ADVERTISEMENT
Judge Thorne did not ask me if I was sure.
He had known me for twelve years, first as a young prosecutor arriving at court with too many files and too little sleep, and later as an assistant attorney general relying on cases involving financial exploitation, institutional abuse, and public corruption. He knew I didn’t make emergency calls after dark unless someone was in immediate danger.
“Elena,” he said, his voice cold and precise, “send me the photographs, the recording, and a written summary now. Don’t confront your brother. Keep your mother behind a closed door if possible. I’m contacting the duty magistrate, the sheriff, and adult protective services.”
My mother sat on the closed toilet lid, wrapped in a white towel, shaking so violently that her knees came together.
“They’ll hear you,” she whispered.
I covered the phone with my hand.
“No one is going to hurt you again.”
His eyes searched my face as if he wanted to believe me but had forgotten how.
Judge Thorne continued: “Can she leave the residence safely?”
“Not without alerting them. Julian has the car keys, his ID, and all his medication.”
“So stay where you are. Help is on the way.”
Continue on the next page.
ADVERTISEMENT
