Chapter 7: "The Trial and the Home"
February 10, 1998 – Los Angeles Juvenile Court
---
Richard's POV
The courtroom smelled strange. A mix of old paper, waxed wood, and a metallic tinge that made my stomach churn, like when you're scared before an important exam. Everything was too shiny, as if they'd tried to erase any trace of humanity from the place.
They'd dressed me in a clean, white shirt, but one that was too big for me. The sleeves almost covered my hands, and my shoes—borrowed from someone older—made a strange sound against the shiny floor every time I took a step. I felt like I was in a costume, as if someone had tried to forcefully turn me into an adult.
The judge sat up high, on a dais that looked like an impossible mountain to climb. His black robe seemed to swallow the light, and his face showed nothing. Not a smile, not a gesture of relief. It was as if he were made of stone.
To my right, Jackson sat very straight, his suit impeccable and his seriousness unfailing. But I could see the barely perceptible movement of his fingers, tapping the armrest with a steady rhythm. It wasn't exactly nervousness; it was like a soldier ready for battle, measuring each breath.
Farther back, between the reserved seats, I saw Susan. When I entered, she winked at me, quickly, as if to say, "I'm here, don't be afraid." That gesture was the only thing that made me feel like she wasn't going to run away.
I didn't know where to look. If I looked at the judge, I felt like he was piercing me with his eyes. If I looked at Jackson, I was afraid he would let go of my hand, that he would decide this was too much. And if I looked at Susan, I wanted to cry because I remembered Lily and Tommy back at the orphanage, waiting for me, as if this were a mission from which I was supposed to return with good news.
The watch on my wrist kept ticking away. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Like a game where every second brought me closer to the end of the level. All or nothing.
The judge cleared his throat, and the sound made me jump in my seat. His words echoed solemnly:
"Case number 2147. Petition for adoption of minor Richard Evans, filed by Mr. Jackson Evans."
Hearing my name, I felt a lump in my throat. It wasn't the first time someone had said it, but in that courtroom, with those enormous walls and the flag waving in the corner, it sounded different. Heavy. Real.
Jackson put a firm hand on my shoulder, never taking his eyes off the judge.
"Easy, kid," he murmured, barely enough for me to hear.
I wanted to believe him, wanted to let that deep voice hold me. But inside me, the fear screamed louder: What if they say no? What if they decide I'm too much trouble, that I'm not worth it?
Susan, from behind me, tilted her head slightly, as if she could read my mind. She smiled faintly, and her lips moved silently: "Breathe."
I obeyed. I filled my lungs with air, even though they burned, and tried to convince myself I could endure anything.
The judge flipped through some papers and looked up.
"Mr. Evans, are you ready to begin?"
Jackson nodded without hesitation.
"Yes, Your Honor."
I pressed the watch against my wrist and closed my eyes for a moment. I knew that on that day, in that courtroom, not only my future was being decided. Jackson's promise was also being tested.
> Tick, tock. Tick, tock. The game had begun.
—
Jackson's POV
I sat up straight, the dark suit looking like custom-made armor. My tie was tighter than usual, as if reminding me every second that I was about to face the most important battle of my life.
But inside... inside, my chest pounded as if I'd just run an uphill marathon.
I'd closed multimillion-dollar deals in glass offices, spoken in front of boards of directors looking to devour me alive, convinced shareholders who seemed like vultures on the prowl. I'd faced down markets, hospitals metaphorically burning, and power-hungry politicians. And never, never had I felt as afraid as I was now.
It wasn't fear of the judge. It wasn't fear of bureaucracy. It was fear of losing him.
That a misspoken word, a misinterpreted gesture, could tear from my grasp what I'd barely begun to recover.
I turned my head just a little, and I saw him. Richard, sitting in his chair, too small for the weight he was carrying. His shoulders tense, his eyes fixed on the clock as if the answer to everything was hidden there. And I thought:
"God, how can a five-year-old carry so much? How is it possible that he already knows abandonment, doubt, mistrust? At that age, all I thought about was playing with rocks in a field in North Carolina. And he… he's struggling to believe he deserves to stay."
I bit my tongue to keep from sighing. If I let myself look vulnerable, Richard would notice. That boy noticed everything. So I straightened my back more and forced myself To convey what he needed: solidity, certainty, something to hold on to in a sea of uncertainty.
The judge flipped through papers like someone reviewing an inventory, unaware that every line written was my life. Susan, sitting behind me, watched me with that mixture of judgment and caution she always carried with her, as if to say, "You better not fail, Evans." I didn't blame her. She'd been there when I wasn't, and for that I would never be able to thank her enough.
