Chapter 3 - THE LAWYER IN THE LOBBY
I didn't wait for Detective Martinez to reply. I stepped up to the intercom, pressed the talk button, and leaned in close.
"Mr. Vance," I said, my tone as dry as bone. "This is Evelyn Miller. If you step one foot past that lobby elevator without a signed judicial warrant, I will have my building superintendent release thirty years of uncollected grease down the stairwell right onto your ten-thousand-dollar suit."
A long silence echoed from the lobby speaker.
"Mrs. Miller," the lawyer’s voice returned, noticeably less arrogant, though still dripping with corporate menace. "My client, Mr. Adrian Vance, is the sole legal guardian and financial provider for his minor child, Liam Vance. You are harboring a minor child without parental consent. That is a class-two felony in this state."
"The child is with his biological mother, you slick parasite," Detective Martinez barked into the microphone, flashing her badge through the digital camera feed mounted above the lobby doors. "This is Detective Martinez, Badge 4082, Financial Crimes and Domestic Violence Division. Adrian Vance is currently processed at the Central Detention Center under an unbailable felony warrant for domestic assault, burglary, and felony destruction of property. If you attempt to interfere with a police-protected victim, I will arrest you on the spot for obstruction of justice."
Through the black-and-white video screen, I saw Arthur Vance—a tall, silver-haired man in a bespoke charcoal coat—adjust his wire-rimmed glasses, glance nervously at the police cruiser parked outside the lobby glass, and slowly lower his leather briefcase.
He looked up at the camera feed.
"This isn't over, Detective," Vance said coldly. "Mrs. Vance doesn't have a penny to her name. She has no job, no bank account, no legal representation, and no roof over her head that doesn't belong to a seventy-two-year-old pensioner. By Friday morning, we will have a family court judge grant full temporary custody of Liam to Adrian’s mother."
The camera feed clicked off as Arthur Vance turned on his heel and strode out through the glass doors into the rainy afternoon.
Inside the apartment, Lucy slumped against the wall, her face white as chalk. The tea cup slipped from her fingers, shattering on the linoleum.
"His mother..." Lucy choked out, her breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps. "His mother, Eleanor... she’s worse than him, Mrs. Miller! She’s the one who taught Adrian that people are just things to buy and control! She’ll take Liam away from me! She has millions! She can buy any judge in this city!"
"Breathe, Lucy," I commanded, grabbing her shoulders and forcing her to look into my eyes. "Look at me. What did I tell you about dangerous men and their families?"
"They... they depend on people being too afraid to fight," she whispered, tears spilling over her butterfly bandage.
"Exactly," I said. "They rely on money and big words to make young women feel small. But money doesn't mean a thing when you're fighting a woman who has nothing left to lose—and an old woman who has all the time in the world."
I turned to Detective Martinez. "Detective, who is the top legal aid family attorney in this city? The one who makes corporate lawyers like Arthur Vance sweat through their expensive shirts?"
Detective Martinez smiled faintly. "Her name is Eleanor Vance—wait, no, her name is Clara Higgins. She runs the Women’s Legal Justice Center downtown. She spent twenty years tearing down predatory trust funds and corrupt custody claims."
"Call her," I said, opening my desk drawer and pulling out a thick, leather-bound address book alongside my personal savings passbook. "Tell her Evelyn Miller is paying the initial retainer. Tell her we have three months of documented domestic torture, an audio recording of a felony break-in, and a cookie tin full of evidence."
"Mrs. Miller, no," Lucy cried out, grabbing my wrist. "Your savings... that's your retirement! That's your safety net!"
"Lucy," I said gently, patting her hand, "my husband worked forty years in the rail yards so I wouldn't have to bow down to bullies. I have enough money saved to live comfortably, and I have three sons who would break down walls for me. Using my money to keep a sweet girl and her baby safe isn't a sacrifice—it's the best damn investment I've made in twenty years."
At that moment, my front door frame groaned as my eldest son, Thomas, walked into the apartment carrying a massive steel door frame over his heavy shoulders, followed by his two younger brothers, Marcus and David.
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Thomas set the heavy steel frame down with a loud thud, wiped his sweaty brow, and looked around my torn-up hallway.
"Mom," Thomas said, his broad shoulders filling the entryway as he looked at Lucy’s bruised face, then at the shattered glass, and finally at me. "Which one of these corporate bastards do we need to tear apart first?"
