Fox Lee stands, his hands folded in front of him. “Your honor, the state is withdrawing its case against Mr. Chance, dismissing all charges.”

The judge, a different judge than I appeared before at my arraignment, nods without looking up.

“Understood,” he says. “Mr. Lee, did you discover the state had its facts wrong? That the assault was somehow perpetrated by someone else?”

“No, your honor,” Fox says. “My office has determined there were mitigating circumstances. The victim in this case, Mr. Henry Schmidt, is currently in police custody facing an attempted murder charge, along with three counts of kidnapping, a simple assault charge, and aggravated assault on a minor.”

The judge looks up, narrowing his eye at Fox. “And how is that relevant to this case?”

Fox appears puzzled for a moment, then he collects himself. “Sir, one of the assault charges, against a minor, is what precipitated Mr. Chance’s altercation with the victim. We believe an argument can be made for self-defense, and that a jury would tend to support the actions of a man defending a child, as opposed to a man assaulting a child. My office sees no point in litigating a losing case. Our resources are limited. We prioritize murder and kidnapping over those who too enthusiastically defend the well-being of children.”

“I see,” the judge says. “I’m disappointed in you, counsellor. I thought your office was interested in justice. Mr. Schmidt will certainly get his day in court; however, I doubt he’ll find much justice from you.”

The judge turns his attention to me and my attorney. The chill in his icy stare cuts me to the core.

“Mr. Chance, today is your lucky day,” he says, barely repressing a sneer. “Once again, my courtroom sees evidence that it’s not what you do, but rather who you know, that determines your course in life. I congratulate you on making the right friends. Case dismissed.”

He doesn’t strike his gavel. Instead he tosses my case file to the side of his desk, shaking his head in disgust.

“Don’t worry about him,” Avery Gratian, my attorney, says under his breath, leaning in close. “He’s as old school as it gets. He’d bring back chain gangs if he could get away with it.”

Still, the experience of earning this judge’s ire is chilling. On another day, with another district attorney, I might be facing years in prison if the decision was left to him.

Fox steps across the aisle, shaking hands with my attorney, then offering his hand to me.

“Sorry about all that,” he says. “If we hadn’t dismissed, we would have moved for another judge. I hope you don’t take that too personally. We just wanted to get this thing done as soon as possible.”

“I’m fine,” I say, relieved, despite the judge’s attitude. “We appreciate you moving the date up, so I can get back home to the family.”

Mrs. Landry at Child Protective Services was sympathetic to my situation, but not enough to alter her recommendation that I have no contact with the kids until after my court date. Apparently, she caught some serious flack for ignoring earlier signs of abuse and neglect when the kids were with Kimmie. She wasn’t taking any more chances, lest she risk hurting her own career.

“My pleasure,” Fox says. “Hey, Nikki and I are having a thing next weekend. You and Dillon should come. Gil and Kendall will be there, plus a few others you may know. This is a couples only dinner party. A little more subdued than some of our affairs. I’ll send you the info.”

Wow. I scored an invitation to the popular kids’ house. That’s never happened before. I know Dillon is friends with them, but I’m used to just being the tag-along. Maybe getting shot and bringing down a notorious bad guy in town has boosted my stock.

“Yeah,” I say. “Let me talk to Dillon. We’ll let you know.”

“Where is Dillon?” Fox asks, looking around. “I expected him to be here.”

“A courtroom down the hall,” I say. “His sister’s trial is today. Since we knew this one was being dismissed, he’s down there. I’m headed that way now.”

“I forgot about that,” Fox says, a slight awkwardness in his tone. “Big case. I consulted on it with one of my deputies. Mrs. Schmidt is facing some serious charges with a lot of supporting evidence. I’m sorry.”

I wave him off. “No need,” I reassure him. “Kimmie’s well aware of what’s ahead. So is Dillon.”

I got preferential treatment in one courtroom, while down the hall, Kimmie Schmidt is facing the full force of the Washington County District Attorney’s office prosecutorial effort. Her trial started early this morning. I was able to catch the opening remarks and the first two witnesses. Carrie Jackson and the arresting officer, both of whom spoke about the horrific conditions inside the mobile home, as well as the volume of drugs under manufacture, with a large stockpile already packaged for distribution.

It was grim testimony to hear. Before lunch I had to meet my attorney, leaving Dillon to stay for the rest of the trial.

I thank Avery Gratian for all his work on my behalf, then go to find Dillon to see how things are proceeding with Kimmie’s trial.

The courtroom is nearly empty, as Kimmie’s trial is the only one scheduled here today. Other than attorneys, the only people in the gallery seats are Dillon, his Uncle Charlie, and his aunts Nita and Glynn. There was a reporter from the local paper here this morning, but he’s long gone now. I slide in beside Dillon, offering a wan smile and a nod.

“Dismissed. Done and done,” I whisper. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

He slips his hand into mine, squeezing firmly, returning his attention to the front of the courtroom where the Assistant District Attorney is addressing the jury.

“I’ve outlined all the evidence against Ms. Schmidt,” she says. “Providing physical evidence, witnesses from the Abingdon police department, and expert witnesses who have testified to the physical and psychological toll methamphetamine takes on children who are exposed to it, even at low levels.

