He sat there in his three-thousand-dollar suit, laughing with his high-priced shark of a lawyer, pointing a manicured finger at the empty chair beside me. Keith Simmons thought the divorce was already over. He thought that by stripping me of my bank accounts, canceling my credit cards, and isolating me from our friends, I would crumble into dust. He had even told the judge during the deposition that I was too incompetent to hire counsel.
But Keith forgot one crucial detail about my past. Specifically, he forgot whose blood runs through my veins.
When the courtroom doors eventually swung open, the smirk didn’t just vanish from Keith’s face. The color drained from his entire existence, leaving him looking like a man who had just realized he was standing on a trapdoor.
You are about to witness the most brutal courtroom takedown in the history of the Manhattan Civil Division. But before the gavel fell, there was only the smell of stale floor wax, old paper, and my own suffocating fear.
Courtroom 304 of the Manhattan Civil Courthouse was a windowless box designed to crush dreams. The air was recycled and cold. For Keith, however, the atmosphere smelled like victory.
I watched him adjust the cuffs of his bespoke navy jacket. He leaned back in the leather chair at the plaintiff’s table, checking his watch—a vintage Patek Philippe that he’d bought with our joint savings “for investment purposes”—and let out a sharp, derisive exhale through his nose.
“She’s late,” I heard him whisper to the man beside him. “Or maybe she finally realized it’s cheaper to just give up and go live in a shelter.”
Beside him sat Garrison Ford. Garrison wasn’t just a lawyer; he was a blunt instrument wrapped in silk. A senior partner at Ford, Miller & O’Connell, he was known in New York legal circles as the “Butcher of Broadway.” He didn’t just win divorce cases; he incinerated the opposition until there was nothing left but ash and a settlement that favored his client down to the last teaspoon.
Garrison smoothed his silver tie, his eyes scanning the docket with predatory boredom. “It doesn’t matter if she shows up, Keith,” Garrison murmured, his voice like gravel grinding on glass. He didn’t bother whispering; he wanted me to hear. “We filed the emergency motion to freeze the joint assets on Monday. She has no access to liquidity. No retainer means no representation. No representation against me means she walks away with whatever scraps we decide to toss her.”
Keith smirked, looking across the aisle at me.
I knew what he saw. He saw Grace, the quiet wife. The failed artist. The woman who looked smaller than he remembered, wearing a simple charcoal gray dress I’d owned for five years because he controlled the clothing allowance. My hands were folded neatly on the scarred oak table, fingers interlaced so tightly that my knuckles were white. There were no stacks of files in front of me, no paralegals whispering strategy, no pitcher of ice water. Just me, staring straight ahead at the empty judge’s bench, trying to remember how to breathe.
“Look at her,” Keith chuckled, loud enough for the few spectators in the back—mostly bored law clerks—to hear. “Pathetic. I almost feel bad for her. It’s like watching a deer waiting for a semi-truck.”
“Focus,” Garrison warned, though a small, cruel smile played on his lips. “Judge Henderson is a stickler for decorum. Let’s get this done quickly. I have a lunch reservation at Le Bernardin at one.”
“Don’t worry, Garrison,” Keith said, leaning back. “By one o’clock, I’ll be a free man, and she’ll be looking for a studio apartment in Queens.”
The bailiff, a heavyset man named Officer Kowalski who had seen enough divorces to lose faith in humanity twice over, bellowed out, “All rise. The Honorable Judge Lawrence P. Henderson presiding.”
The room shuffled to its feet. Judge Henderson swept in, his black robes billowing like storm clouds. He was a man of sharp angles and short patience, known for clearing his docket with ruthless efficiency. He took his seat, adjusted his spectacles, and peered down at us with the warmth of a glacier.
“Be seated,” Henderson commanded. He opened the file in front of him. “Case number 24-NY-0091, Simmons versus Simmons. We are here for the preliminary hearing regarding the division of assets and the petition for spousal support.”
Henderson looked at the plaintiff’s table. “Mr. Ford, good to see you again.”
“And you, Your Honor,” Garrison said, standing smoothly. “We are ready to proceed.”
The judge turned his gaze to my table. He frowned.