I looked back at Richard. His hands were clasped together, clenched on his knees, as if he were preparing to jump out of a plane without a parachute. And that was when I felt something inside me, something I hadn't experienced in years: a silent prayer.
"God, I don't care about my name, my money, or my titles. Just don't take them away from me again. Let me show him that not everyone leaves. Let me be this time what I never was."
I took a deep breath, preparing for my first exchange with the judge. And even though the cold lights in the room seemed to want to expose every crack in my facade, I decided they wouldn't find me weak.
Because I wasn't fighting for my pride. I was fighting for him.
—
Richard's POV
First they talked about papers. Piles of them. Folders with my name written in blue ink, reports filled with long words that seemed designed to make anyone feel small.
Jackson's lawyer stood and spoke in a firm voice, as if he were giving a speech in Congress. He said things that sounded hollow to me: "financial stability," "moral fitness," "proven capacity for guardianship."
All I could hear was a whirring, like when the TV is left on a dead channel. It was a noise that surrounded me, mingling with the echo of my own thoughts. Inside, I wanted to scream, "I am not a file, I am not a statistic, I am a person!"
But outside... outside, I was a five-year-old boy, his feet dangling off the chair, nervously swinging them because they couldn't reach the floor.
And then I heard it.
My name.
"Richard Evans," the judge read, looking up over his glasses.
That moment was like a sharp blow to the chest. I shrank back in my chair involuntarily, with a childish reflex I couldn't control. It was as if that deep, solemn voice had the power to decide not only my future… but my very existence.
"Richard Evans." It sounded strange. As if it wasn't entirely mine. Part of me—the thirty-three-year-old part—knew what it meant: it was a recognition, a seal of identity, a reminder that I belonged to a family line. But the five-year-old part… that part trembled. Because never before had someone with that much power said my name out loud. Never.
My hands felt sweaty, clenched on my knees. I tried to stand firm, like an adult would, like the man I once was. But my body wouldn't obey me: my shoulders tightened, my throat closed, my eyes watered without permission.
I glanced sideways at Susan, who was sitting behind me. She gave me a small, calm smile, the same one she used when she persuaded me to eat vegetables in the orphanage cafeteria. It was her way of saying, "Breathe, I'm here."
And on the other side, Jackson. Motionless. His suit was impeccable, his face serious, but his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that said it all: "Hang in there, kid. You're not alone."
The duality tore at me. Inside, an adult aware of bureaucratic theater, knowing that every word was a pawn on the board. Outside, a child who felt like the entire courtroom could crush him with a snap of their fingers.
And I found myself thinking, with a knot in my stomach:
"Is this really all down to a few sentences read by a man behind a desk? Can my life really be decided like this, as if it were just another case in a file?"
The judge spoke again, and I shuddered. I didn't understand every word, but I understood the weight. And all I could do was hold the watch tight around my wrist, like an anchor reminding me it was there, that it wasn't going to disappear.
Because even though I felt invisible, even though I was seen as a "minor" in a case file, that watch silently screamed at me what I didn't dare say out loud:
"I exist. I'm real. And I deserve to stay."
The judge looked directly at me, and I felt the air in the courtroom thicken. His voice was deep, measured, as if each word weighed more than usual.
"Richard, I need to ask you some questions." He leaned forward slightly. "You don't have to be afraid. I just want to hear you."
I nodded, even though inside I was trembling. I was five years old. My body reminded me of that every second: my legs dangling, my voice wanting to crack, my fingers fiddling with the watch as if it were a shield. But in my head… in my head, there were too many years, too many thoughts that couldn't come out without seeming strange.
"Do you know who Mr. Evans is?" the judge asked.
I swallowed. I looked at Jackson for a moment and then lowered my eyes.
"Yes... he's my grandfather." The word came out awkwardly, as if I still hadn't gotten used to using it.
The judge nodded calmly.
"And you want to live with him?"
Everything inside me churned. The adult part wanted to answer logically, with arguments: "Yes, because it will give me stability, because it will open up a future for me, because he truly loves me." But the childish part… the childish part just wanted to scream that I didn't want to lose Lily or Tommy, that I didn't want anything to change.
In the end, the only thing that came out was the naked truth, mixed in a trembling voice:
"I want... I want to be with him. But I also want to stay here."
A murmur ran through the courtroom. The judge narrowed his eyes, as if trying to decipher me.
