Page 50 of Echoes of a Southern Song

“Did you file the marriage certificate?”

“Yes. There was a little chapel—we signed all the papers right after the ceremony. The place had a neon heart above the door and smelled like cotton candy and liquor.”

He types something. “Name of the chapel?”

“Lucky Love Weddings.” I sigh. “Couldn’t make that up if I tried.”

The questions keep coming—dates, locations, how long we stayed in Vegas, where we lived afterward, whether we shared bank accounts. It’s all technical. Clean. Clinical.

But even though he’s not asking about emotions or betrayal or fear, it still makes me feel like I’m being slowly lowered into a tank of ice water. Every answer chips away at something inside me, even the dumb little ones like what airline we flew or where we stayed for the weekend.

When it’s finally over, David gives me a small smile.

“You did great,” he says. “We’ll go over the more sensitive stuff next time, but you’re well-prepared.”

“Thanks,” I say, trying to smile back. “I’m just ready for this to be over.”

“I know. You’re doing the right thing.”

I nod, but his words bounce right off the armor I’ve built up. I’m not doing this because I feel brave or right. I’m doing it because I have no choice.

The room feels smaller now. Mr. Langley leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk. He looks at me in a way that’s part professional, part parental.

“Alright, Jinnie,” he begins with more of a personal than professional tone. “When we get into the courtroom, there are a few things you need to keep in mind—mostly about how you handle yourself. Judges don’t just listen to what you say; they watch how you say it. Your body language, your tone, even how quickly you respond—it all matters.”

“Okay. So... what do I do?”

“First,” he says, holding up a finger, “stay calm. No matter what Sam or his lawyer says—no matter how ridiculous or infuriating it is—you don’t react. You keep your face neutral. No eye rolls, no sighs, no muttering under your breath. You’re a statue.”

“A statue,” I repeat, trying to imagine myself carved out of marble.

“Exactly. If you react emotionally—if you get defensive or angry—it can come across as instability. And that’s not what we want the judge to see.”

“Got it,” I say, though my stomach twists at the thought of sitting there while Sam spews whatever nonsense he’s cooked up.

“Second,” he continues, holding up another finger, “when the judge speaks to you—or when I ask you questions—you answer clearly and concisely. Don’t ramble. Don’t overexplain. Stick to the facts. If it’s a yes-or-no question, answer yes or no. If it’s more complicated, keep it short and direct.”

I nod again, but my mind is already racing ahead, trying to anticipate every possible question and how I might mess it up.

“Third,” he says, holding up a third finger now, “if Sam or his lawyer tries to bait you—and they will—don’t take it. They’ll twist your words if they can.”

“So what do I do?”

“If they ask something that feels like a trap,” he explains, “don’t answer right away. Look at me first. I’ll either tell you how to respond or object if they’re out of line.”

I swallow hard and nod again.

“Finally, remember that this isn’t personal—not for the judge. They don’t care about the drama or the history or who wronged who. They care about the law and whether all the boxes have been checked. So don’t try to appeal to their emotions or make them feel sorry for you. Just stick to the facts and trust me to handle the rest.”

“Okay.”

He smiles. “You’re going to do fine. I’m only giving you the worst possible scenario. I don’t see this as being a big deal, but just in case.”

“Thank you. I’m fine. I’ll do fine.”

After going over a few more details, the meeting is done.

I walk out feeling a little out of sorts. I should go home and start laundry. But I don’t want to. I need a breather. Something simple. Normal.