I stood up slowly. My legs felt like lead.
“Mrs. Simmons,” Judge Henderson said, his voice echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged room. “I see you are alone. Are you expecting counsel?”
I cleared my throat. My voice was soft, trembling slightly, betraying the terror clawing at my chest. “I… I am, Your Honor. She should be here any minute.”
Keith let out a loud, theatrical scoff. He covered his mouth with his hand, but the sound was unmistakable—a laugh disguised as a cough.
Judge Henderson’s eyes darted to Keith. “Is there something amusing, Mr. Simmons?”
Garrison Ford stood up immediately, placing a restraining hand on Keith’s shoulder. “Apologies, Your Honor. My client is simply frustrated. This process has been dragged out, and the emotional strain is significant.”
“Keep your client’s frustration silent, Mr. Ford,” the judge warned. He turned back to me. “Mrs. Simmons, court began five minutes ago. You know the rules. If your attorney is not present…”
“She’s coming,” I insisted, my voice gaining a fraction more strength. She promised. “There was traffic.”
“Traffic?” Keith muttered, leaning forward so his voice carried across the aisle. “Or maybe the check bounced, Grace. Oh, wait. You can’t write a check. I canceled the cards this morning.”
“Mr. Simmons!” The judge banged his gavel. “One more outburst and I will hold you in contempt.”
“My apologies, Your Honor,” Keith said, standing up and buttoning his jacket, feigning humility. “I just… I want to be fair here. My wife is clearly confused. She doesn’t understand the complexity of the law. She has no income, no resources. I offered her a generous settlement last week—fifty thousand dollars and the 2018 Lexus. She refused.”
Keith turned to look at me, his eyes cold and dead. “I tried to help you, Grace. But you insisted on playing games. Now look at you. Sitting there with nothing. You don’t have a lawyer because nobody wants a charity case.”
“Mr. Ford, control your client!” Judge Henderson snapped.
“Your Honor,” Garrison Ford interjected smoothly, sensing the judge’s patience thinning. “While my client’s passion is regrettable, his point is valid. We are wasting the court’s time. Mrs. Simmons clearly has not secured representation. Under the precedent of Vargas v. State, we move to proceed immediately with a default judgment on the asset division. She has had months to prepare.”
Judge Henderson looked at me. He looked tired. “Mrs. Simmons, Mr. Ford is technically correct. The court’s time is valuable. If you cannot produce an attorney right now, I have to assume you are representing yourself pro se. And given the complexity of the forensic accounting involved in your husband’s estate, that would be ill-advised.”
“I am not representing myself,” I said, my eyes fixed on the double mahogany doors at the back of the room. Please. Don’t let me down. “Just two more minutes.”
“She’s stalling,” Keith hissed. “She’s got nobody. Her father was a mechanic and her friends are all suburban housewives. Who is she going to call? Ghostbusters?”
Keith laughed again, a cruel, barking sound. He felt invincible. He looked at me, the woman he had vowed to love and cherish, and saw only an obstacle he was about to crush. He wanted to humiliate me. He wanted me to know that leaving him was the biggest mistake of my life.
“Your Honor,” Garrison pressed, sensing the kill. “I move to strike her request for a continuance. Let’s end this charade.”
Judge Henderson sighed. He picked up his gavel. “Mrs. Simmons, I’m sorry. We cannot wait any longer. We will proceed with—”
BAM.
The double doors at the back of the courtroom didn’t just open. They were thrown wide with a force that rattled the frames. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
Everyone turned. Keith spun around in his chair, annoyed at the interruption. Garrison Ford frowned, his pen hovering over his notepad. The courtroom fell into a stunned silence.
Standing in the doorway was not a frazzled public defender. It was not a cheap strip-mall lawyer.
Standing there was a woman who looked to be in her late sixties, though her posture was as rigid as a steel beam. She wore a tailored white suit that cost more than Keith’s entire wardrobe. Her silver hair was cut into a sharp, terrifyingly precise bob. She wore dark sunglasses, which she slowly removed, revealing eyes of piercing, icy blue—eyes that had stared down senators, CEOs, and warlords.
