase that cost more than the total amount Natalie had spent in a month for groceries. His wedding ring had already found a new place away from his finger. The charcoal grey suit he wore fit him like a glove; everything about the outfit flattered his form while also accentuating even further the power his position as the petitioner. He had also chosen this outfit to intimidate Natalie and portray himself as winner.
To Grant’s left sat his divorce attorney Baxter Thorne, an elderly man with grey hair dressed in a navy suit, he appeared to have spent the majority of his life in courtrooms with numerous represented parties experiencing turmoil.
On the opposite side of the aisle from Grant, sat Natalie. She had tried her best to look presentable by ironing her grey dress twice that morning with shaky hands. She wasn’t wearing any other jewellery aside from a thin gold band that Grant insisted she should quit wearing because it would make things “awkward”. Seated next to her was her attorney Eli Mercer, a nervous-twenty-something lawyer who kept shuffling through his pile of paperwork; it became abundantly clear to everyone present that, for her situation, those papers would not be of assistance.
Unbeknownst to her, Grant had spent the better part of six months orchestrating his attack against Natalie.
For the last 6 months, Grant has stolen money from his joint account with Natalie. Grant also bought gifts for his girlfriend while hiding the receipts by telling Natalie these were gifts for her. During this time, Grant was saying to friends, attorneys and bankers that Natalie was irresponsible and reckless with her money.
Grant changed all of Natalie’s passwords to accounts she used to pay household bills.
When Grant entered the courtroom, he claimed that Natalie did not deserve anything from him at all.
No House.
No Support.
No Savings.
Only the debt for the bakery she tried to start after the death of her mother. The same bakery that Grant had originally said was “cute” but later said was a “drain.”
From the bench, Judge Alan Caldwell looked down at the proceedings with impatience. He was tapping on the bench next to the gavel with his fingers and had a lunch date in less than 40 minutes. In addition to that, Judge Caldwell had a stack of divorce cases to go through behind the case in front of him. In Judge Caldwell’s mind, Natalie was simply another hysterical wife, and Grant was another polished husband who came into the court with a clean copy of paperwork.
Judge Caldwell said, “The court finds that the prenuptial agreement was valid and enforceable.”
At that point, Natalie closed her eyes.
Grant leaned back comfortably.
Judge Caldwell stated, “The marital residence at 450 Highland Avenue will be awarded to Mr. Reynolds. All investment portfolio accounts will be retained by Mr. Reynolds. The court will not award spousal support to either party. Each party will be responsible for his/her own debts as stated in the evidence submitted.” And the gavel came down.As Natalie shivered from the impact of the words, Grant faced Baxter and extended his arm to shake. Amused by his victory, Grant then directed his attention towards Natalie. Through her tears, she stifled her cries with one hand and her body trembled.
Grant laughed in response to her sorrow. The sound reverberated through the room. “Nat, better luck next time,” he said, loud enough for the audience to hear him. “Maybe your next husband will appreciate old cupcakes.”
Several people seated in the audience seemed to freeze at his remark. Eli Mercer’s face turned crimson, and Natalie lowered her gaze to the table, wishing to disappear in it.
While Grant was picturing himself with Jessica drinking champagne at a restaurant on Michigan Avenue, sipping it from the penthouse he emptied of Natalie’s soft blankets, novels, and candles, he stood up to button up his coat.
Then from the back of the courtroom came the soft voice of an older man. “Excuse me.” It was not loud, but everyone turned around immediately to see the person who had spoken.
The older man rose from the last bench. He wore a brown tweed jacket with black patches on both elbows, faded blue jeans, and brown leather boots that appeared to have been worn through mud and snow and from farming. He had graying hair combed neatly back, and he held a weathered flat cap in one of his rugged hands. Grant had looked at him earlier, but he considered the older man an irrelevant audience member. He assumed he was either a farmer or a janitor, or possibly some very confused senior citizen who had entered the incorrect courtroom.
The older man now walked down the aisle toward Natalie calmly and with his eyes fixed on her. “Your Honor, this court is still in session,” the older man said after the judge told him to have a seat.
The bailiff moved towards him. “Sir, please go back to your seat.”
The older man did not seem to acknowledge the bailiff and he walked through the small wooden gate in the courtroom as though the entire courtroom belonged to him. He came to rest next to Natalie. He placed his right hand gently on her shoulder.
The expression on Natalie’s face turned from fear to heartbreak in an instant. “Daddy,” she whispered. “Why did you come?”
At that moment, the smile on Grant’s face vanished.
“Daddy?” Grant said to himself. The older man turned to face the judge and addressed him. “My name is Arthur Sterling, Your Honor. Before anyone removes me from this courtroom, I feel it is important to inform you that the chair you are seated in was financed by a grant from my foundation.”
The judge stopped moving. Baxter’s movement over his briefcase stopped too. Grant looked back and forth between them, not feeling scared of the older gentleman, but now more angry at him.
Arthur slipped a folded piece of paper from his coat. “Furthermore,” he added, “I am also the individual who holds the lien on the house that you just awarded to Mr. Reynolds.”
The silence in the courtroom had changed. It no longer sounded like victory; it was the sound of a blade striking the floor.