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“See that you do, young man,” the judge snipped before pointing at another table in the room. “And why are you here?”
A man dressed in an impeccable suit stood and spoke, “Name is Steven Zacary, Sir.”
“I don’t give a damn who you are. I asked why you are here?”
“I’m representing the biological father’s parents, your honor.”
“Not the father?”
“No, Sir.”
“Why not? Does the father not want custody?”
“No, Sir. The father in question has signed over all legal rights to his son.”
“Not his son if he signed away all rights,” the judge clipped, then cleared his voice before adding, “So, the grandparents want their grandchild?”
“Yes, Sir. I have prepared several briefs and have several testimonials to their suitability, along with—”
“Gonna stop ya right there, young man. I don’t give a flying fig what any person says or what legal mumbo jumbo you’ve come up with to tie this shit up. You are not in Richmond, and this is definitely not Washington DC, where I am sure you are bucking for a Senate appointment. Welcome to Rosewood. Now, sit down and shut up until I ask you a question,” Judge Tomlinson stated, then sighed. “Lively bunch today, John.”
“Seems that way, Judge,” the bailiff agreed, shaking his head.
Looking at the last table in the room, the judge asked, “And, you lot?”
Another attorney stood and sputtered, before replying, “Representing the foster parents of the minor female in question. They are petitioning the courts for adoption of the mother and her child.”
Shuffling papers around his desk, Judge Tomlinson groaned. “Alright. I want to speak with the mother. Where is she?”
Scribe stood again. “In the hospital, Judge.”
“What the hell for?”
“She had a complication from the birth and needed emergency surgery.”
“Is that in one of these files?” the judge asked, opening file after file.
“Yes, Sir, it’s in the file I gave the clerk,” Diana Peters added.
“I don’t see it,” the older man said, scouring the pile of files on his desk.
“Here, Judge,” Scribe offered helpfully, walking over to the dais, handing the bailiff his copy of the file before the bailiff handed the file to the judge.
Shooing Scribe away, the judge quickly scanned the information before speaking, “Says here, the minor is fifteen years old and when she told her foster parents, they kicked her out. Is that true?”
The attorney representing the foster parents stood. “It was a misunderstanding, Judge. That’s all.”
“Either they did or didn’t.”
The foster mother jumped up and spoke, “Fiona is a willful child. She was always getting into trouble. I tried to warn her that hanging around with that boy would lead nowhere and I was right.”
“Let me stop you right there, Mrs. Jones, because all I am hearing is you complain about a fifteen-year-old girl who was just being a typical teenager. I’m denying your petition for the adoption of Fiona Mitchell and her baby. You can leave my courtroom now,” Judge Tomlinson said decisively as he stamped something into a file before handing it to his bailiff, John. “One down, three to go.”
“On a roll today, Judge.” The bailiff smirked.
“Alright, Mr. Zacary, you’re up,” the judge ordered, then quickly added, “And before you go on a lengthy tirade about why the parents of a nineteen-year-old boy who got a minor pregnant want custody of the baby, I am warning you to tread carefully.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Mr. Zacary said, buttoning his suit. “My clients are upstanding citizens. Pillars in the community. When they learned their son fathered a child, they looked tirelessly for the young woman, to no avail. It was only after they spent thousands of dollars hiring a private detective that they learned the young woman in question had delivered their grandson. Though their son gave up his rights, my clients are requesting full custody of their grandchild.”
