Haven House

"Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Bregman," I began as I approached the witness stand where my client's parents sat. They were an older couple, dressed in designer labels and clean-cut. Because of Mrs. Bregman's 'anxiety issues', they had petitioned the judge to be questioned together on the stand.

For whatever insane reason, Judge Harlow had allowed it.

They both nodded their greeting to me, choosing not to speak. The only sound in the courtroom was my heels clicking across the marble floor as I moved to stand between them and the jury box. "You've been a pillar of this community for many years, is that correct?"

Again, they nodded. "Please instruct the witnesses to answer the questions verbally so that my client may be able to see their responses transcribed," I said, not looking at Judge Harlow as I spoke to him. "She has undergone surgery for an implanted hearing device, but it's not activated as of today."

Did I have to be petty like this? No. But I did anyway. My client was deaf and likely would be for the rest of her life thanks to these two evil scumbags. The judge turned a bored look to the couple and said, "The witnesses will speak when spoken to."

I watched my client out of the corner of my eye. Her thin shoulders relaxed slightly. I gave myself a mental high-five as I prepared to launch into my line of questioning.

"As I said before, your family has been labeled as a 'pillar of this community' before, yes? Several times in the past decade alone, in fact."

"That's correct," Mrs. Bregman said, leaning forward to speak directly into the microphone positioned in front of them to ensure that her responses transcribed clearly to the tablet in front of my client. Both her and her husband wore smug, satisfied smiles as I pointed this out.

"How many foster children would you say you've sheltered in the last twenty years?" I asked, keeping my voice light and almost reverent, despite the deep-seated disgust I felt as I watched them preen for the cameras behind me.

Mr. Bregman leaned forward this time. "We don't keep track of the number of children who stay with us. We treat them all equally and love them as our own."

He glanced over at my client then, and for the first time since I'd met Zoe, I was glad that she was deaf and couldn't hear their self-satisfied responses. She just focused on the tablet in front of her, reading the words in black and white instead.

I'm sure to the untrained eye, Mr. Bregman might be interpreted as caring or soft. But I knew what was rolling through his head. I knew the truth.

"You have a tradition in your house, is that correct?" I asked. At their agreement, I continued. "You often encourage the foster children to journal and reflect for a few hours a day."

"We find it helps them to be able to put things into perspective and resolve any issues that they might be having," Mrs. Bregman explains, her voice obviously proud of this.

"Mmm," I mumbled, as if agreeing with her. "And when the children leave, whether it be moving on to another home or hopefully back with their parents, you put together a memory box filled with their journals and accomplishments to take with them?"

"We do," Mr. Bregman said with a sad nod. "We only wish we could have saved Zoe's before the explosion and the fire took everything. We wanted her to always feel included in what we did with the kids, as our only biological daughter."

"You do?" I said, letting feigned surprise color my tone. I walked around to the back of the plaintiff's table and bent low, pulling a plastic bin out from under the table where it had been surreptitiously hidden by my briefcase and a box of legal forms. As I straightened with the tub in my hand, I watched with grim satisfaction as the color drained from Mr. Bregman's face when he realized what I was holding.

"You mean, this box?" I asked innocently as I set it down on the table next to Zoe. She stiffened in her chair, watching me intently. The explosion took her hearing, but it didn't take the burning need for justice away from her. "I'd like to enter this into evidence as Exhibit A, your honor," I said, letting my voice carry across the silent room.

Mrs. Bregman nodded with a small smile of recognition. "Yes! That's Zoe's box! I had no idea it was able to be pulled from the wreckage. That's wonderful!" she crowed.

Her husband, however, was silently staring at the box like it had somehow betrayed him.

I opened it and pulled the first journal out. I had book-marked the passages I needed. "Your honor, since my client is disabled, I would like to read a passage out loud for her."

With his nod, I read one of the more mundane passages Zoe had written about an upcoming school dance and who she had hoped would ask to escort her. Zoe nodded when I finished and confirmed with a slightly slurred voice, "Yeah, that's mine."

I flipped a few pages and moved to the witness stand as I began to read. "I woke to him standing over me again. I could hear his clothes moving around in the dark, but I stayed still and tried to pretend like I was asleep. I hoped he wouldn't touch me if I was still sleeping. I heard him breathing and I tried my hardest not to let him know I was awake. After a few minutes, I felt the wet sticky hotness on my cheek and then I listened as he walked out of my room and closed the door."

I had been pacing in front of the jury box as I read this passage. I turned back to the witness stand. Mr. Bregman looked positively green at this point and Mrs. Bregman looked downright shocked. Someone give this bitch an Oscar, because her acting was better than a lot of movies I'd seen come out of Hollywood.

"This entry was dated just five years ago, when Zoe was thirteen years old," I said. "Do either of you know who she was talking about in this passage? Who might have been in her room?"

Silence. I let it hang in the air for a beat as everyone grew more tense and uncomfortable.

"No?" I finally said, feigning innocent ignorance. "Let's continue, then." I flipped to another passage I'd marked and began to read. I read passage after passage, detailing how Zoe had been physically and sexually abused.

Zoe, bless her heart, sat in her seat and didn't move a muscle. Her face was a stoic mask of bravery as her eyes focused on only the tablet in front of her, but I knew beneath it she was trembling as she listened to me give voice to the trauma she endured.

"His hand, the one with only four fingers, hurts the most," I finished, closing the journal in my hands as I looked back at the witness stand. Mrs. Bregman was dumbstruck, while Mr. Bregman looked like he would be sick at any moment.

"Mr. Bregman," I instructed. "Please raise your left hand for the court to see."

He simply glared at me, not moving. I looked at the judge and before I could even say anything, the judge instructed the witness to cooperate. Very slowly, he raised his hand in the air.

I heard a few of the jurors gasp softly. I approached the witness stand, staring between both of them and said, "Now I'll ask again. Do either of you know who she was talking about in this passage?"

Silence. I glared at them, letting the victory shine in my eyes as I murmured, "No further questions, your honor."

"You both may step down," Judge Harlow said, his tone heavy with his years of sitting on the bench and hearing one heinous crime after another. "The court is in recess until two o'clock this afternoon." His gavel slammed down with finality, and I moved back to my table.

I tapped Zoe's shoulder before I bent and typed on the tablet. Let's get out of here and go get some food, I suggested.

I glared at Mr. and Mrs. Bregman, and they watched me like hawks. I'm sure they wondered what we were talking about now, and I let them. I hoped it ratcheted up their anxiety a little. Zoe nodded and stood, sticking close to my side as we made our way out of the courtroom.

When we were out of earshot, I patted her fingers so she would look up at me. She'd gotten really good at reading lips over the last few months. "Sandwiches sound good to you? There's a really good deli around the corner."

Once we were seated with our food, Zoe slowly unfolded a napkin as she stared off in the distance ahead of her. I believed with every fiber of my being that Mr. and Mrs. Bregman rigged the explosion to intentionally to kill her and stop her from talking. Keep her from ruining their perfect reputation.

Knowing and proving, however, were two very different things.

But she was still alive and bravely fighting back. I admired the young woman.

"What happens now?" Zoe asked quietly, watching my mouth intently.

"Now," I said around a bite of pastrami, swallowing before I continued, "we wait for Judge Harlow to make his decision. If he decides that they are guilty, there will be a separate hearing for sentencing unless they choose to waive their right to appeal, which means they would be sentenced today. Then, you get to move on with your life however you want."