Chapter 3 - The Hospital Room
The private room on the fourth floor of St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital was quiet, save for the steady, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor and the soft hum of the overhead IV pump.
Maya lay propped up against a mountain of white pillows. Her left arm was encased in a thick, bright pink fiberglass cast that stretched from her knuckles to just below her shoulder. A small white bandage covered a row of delicate stitches near her hairline, and a dark, mottled bruise bloomed across her left cheekbone.
Despite the pain medication, her small face looked exhausted, her dark brown eyes tracking me as I softly closed the wooden door behind me.
“Hey, baby,” I whispered, stepping softly across the linoleum floor.
“Hi, Mom,” Maya said, her voice raspy and fragile. She tried to shift her weight, but winced as her shoulders moved.
I sat down on the edge of the mattress, taking her good right hand gently into both of mine. I pressed a long, tender kiss to her knuckles, holding her fingers against my cheek until I felt her relax slightly into the mattress.
“How are you feeling?” I asked softly.
“My arm feels heavy,” she murmured, looking down at the pink cast. “And my head hurts when the room is too bright.”
“The doctor said the medicine will help with that,” I reassured her, gently brushing a strand of dark hair away from her bandaged forehead. “You were very brave today, Maya. So brave.”
Maya lowered her eyes, her fingers tightening around mine. “Did you... did you go to the school?”
“I did.”
“Is Max’s dad mad?” she asked, a familiar edge of anxiety creeping into her tone. “Whenever Max does something mean at school, his dad comes in and shouts at the teachers, and then the teachers make everyone pretend it didn't happen. Max told everyone that his dad owns the city and nobody can touch him.”
I felt a fresh wave of cold anger wash over me, but I kept my face soft and reassuring for my daughter.
“Max’s dad doesn't own the city, sweetie,” I said firmly. “And he certainly doesn't own the law. Max is going to face consequences for what he did to you. Real consequences.”
Maya looked at me, her wide brown eyes full of uncertainty. “Will I have to go back to that school?”
“Never,” I promised her without a second of hesitation. “You are never setting foot in Oak Creek Elementary again. I’ve already contacted the admissions director at St. Claire’s Academy. You’re starting there as soon as your arm heals.”
A tiny, fragile smile touched the corners of Maya’s lips. St. Claire’s was a private school known for its incredible arts and literature programs—a school Maya had dreamed of attending for two years, but one I had hesitated to enroll her in because of the long commute across town.
“Really?” she whispered.
“Really,” I smiled, kissing her forehead again. “Now, I want you to rest. The doctors want to keep you overnight for observation just to make sure your concussion doesn't cause any trouble.”
As Maya’s eyes fluttered shut under the influence of her pain medication, my mobile phone vibrated silently in my coat pocket.
I carefully released her hand, stepped out into the quiet hospital corridor, and answered the call.
“Judge Vance,” Detective Reyes’s voice came through the receiver, crisp and professional. “We’ve just finished reviewing the raw security footage from the west stairwell.”
I leaned against the cool plaster wall of the hallway. “And?”
“It’s bad, Your Honor,” Reyes said gravely. “The angle is clear. Max Sterling didn't just push her during a crowd rush. He followed her onto the landing, grabbed her backpack from behind, pulled her back, and deliberately shoved her down twelve concrete steps. Then he stood at the top of the landing and laughed while she lay at the bottom.”
My grip tightened on the phone until my knuckles turned white. “Is the footage preserved?”
“Fully backed up on three secure state servers,” Reyes confirmed. “Furthermore, when we brought Max in for his intake interview, his father attempted to physically intervene and destroy a copy of the incident report in the interview room. He has officially been charged with felony obstruction of justice and tampering with evidence.”
“Where is Richard now?” I asked coldly.
“In a holding cell at the Central Precinct, waiting for his arraignment hearing tomorrow morning.” Reyes paused for a beat before adding, “And Your Honor? The presiding judge for tomorrow morning’s bail docket is Judge Robert Thomas.”
May you like
I let out a slow, deliberate breath. Judge Thomas was a senior colleague on the bench—a veteran jurist known throughout the state for his absolute intolerance for public corruption, bribery, and crimes involving children.
“Thank you, Detective,” I said. “I will see you in court tomorrow morning.”