"Why do you say that?"
I took a deep breath. My hands gripped the watch so tightly they hurt.
"Because I have friends here. Because... here I learned that I wasn't alone. And if I leave, I'm afraid of losing them." I raised my head, staring at him even though my lips were trembling. "But with him... with him, I feel like he won't leave me. That... that I'm going to have a real family."
The judge was silent. I could feel Like every adult in the room, they held their breath. Susan looked at me, her eyes shining, and Jackson… Jackson looked at me as if, in that moment, I had said something bigger than my age, bigger than papers or laws.
The judge placed his hands on the bench, leaning a little closer.
"Thank you, Richard. That's all I needed to hear."
I didn't fully understand what it meant. But in my chest, between the fear and the tears, there was a small spark, like the beginning of hope.
—
Susan's POV
When I was called to testify, I felt the weight of every step. It wasn't the first time I'd entered that room as a witness, but it had never meant so much. I walked straight ahead, with the same firmness with which I'd so often walked through the halls of the orphanage: that mix of discipline and tenderness I'd learned to use with the children, because they needed both.
I sat down, and Mr. Evans's lawyer began with the question I'd dreaded:
"What do you think of the relationship between Mr. Evans and Richard the boy?"
I looked at Jackson. That man in an impeccable suit, whom I'd initially greeted with suspicion, now sat with his back straight, but with his eyes fixed on Richard as if the whole world depended on what happened in that room. And I looked at Richard, small, with his shoulders tense and his fingers playing with that watch that looked like a talisman.
I took a deep breath before answering.
"At first, I hesitated."
The words resonated harsher than I intended. I could see Richard lower his gaze slightly, and it tore at my heart. So I hurried to explain.
"I hesitated because Richard has suffered so much abandonment." My voice cracked slightly, but I held it steady. "I've seen families walk through that door with smiles, promises, and flowers. And I've also seen them, after an interview or a visit, decide no. That the child isn't a good fit. That it's not the right time."
The judge watched me intently, his pen hovering in the air.
"Richard is special," I continued, looking directly at the boy. "He has a heart that wants to believe, but also a shell that has formed every time someone chose him only to leave him behind."
Painful images came back to me: Richard running to the window when a new couple came, with that spark of hope in his eyes… and then that spark going out when they didn't return. That mixture of hope and disappointment wasn't unique to him, of course: I'd seen it in many children. But with Richard, it always hurt differently, because he tried to hide with sarcasm and playfulness what was really breaking him inside.
I swallowed, letting a heavy silence fill the room. Then I added,
"That's why I hesitated. Because I didn't want to see him get his hopes up again and then break down."
Richard stared at me, with that serious expression that didn't befit a five-year-old, and I knew I had to finish saying what he needed to hear.
"But today..." I said, and felt my voice soften, "today I can say that I've never seen Richard smile the way he smiles when he's with Mr. Evans. That's not a fake smile, not a polite one, not a playful one. It's a real smile, the smile of a child who finally feels someone sees him, chooses him, and stays."
The judge made a brief note, but I continued, unable to stop myself:
"Jackson Evans doesn't just promise you a future. He gives you reasons to believe you deserve it. And that... that's worth more than any report or figure."
I looked at the judge, and then at Richard. Our eyes met for a second. I winked at him, as I always did when I needed to remind him he wasn't alone. And I saw something in him: relief. That warmth that ran through my chest was the certainty that, finally, I'd been able to say out loud what I'd so often felt silently.
In that instant, I knew I was no longer speaking only as a caregiver. I was speaking as someone who had seen him survive absence, and who wanted, more than anything, to see him flourish in the company of someone who would never let him go.
---
Jackson's POV
Listening to Susan struck me to the core. It wasn't numbers or clauses that defined Richard; it was his laugh, his silences, his wounds. And she had said it with a clarity no lawyer could achieve.
The judge adjusted his glasses, flipped through some papers, and then looked at me.
"Mr. Evans, before I make a decision... do you have anything else to say?"
For a moment, I felt like the entire courtroom was watching me. The tie was suffocating me, the suit weighed me down, as if I were carrying not fabric, but my entire past. I could have said what I'd rehearsed: financial stability, guarantees, responsibility. But looking at him—that little boy, my grandson—I understood that this wasn't the time to sound like a businessman, but to be human.
I stood up.
"Your Honor..." My voice came out quieter than I expected, and I had to clear my throat. "I can't promise I'll be a perfect man. In fact, I know I'm not."
