The day of the preliminary hearing arrived, heavy with apprehension. The small courtroom was sparse, mostly empty save for a few clerks and reporters. Judge Arthur Finch presided, a stern-faced man with wire-rimmed glasses, rumored to be a stickler for protocol.
Calvin, looking pale but determined, presented our case. He outlined the incident at the gala, referring to Tommy’s drawing and my affidavit. He subtly hinted at Croft’s history of questionable business practices without directly introducing the anonymous letter.
“Your Honor, we believe Mr. Croft’s actions were deliberate and malicious, causing physical and emotional harm to a minor, Thomas Holloway,” Calvin stated, his voice clear.
Croft’s lawyer, a slick-haired man named Mr. Harrington, rose with an air of practiced disdain.
“Your Honor, this entire proceeding is a waste of this court’s valuable time,” Harrington began, his voice dripping with condescension. “We are presented with the baseless accusations of a child with a vivid imagination, and the personal vendetta of a bitter woman.”
He gestured vaguely at me. “Mrs. Holloway, grieving her late husband, is clearly attempting to exploit a minor social incident for financial gain and personal revenge against a respected community leader.”
Harrington dismissed the drawing as childish fantasy. He painted Croft as a benevolent figure, merely attempting to assist a clumsy child who had “stumbled” into his path.
“Mr. Croft has made immense contributions to the war effort,” Harrington boomed. “This frivolous lawsuit is an insult to his patriotism and a distraction from the real work of this nation.”
I clenched my jaw, my hands trembling under the table. They were twisting everything, painting me as a greedy, vindictive woman, and Tommy as a fantasizing child. The injustice burned.
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