Chapter 8 - Thomas Walked Into My Courthouse Alive
He was older.
That sounds obvious.
It did not feel obvious.
Memory had preserved Thomas at twenty-nine.
Dark hair.
Restless hands.
Always leaning against something as if furniture had been designed specifically to disappoint him.
The man waiting in the empty attorney conference room had silver hair, glasses, and a dark coat folded neatly over one chair.
His left ring finger ended above the first joint.
I stopped in the doorway.
He stood.
Neither of us spoke.
Thirty-one years disappeared and remained completely present.
Finally:
“Hi, Evie.”
I hit him.
Open hand.
Across the cheek.
Not hard enough to injure.
Hard enough that Aaron, standing down the hall, took one step toward us.
Thomas touched his face.
“Okay.”
“You used a ten-year-old.”
“Yes.”
“Start there.”
He looked surprised.
Good.
“You approached a child.”
“Yes.”
“Asked him to carry something into a courthouse.”
“Yes.”
“You could have walked in yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you?”
His jaw tightened.
“Because I wanted the box to reach you before anyone decided whether I was allowed to.”
“That is not Noah's burden.”
“No.”
He looked ashamed.
“I was wrong.”
“Did you tell his mother?”
“No.”
“Have you apologized?”
“No.”
“You will.”
“Yes.”
No argument.
Only then did I allow myself to look at him.
“You're alive.”
“Yes.”
“Thirty-one years.”
“Yes.”
“You let us think you were dead.”
His expression changed.
“No.”
My anger sharpened.
“No?”
“I let you think I was gone.”
“What distinction do you imagine helps?”
“I sent Dad a letter.”
“When?”
“Six weeks after.”
My pulse changed.
“What did it say?”
“That I was alive.”
“Did he receive it?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“He responded.”
The room tilted.
“Our father knew.”
“Yes.”
“Mom was dead already.”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell me?”
“You tell me.”
“No.”
Thomas looked away.
“Then no.”
I laughed once.
Not humor.
“What did Dad say in the response?”
“That I should come home and handle the accusation properly.”
“And?”
“That if I stayed gone, people would draw conclusions.”
“He was right.”
“Yes.”
“You stayed.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Thomas looked at the floor.
“Because he still thought the main problem was what people believed about me.”
“What was the main problem?”
“He had helped create the breach.”
I stared.
“Explain.”
Thomas sat.
I remained standing.
Two weeks before the juror information leak, a threat had been made against one juror's family.
Not public.
Not dramatic.
A voicemail.
Enough to scare court administration.
Henry Carter, as administrative judge, wanted to review the sealed juror questionnaires to see which jurors might be particularly vulnerable.
“He couldn't just do that.”
“No.”
“He knew.”
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
“He thought waiting for the formal security process was too slow.”
My father.
The man who spent forty years preaching procedure.
Thomas almost smiled at my expression.
“You know exactly why he did it.”
Because Henry trusted his judgment.
Especially when rules felt inconvenient.
“What happened?”
“He asked Martin Pike to retrieve the questionnaires after hours.”
“Pike copied them.”
“Yes.”
“You saw him?”
Thomas took time.
“I saw him leaving the copier room with them.”
“Then what?”
“I confronted him.”
“What did he say?”
“That Dad authorized the access.”
“Did Dad authorize copies?”
“No.”
Important.
“So Henry did not leak juror information.”
“I never said he did.”
“What did Pike do with the copies?”
“Gave them to a private investigator.”
“Paid?”
“I don't know.”
“Why?”
“Pike claimed he was trying to prove the court's security process was weak.”
“That sounds ridiculous.”
“It sounded ridiculous then.”
“Evidence?”
“Some.”
“What?”
Thomas looked at me.
“Not in the box.”
Good.
I almost laughed despite myself.
“Where?”
“Later.”
“No.”
He frowned.
“You don't get to stage this.”
His face tightened.
“Fair.”
“Tell me what matters.”
Thomas exhaled.
“I copied the access log showing Pike used Dad's authorization.”
“That's why you were in the records corridor.”
“Yes.”
“Why not tell me?”
“I tried.”
My stomach tightened.
Right.
Dad is going to bury this.
“What did Dad do?”
“He ordered Pike to resign quietly.”
“Before or after the leak was discovered?”
“After.”
“And you?”
“He told me not to take the log outside the building.”
“Why?”
“Because it exposed his own unauthorized request.”
There.
Not mastermind.
Cover-up.
“What did you say?”
“That I was going to the state court administrator.”
“And?”
“He told me if I did, he would report that I had improperly copied restricted access records.”
“You had.”
“Yes.”
“Both could be true.”
“Exactly.”
My throat tightened.
“Did he accuse you of leaking the questionnaires?”
“No.”
“Then why did suspicion land on you?”
Thomas looked at me for a long time.
“Because nobody corrected it.”
Father.
Samuel.
Me.
The sentence sat between us.
I said:
“You could have stayed.”
“Yes.”
“Fought it.”
“Yes.”
“Asked me again.”
“Yes.”
“You left.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His face changed.
“Because of what you said to me in Courtroom Seventeen.”
I froze.
“I don't remember.”
“I do.”
“What?”
Thomas stood.
“You said, ‘If you make me choose between your story and Dad's, don't ask me to choose you.’”
The room went silent.
I did remember.
Not the sentence.
The feeling.
Exhaustion.
Embarrassment.
Anger that Thomas was making our father's flaws my problem.
Thomas continued:
“So I stopped asking.”
May you like
Thirty-one years later, he still knew exactly where to put the knife.
The worst part was that I had handed it to him.
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