The judge looked up expectantly. Richard was staring at me, as if trying to read me from within.
"I failed before," I continued. "I failed with my own daughter. And that mistake haunts me every day of my life. I wasn't there when she needed me most, and that absence…" I swallowed, my throat burning, "…that absence cost us dearly."
A murmur ran through the courtroom. I didn't fully hear it, because memories pierced me like knives: my daughter's voice calling me on nights I didn't answer, her laughter that gradually faded, the last moment when I swore to myself that one day I would make amends for what was irreparable.
"My daughter left too soon," I admitted, my voice breaking. "And all she asked of me, with her last strength, was that I find her son. That I not leave him alone."
My hands trembled, but I didn't stop.
"I'm here today because that promise is the only thing that sustains me. Because I don't intend to fail her, or him. Not again."
The judge watched me with a serious frown, but he didn't interrupt. The silence in the courtroom was so thick that even the clocks seemed to have stopped.
"I'm not a young man," I continued, taking a deep breath, "but I have something I didn't have before: clarity. Richard isn't a case, a formality, or a responsibility I can delegate. Richard is my grandson. He's my family."
I turned to him. He was looking at me with wide eyes, and beneath all that fear, I recognized a different glimmer: hope.
"If you'll allow me, Your Honor… I want to dedicate every day I have left to showing that boy that he's not abandoned. That he'll never again have to wonder if someone will stay by his side. Because I'll be there. Through the good days and the bad. No matter what."
My words fell like a weight in the courtroom. No one was breathing, not even me. The judge leaned back, thoughtful. Susan's eyes were moist. And Richard... Richard looked at me as if, for the first time, he was beginning to believe it could be true.
In that instant, I realized that my suits, my degrees, and my hospitals no longer mattered. Whether the judge listened to me or not was in his hands. But my heart, the one that had so often been shielded behind business deals, was wide open to everyone.
And inside me, like an echo that burned and healed me at the same time, my daughter's voice resonated:
"Don't leave him alone, Dad."
I wouldn't. Never again.
—
Richard's POV
The judge asked me if I wanted to say anything.
I felt my throat close as if someone were squeezing me from the inside. Suddenly, all eyes were on me: the serious judge behind his desk, Susan with that expression that mixed strength and tenderness, and Jackson... my grandfather, his eyes fixed on me as if he were holding me from afar.
I stood up slowly. My legs were shaking, too short to reach the floor from the chair, too weak to carry the weight I felt in my chest. I looked at my hands: small, sweaty, the hands of a child that seemed to betray who I truly was inside.
"I... I'm scared," I finally said.
I could feel some of the adults shifting uncomfortably, as if that wasn't the answer they were expecting. Maybe they were just waiting for a "yes, I want to go with him" and nothing more. But I couldn't keep quiet about what I'd been holding back for so long.
I swallowed and continued, my voice breaking:
"I'm afraid of leaving and losing my friends... of never seeing Lily and Tommy again. I'm afraid that... that they'll leave me again."
Tears stung my eyes, but I didn't look down. I'd learned not to hide, at least not from him.
"But when I'm with him..." I turned to Jackson, who seemed to hold his breath as if his whole world depended on what I said. "...when I'm with him, I feel like I'm not alone."
The word "alone" came out like a knife. Because that's what I'd been my whole life: alone. Even though I played with other kids, even though I pretended not to care, deep down there was always that emptiness of not having anyone to stay.
"I feel like someone really loves me," I continued, my voice growing shaky. "And... and I want to go with him."
Silence fell over the room. I no longer heard whispers or the rustling of papers, only my heart pounding so loudly it stunned me.
The judge stared at me, with those eyes that seemed to read beyond what I was saying. And for a moment, I felt exposed: as if he knew that behind that small body, behind those five years, lay a lifetime of fear, of loss, of closed doors.
But this time I wasn't lying or hiding. This time it was me, the child everyone saw and the man I secretly carried inside, speaking with the same voice: tired, scared, but sincere.
I looked at Susan. She nodded slightly, with that "you're not fighting alone anymore" gesture. And then I looked at Jackson. I saw him with wet eyes, his face hard on the outside but broken on the inside. And I understood something: it wasn't just promises anymore. He had said it from his heart, and I believed him.
For the first time, I truly accepted it: this man wasn't a stranger, not just a name on a piece of paper. He was my family. My grandfather.
And as I said those last words, I felt something inside me crumble… not out of fear, but out of relief. As if I could finally stop carrying the burden of proving I deserved a home alone.
