You don't belong in a high-end historical building like this, my landlord’s fiancée, Vanessa Crawford, sneered as she dumped a glass of $350 Moët & Chandon champagne directly over my head.
The morning of the mediation dawned crisp and clear, but a heavy sense of dread settled in my chest. I still couldn’t remember a single detail about October 14th, and Mr. Davies had given me little hope. Amara watched me nervously from the kitchen table as I picked at my breakfast.
“I’m going to school now, Mama,” she said, her backpack already slung over her shoulder. Her voice was unusually quiet.
“Okay, baby,” I said, giving her a weak smile. “Have a good day.”
She left, not saying anything about the document she held safely inside a sealed manila envelope in her backpack. She didn’t want to burden me, or worse, give me a chance to stop her. This was her mission.
Amara didn’t go to school. Instead, she took the Number 10 bus directly to downtown Atlanta. The Fulton County Municipal Courthouse loomed, a massive stone edifice. She clutched the envelope, her small hand sweaty.
Inside, the lobby was bustling. People in suits hurried past, their faces serious. She spotted the administrative desk, a long counter manned by several busy clerks. Too many eyes.
She remembered seeing Judge Blevins’s name on the mediation notice. Private chambers.
Amara carefully navigated the crowded hallways, peering at the brass plaques beside each door. Finally, she found it: MAGISTRATE RAYMOND BLEVINS.
She stood to the side, trying to look inconspicuous, her small stature almost hidden behind a potted plant. A few minutes later, a woman in a sensible suit, clearly the clerk, stepped out of the chambers, heading towards a water cooler.
Now was her chance.
Amara took a deep breath, her heart thumping against her ribs like a trapped bird. She walked straight up to the open chamber door.
“Excuse me, sir?” she said, her voice small but clear.
Judge Blevins looked up from a document on his desk, his stern expression softening slightly at the sight of an eleven-year-old girl.
“Yes, young lady?” he asked, his gaze quizzical.
Amara extended the envelope, her hand trembling slightly. “This is for you, sir. It’s very important. It’s about my mother, Maya Dubois.”
The judge took the envelope, his fingers brushing hers. He saw the Northside Hospital logo, the official state seal, and doctor signatures peeking from the top. His eyes, sharp and intelligent, immediately registered the legal weight of the document.
He pulled out the discharge summary. His brow furrowed as he read, his gaze snapping back to the date: October 14th.
“This is… an alibi,” he murmured, almost to himself.
He looked up at Amara, a new respect in his eyes. “Thank you, young lady. Thank you very much.”
He then reached for his phone, his voice firm as he spoke to his clerk. “Please inform both parties in Gaines versus Dubois to report to my private chambers immediately. Ahead of schedule.”
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