Behind her walked three junior associates, all carrying thick leather briefcases, moving in a V-formation like fighter jets escorting a bomber.
The woman didn’t rush. She walked down the center aisle, the click of her heels sounding like a metronome counting down Keith’s remaining time on Earth.
Garrison Ford, the “Butcher of Broadway,” dropped his pen. His mouth opened slightly. His face, usually a mask of arrogance, went pale.
“No,” Garrison whispered, a genuine tremor in his voice. “That’s impossible.”
“Who is that?” Keith asked, confused by his lawyer’s reaction. “Is that her mom? Grace said her mom was dead.”
“She told me she was an orphan,” Keith muttered.
The woman reached the defense table. She didn’t look at me. She didn’t look at the judge. She turned slowly and looked directly at Keith Simmons. She smiled, but it wasn’t a nice smile. It was the smile a shark gives before it drags a seal into the depths.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, her voice smooth, cultured, and projecting to every corner of the room without a microphone. “I had to file a few motions with the Supreme Court regarding your finances, Mr. Simmons. It took longer than expected to list all your offshore accounts.”
Keith froze.
Judge Henderson leaned forward, his eyes wide. “Counselor. State your name for the record.”
The woman placed a gold-embossed business card on the stenographer’s desk. She turned to the judge.
“Catherine Bennett,” she said. “Senior Managing Partner at Bennett, Crown & Sterling of Washington D.C. I am entering my appearance as counsel for the defendant.”
She paused, then looked at Keith again, and added, “I am also her mother.”
The silence that followed Catherine Bennett’s introduction was absolute. It was the kind of silence that usually follows a bomb blast.
Keith Simmons blinked, his brain trying to process the information. “Mother?” he stammered, looking from the imposing woman in white to his trembling wife. “Grace, you said… you said she was gone.”
I finally looked up, my eyes wet but my chin high. “I said she was gone from my life, Keith. I didn’t say she was dead. We were estranged. Until yesterday.”
“Estranged,” Catherine Bennett repeated, the word rolling off her tongue like a verdict. She moved around the defense table, taking the chair beside me. She didn’t hug me. Not yet. This was business. She placed a heavy briefcase on the table and snapped the latches open.
“Grace left home twenty years ago to escape the pressure of my world,” Catherine said, her voice cool. “She wanted a simple life. She wanted to be loved for who she was, not the Bennett name.”
Catherine turned her gaze to Garrison Ford. The opposing lawyer was currently trying to make himself look smaller in his chair.
“Hello, Garrison,” Catherine said pleasantly. “I haven’t seen you since the Oracle Tech merger litigation in 2015. You were barely an associate then, weren’t you? Fetching coffee for the real lawyers?”
Garrison Ford cleared his throat, his face flushing a deep red. “Ms. Bennett, it is… an honor. I didn’t know you were admitted to the bar in New York.”
“I am admitted to the bar in New York, California, D.C., and before the International Court of Justice in The Hague,” she replied, not breaking eye contact. “I generally handle constitutional law and multi-billion dollar corporate mergers. But when my daughter called me weeping, telling me that a mid-level marketing executive with a Napoleon complex was bullying her…”
Catherine paused, letting the insult land.
“…I decided to make an exception.”
“Objection!” Keith yelled, standing up. Panic was starting to set in. “Personal attack! Who does she think she is?”
“Sit down, Mr. Simmons!” Judge Henderson barked.
The judge looked at Catherine with a mix of reverence and fear. Everyone in the legal world knew the name Catherine Bennett. She was known as the “Iron Gavel.” She had argued fourteen cases before the U.S. Supreme Court and won twelve. She wasn’t a lawyer; she was a myth.
“Ms. Bennett,” Judge Henderson said, his tone respectful. “While your reputation precedes you, we are in the middle of a hearing regarding asset division. Mr. Ford has filed a motion for default judgment.”
“Yes, I saw that motion,” Catherine said, pulling a file from her briefcase. “It was cute. Sloppy, but cute.”
She stood up and walked toward the bench, handing a thick stack of documents to the bailiff to give to the judge. She dropped a duplicate stack onto Garrison Ford’s desk with a heavy thud.
