The judge, a no-nonsense veteran named Honorable Evelyn Carter, peered over her reading glasses at the mountain of exhibits Rebecca had submitted.
Spencer’s lead defense attorney, a pompous man known for his theatrical objections, stood up. “Your Honor, this entire proceeding is a grotesque overreaction. What we have here is an isolated, highly regrettable domestic disagreement, inflamed and weaponized by the petitioner’s mother—a woman whose entire professional identity is predicated on destroying men in this very building.”
I didn’t flinch.
Rebecca rose smoothly. “Your Honor, opposing counsel has just audaciously suggested that Mrs. Mitchell’s chosen profession as an attorney somehow magically caused his client to violently strike his wife three times, resulting in emergency room trauma. The medical forensics, the financial audits, and the audio evidence demonstrate a chilling, calculated pattern of physical terror, extreme coercive control, and multi-million dollar financial exploitation.”
“Audio evidence?” the defense attorney scoffed.
“Exhibit C, Your Honor,” Rebecca said, pressing play on her laptop.
The pristine acoustics of the courtroom amplified the recording. The clinking of glasses. The horrifying, wet smack of flesh hitting flesh. And then, Constance’s voice, echoing off the mahogany walls:
“That is how she learns. A clumsy wife needs correction.”