The courtroom fell silent, and so did I. I sat down slowly, still trembling, but with my heart beating differently. I didn't know what the judge would say, but inside me, there was already a certainty I'd never had before: I wanted to be with him. With my grandfather. With my family.
—
General POV
The judge looked down at the documents in front of him. He flipped through the pages slowly, as if searching the letters for a certainty he couldn't find in his own chest. The courtroom was silent, a silence so thick you could hear the hum of the lamps above us.
I wasn't breathing. No one was breathing.
The judge adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and for a moment, I thought he was going to say "no." He had the expression of a man burdened with too many decisions, accustomed to being impartial, to not letting feelings influence him.
But when he looked up, I saw something different. His eyes searched me, and for a second, behind the robe and the sternness, there appeared an ordinary man. A man who, perhaps, had also seen children leave empty-handed. A man who understood that in this courtroom there weren't just papers, but entire lives hanging by a thread.
He placed his pen on the table. His voice, deep and measured, filled the room:
"I've heard the testimony. I've seen Mr. Evans's determination and, more importantly, the boy's own voice."
He paused, so long that my ears ached from waiting. My fingers tightened on the seat, my heart pounding like a war drum.
"The court doesn't make these decisions lightly," he continued, measured, solemn. "But sometimes justice isn't just in the paperwork, but in recognizing where a child's home truly lies."
He looked at Jackson. Then he looked back at me.
"The court approves the request. Richard Evans is now in the legal custody of his grandfather, Jackson Evans."
For a moment, I didn't understand anything. The words echoed like an echo that refused to stop. And then, it was as if that message I'd seen so many times on a screen appeared in my head: "You've passed the test!"
I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or scream. All I could do was run to Jackson.
He immediately bent down, opening his arms, and I threw myself into his chest with all the strength in my small body. His hug enveloped me completely, firm, warm, so strong I felt nothing in the world could tear it away.
"It's over, Richard," he whispered in my ear, in a shaky voice I'd rarely heard from him. "It's over."
And for the first time, I truly believed him.
---
Two days later
Jackson's house felt like a castle compared to the orphanage. The ceilings soared as if reaching for the sky, the hallways shone with an impeccable polish, and the walls were hung with paintings that seemed too expensive to even look at head-on. Every lamp, every rug, every piece of furniture spoke of a life other than my own, as if I had suddenly crossed into another world.
I walked in with my eyes wide open, clutching my small backpack tightly, the same one I'd carried with me for as long as I could remember. It was as if my entire past fit into that worn piece of cloth, and now I was standing in a museum where I didn't belong.
I felt like an intruder. Like someone who had pressed the wrong button on a video game and had appeared on a level I wasn't supposed to reach yet.
Jackson let me walk at my own pace. He didn't give me orders, didn't fill the air with awkward words. He just walked with me in silence, as if he understood that I needed time to process everything. Until he opened a door at the end of the hallway and let me see what was inside.
It was a huge room. Much bigger than the ones we shared at the orphanage. There was a wide bed, covered with a navy blue quilt that looked newly bought, a wooden desk with space for drawing or writing, and a window that let in light from the garden. But what made me stop in my tracks was a shelf full of comics, with colors that seemed to call my name, and a small television in the corner, as if it were waiting for me.
Jackson, standing by the door, looked at me with something he rarely showed: a serene, almost shy smile.
"This is yours," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "All yours."
I didn't know how to respond. I wasn't used to something being mine. I walked slowly to the shelf, carefully reached out, and touched one of the comics. The paper rustled under my fingers. I clutched it to my chest, as if I was afraid someone would suddenly appear and snatch it away.
That night, when I got into the new bed, I struggled to stay still. The house was too quiet. There was no laughter, no children's footsteps running, no voices arguing in the hallways. It was a strange, heavy silence that made me feel small.
I tossed and turned in the sheets, clutching the comic like a shield. The watch on my wrist kept ticking away, its ticking keeping me grounded, like a reminder that I was still here.
I looked up at the door, and there I saw him. Jackson was sitting in a chair, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He pretended to be reading, but every so often he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, making sure I was okay.
The question came out on its own, half sleepy and half hesitant:
"Are you going to stay there?"
He lowered the newspaper and held my gaze.
—All night, if necessary.
A wave of warmth ran through my chest. I closed my eyes, feeling for the first time that someone was truly watching over me. For the first time, I wasn't afraid to sleep.
As sleep overcame me, I pressed the comic to my heart and thought:
> "Game Over… no. This is the main campaign."
—