Page 114 of Cut Off
My shirt’s soaked, and the dome is still half-cocked on my head. But I don’t want to leave.
Not with the look on his face.
Not with the feeling that today, I did something right.
But I do. I wave, smile, and walk away before I give Gwen any ammunition for court.
32
The Knockout Fight
JONAH
The Courthouse air is stale but electrified. I walk in, and my heart’s already punching at my ribs. Every hair on my neck stands up, my hands are cold, knuckles tight, but sweat crawls along my spine.
Gardner walks beside me, step-for-step, cool. She’s got her cell out, thumb moving in calculated flicks. She doesn’t say a word until we’re past the metal detector and three steps from the courtroom door. “Ready?”
I nod, meaning it.
We push through. A different judge from the one I met in his chambers presides. This one’s thin, hair all gray, glasses perched on his nose, and looks like he doesn’t tolerate BS.
Therest of the courtroom: two benches and two dozen strangers pretending they’re not rubbernecking the wreck of my life. My parents are dead center—Mom with a powder-blue sweater and a handkerchief, Dad already squared up ready to break a chair on command. Ms. Hernandez is in the back row with a stack of case files and a coffee.
Gwen’s lawyer has the perfect tan and the face that says he’s dreamed of this moment since law school. Across from him, Gwen’s wearing a suit, light color, hair pulled impossibly tight.
The bailiff calls it, and I sit. Gardner doesn’t even look at me as she takes her seat, and flips a tab in her binder.
It’s on.
The judge asks the opposing counsel—Warren Finch—for opening arguments.
Fitch is on his feet. “Your Honor,” he says, voice smooth, “we are here today because the Anders family has grave concerns about the welfare and stability of young Eli Anders in the custody of Jonah Holt.” He lets that “grave” hang in the air—hands steepled, no notes, just pure theater.
My jaw tics.
He keeps going. “My client, Mrs. Gwen Anders, comes before this court not out of anger, but out of heartbreak. She wishes only what is best for her grandson.” Fitch gestures to Gwen, soft spotlight, the way you might indicate a beloved rescue dog. “The aim of this hearing is to establish whether Mr. Holt’s home is truly the safest and most suitable permanent environment for Eli.”
He doesn’t even look at me. Not once. Just the judge. Just the narrative.
He waits—then clicks a remote.
The monitor at his table flickers to life.
“YourHonor, if I may offer a brief visual context—Exhibit One.”
And there it is. My finest moment, streaming off Gwen’s own front porch. The Ring camera footage—me, skin corpse-white, fists clenched so hard the knuckles gleam. Voice low. A single, surgical line: “I’ll end you.”
No context. No part where she kidnapped Eli. Two seconds, looped. My face in profile, eyes gone murder-dark.
Fitch doesn’t narrate. He just lets it ride.
The judge watches the screen, then me.
I stare at my hands.
After a silence that’s long enough to make my neck flush with heat, Fitch continues, “This is not, unfortunately, an isolated incident in Mr. Holt’s history. Rather, it reflects a pattern—one documented in disciplinary records, police reports, and, most recently, the concerns of those closest to the late Ms. Rosie Anders.”
He turns a page.
