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“You as well, Mr. Jackson.” I give his hand a firm pump. “Appreciate you making the time.”
“My pleasure,” he continues the phony charade. “You remember my clients.”
“Yes, of course.”
Charles Franklin, with his neatly groomed afro, is more formidable in a suit than the jeans and Franklin Farms monogrammed shirt I’d seen him in last time. He rises and moves behind Jackson to grasp my hand in a double-palm shake. “Ms. Chase. As lovely as I remember.” He lays on the Southern charm.
“Mr. Franklin. Mrs. Franklin.” I look over to where she’s seated.
“Hello, Ms. Chase.” Her voice sounds automated and her greenish-blue eyes stare back through the same hazy, far-away expression that I recall.
“Please sit,” Jackson invites. “Would you like coffee?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” I set down my tote bag and take the chair adjacent to him and across from the Franklins. “I’ll get right to the point.”
“Please.” Jackson flashes capped ivories. “You said you have a mutually beneficial solution to discuss.”
“I do.” My eyes meet him with authority. “I’m giving your clients an opportunity to withdraw their petition for custody before scandalous facts about them become a matter of public record.”
Joan Franklin’s thin fingers clutch the cameo pendant hanging around the neck of her navy dress and Franklin snaps open his mouth to speak. Jackson intercedes him.
“I’ll handle this, Charles. I assure you, Ms. Chase, that we are at a loss for what you are talking about.”
“You may be. But your clients are not. Let’s start with Wyatt Alden.”
“Oh God,” Mrs. Franklin gasps while her husband blusters.
“What the hell is going on?”
Jackson puts up a silencing hand, his brow pleated in what appears to be genuine confusion. “Where are you going with this, Ms. Chase? Mr. Alden is deceased.”
“Yes, and it’s most unfortunate that he can’t be held to account. But your clients can be.”
“Watch it, Ms. Chase,” Franklin warns in a menacing tone.
“Charles!” Jackson turns to him. “Not another word.” Then to me: “Whatever you think Mr. Alden may have done is irrelevant to my clients and the case.”
“I would say it’s highly relevant that your clients covered up Alden sexually assaulting their daughter when she was just fifteen years old and impregnating her.”
Joan Franklin takes in whimpering breaths and her husband pins me with a spearing look. “How dare you come in here with these lies!”
“It’s the truth. Look at your wife’s reaction.”
“My wife is emotional and highly susceptible.”
“I think it’s called guilt.”
“Ms. Chase!” Jackson chastises. “I’m sure you can see the distress you’re causing my clients.”
“My sympathies lie elsewhere. With Dwayde, who has a detailed account of what your clients did to Joyce Franklin. He bore the weight of that. Joyce’s abuse of him stemmed from your clients’ neglect to get her help or justice. Instead they forced her to have a baby to raise as their own. Mr. Franklin wanted a male heir so badly that he put his own selfish needs ahead of his daughter’s, and Mrs. Franklin went along with it.”
“I’m going to be sick.” She clutches her stomach, her face contorted and sheet-white, the rouge on her gaunt cheeks standing out in ghoulish contrast.
“Have you no sense of decency?” Franklin charges, which is the epitome of those living in glass houses.
“Charles, you need to let me handle this.” Jackson assesses his clients and the situation. “I think it’s best that I speak with Ms. Chase, alone.”
“That’s not an option. I will defend myself against these malicious allegations.”