“I’ll remind you, that Ms. Schmidt’s children; Jordan, who is twelve, Christine, who is nine, and little Joseph, who is seven, were not exposed to trace amount of these toxins. They were immersed in a toxic, poisonous environment—for months. Their toxicology tests read like the those of habitual users of this drug.”

The DA walks up to the jury box, resting her hands on the narrow ledge separating her from them.

“Mrs. Schmidt’s attorney has done an amazing job of painting her as the victim. He’s cast her as a woman under the spell, even under the boot, of an abusive former husband who commandeered her home and set up shop without her consent, and that she was powerless to oppose him. All that might have merit, had it just been her own well-being she had to think about. I’ll leave you to deliberate with that thought. Ms. Schmidt claims to be the victim, but I’ll ask you to ponder who the legitimate victims here are, and where is their justice? Who is held accountable for what happened to Jordan, to Christine, and to Joseph?”

Some of the juror’s squirm slightly in their chairs. All but two of them are men. The two women look like grandmothers, both with screwed up expressions on their faces like they smell something bad.

Dillon leans toward me, whispering, “They got the hospital reports, and the ER doctor appeared as a witness with a whole PowerPoint presentation of everything the kids presented with in the ER. I forgot how bad those skin rashes were, and that eye infection. The pictures were awful.”

I haven’t forgotten. I feel terrible for Kimmie, but the cold clinician in me—the EMT who has seen too many cases like this—knows that Kimmie Schmidt has no business taking care of children.

The judge gives the jury their instructions, sending them away. A moment later, he declares a recess until the jury returns with a decision. The bailiff takes Kimmie away, while the attorneys on both sides disperse.

“The jury won’t look at Kimmie,” Dillon says when we can finally speak freely. “Her lawyer got Darryl up there to say Kimmie wasn’t helping make the stuff, but the DA managed to get out of him that she was doing all the packaging for distribution.” Dillon rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “I think he meant well, but it probably hurt more than it helped.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t want to see Dillon’s sister go to jail. The kids don’t need that kind of stigma hanging over them either. Sadly, I know it can’t be avoided at this point.

“Let’s take a walk and get some fresh air,” I suggest to Dillon. “I need a cold drink. You want an iced coffee?”

Dillon smiles at me, nodding. “Zazzy’Z?” he asks, referring to our favorite coffee shop, just a few blocks away.

“We can be there and back in ten minutes,” I promise. “Or I can go and bring you something if you don’t want to leave.”

“No, I need to stretch my legs.”

On the way to the coffee shop and on the way back, I recount to Dillon the judge’s remarks after Fox Lee told him they were dropping the charges against me.

“It was like he had an axe to grind,” I observe. “He was so concerned about Schmidt getting justice, which felt more like retribution against me. It was strange.”

“That is strange,” Dillon agrees. “It reminds me of something too, something Avery Gratian said—that Schmidt had friends in high places. I wonder if that judge is one of them?”

“Maybe,” I say. “Whoever he is, I sure hope he’s not the judge when Schmidt’s case comes to trial. It felt like he was sympathetic to the wrong guy.”

Just as we’re getting back to the courthouse, Dillon’s phone pings with a text message. He checks it, then picks up his pace. “Jury’s back,” he says. “That was too fast.”

A few moments later we’re all assembled in the courtroom as the jury returns, each member taking his or her place inside the jury box. The judge goes through the choreography of reminding them of their role. Finally, he calls the foreman to read the verdicts.

In short, Kimmie is found guilty on multiple counts of conspiracy to manufacture methamphetamine and prepare it for distribution. She’s found guilty on a felony count of providing a domicile for the manufacture of meth. She’s found guilty of resisting arrest, being under the influence of meth, and finally, she’s found guilty on three felony counts of aggravated assault against minor children, neglect, and abuse.

“Jesus,” Dillon whispers under his breath as the verdicts are read. Down the bench, his Uncle Charlie sits stoic, emotionless, while his two aunts bow their heads, tears flowing.

Kimmie turns in her chair, her eyes coming to rest on Dillon’s.

“I’m sorry,” she mouths to him. “Tell them I’m sorry.”

“Ms. Schmidt face the court,” the judge tells her, calling her attention forward.

“Let’s get this wrapped up,” he says to the court reporter while glancing at his watch. He thanks the jury for their service, dismissing them. As soon as they’re gone, he dives straight into the sentencing phase of the trail.

Kimmie sits still as he reads aloud from his notes, admonishing her for her carelessness toward the well-being of her children. When he’s done, he imposes her sentence. Ten years—which is the minimum allowable—for each count of manufacture and distribution, the three terms to be served concurrently. He gives her five years on the domicile charge, and five years for each count of assault, abuse, and neglect, to be served consecutively.

“That’s thirty years,” Dillon states with disbelief, his eyes wide with horror. “Thirty.”

“Ms. Schmidt, in ten years you’ll be eligible for parole,” the judge states coolly. “Your youngest child will be seventeen years-old. I hope your children find it in their hearts to forgive you. The state of Virginia has no such obligation.”

He nods to the bailiff. “Take the prisoner away.”

Kimmie is in tears as she leaves, finally feeling the weight of the mistakes she made. Tears are running down Dillon’s cheeks, too, and I pull him into my arms.

“We’ll take care of them,” I assure him. “And Kimmie, too.”

He nods slowly against my shoulder, and I hold him as the courtroom clears.