Chapter 14 - The Witness Room
The fourth floor of the county courthouse was silent except for the squeak of shoes on linoleum and the distant clacking of a stenographer’s machine down the hall.
I sat at the end of a long wooden bench outside Courtroom 3B, wearing a dark navy blazer I had bought at a department store with my first independent paycheck from the bakery.
Walter sat beside me, his hands resting on his wooden cane, his eyes fixed on the double doors at the end of the hall.
Dad walked out of the conference room with his court-appointed defense attorney—a young, overworked public defender with a scuffed briefcase. Dad’s hair was uncombed, his suit hung loosely over his shoulders, and the arrogance that had filled our dining room on Thanksgiving was completely gone, replaced by a hollow, desperate fatigue.
He saw me on the bench and stopped.
His attorney tried to steer him toward the elevator, but Dad pulled his arm free and walked toward us.
"Roxanne," Dad said, his voice hoarse. "You don't have to testify against me in front of the grand jury. If you tell the prosecutor that you gave verbal consent for the signature on the mortgage, they drop the felony fraud charge. It becomes a civil dispute."
I looked at him. I looked at the man who had let me freeze in a basement for four years while he bought country club memberships with my grandmother’s legacy.
"Did you find a place to live, Dad?" I asked quietly.
Dad blinked, confused by the question. "What?"
"The bank foreclosed on the Elmwood house yesterday," I said. "Arthur told me the auction is scheduled for January."
Dad’s face contorted into sudden, vicious fury. "You destroyed this family! Over a bakery! Over an old brick building that your grandmother should have sold thirty years ago!"
Walter slowly stood up from the bench, his cane clicking against the floor. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't step forward. He just looked at his son with an expression of profound, final detachment.
"Tom," Walter said softly. "The building didn't destroy you. Your own greed did."
The courtroom doors opened. A bailiff stepped into the hall, holding a clipboard.
"State versus Miller," the bailiff called out. "Roxanne Miller to the stand."
I stood up, smoothed down the lapels of my navy jacket, and walked through the double doors without looking back.
---
NEXT CHAPTER 👉 👉 👉
If you enjoyed the story, bookmark my site: [https://metro.treeiq.biz](https://metro.treeiq.biz)
May you like
New stories are posted daily, so check back for updates.
---
