Page 99 of No Greater Love
"Ms. Davis abandoned her parental responsibilities when Paige was an infant," I continued, trying to channel some of the authority I felt in the ER. "She's had no contact with Paige for eleven years. No birthday cards, no Christmas presents, no phone calls. She doesn't know Paige's favorite book or her best friend's name or what makes her laugh."
"Your Honor," Brad interrupted smoothly, "my client was struggling with postpartum depression during a very difficult period in her life. She made the responsible choice to remove herself from a situation where she couldn't provide adequate care."
Responsible choice.As if abandoning a three-month-old baby was an act of selfless heroism.
"She's spent the intervening years building the stability and resources necessary to be the mother Paige deserves," Brad continued. "Meanwhile, there are serious concerns about Mr. Crawford's fitness as a primary caregiver."
The bottom dropped out of my stomach. Here it came.
"Mr. Crawford was recently the subject of disciplinary action at his workplace following an incident where he verbally assaulted a patient," Brad said, consulting his notes with theatrical precision. "The incident required his supervisor to physically remove him from the emergency department."
The words hit like physical blows. I wanted to explain about the racist slur, about watching someone attack Tasha, about the red haze that had descended when I'd heard that word. But the truth was complicated, and Brad was painting a picture in broad, damning strokes.
"Furthermore," Brad continued, his voice taking on a note of false concern, "Mr. Crawford is a combat veteran who has acknowledged struggles with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. While we certainly respect his service, the question before this court is whether an individual dealing with trauma-related mental health issues can provide the stable environment a child requires."
Judge Morrison leaned forward slightly. "Mr. Crawford, is it true that you were involved in a workplace incident requiring disciplinary action?"
My throat felt like sandpaper. "Yes, Your Honor, but?—"
"And do you suffer from PTSD related to your military service?"
The question hung in the air like a trap. Deny it, and Brad would produce evidence. Admit it, and I'd just handed him ammunition.
"Yes, Your Honor," I said quietly.
Brad's smile widened fractionally. "Your Honor, with the court's permission, I'd like to enter into evidence certain military incident reports that speak to the severity of Mr. Crawford's psychological trauma."
"Objection," I started to say, then realized I wasn't a lawyer and had no idea what I was objecting to.
"There's no one here to object, Mr. Crawford," Judge Morrison said unkindly. "Mr. Kensington, proceed."
Brad pulled out a folder with the kind of theatrical flair that suggested he'd been planning this moment. "Mr. Crawford, you served in Fallujah during Operation Phantom Fury, did you not?"
"Yes."
"And during that deployment, you were present during incidents involving the deaths of Lance Corporal Daniel Hernandez and Private First Class Luis Alvarez?"
The names hit me like shrapnel. I could see Hernandez's face, could hear his voice saying "I got him, Doc" before running into that kill zone. Could feel Alvarez's blood on my hands as I tried desperately to save him.
"Yes," I managed. Barely.
"Perhaps you could share with the court the details from this incident report," Brad said, sliding papers across the table toward me. "The one documenting how you were physically restrained from attempting a rescue because, and I quote, 'Corpsman Crawford's emotional state posed a risk to mission success.'"
The words on the page blurred as I tried to read them. Somewhere in the gallery, I could hear Tasha's sharp intake of breath.
"Mr. Crawford?" Brad pressed, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "Or perhaps you'd prefer to discuss the incident involving the civilian child caught in the crossfire? The one that led to your initial PTSD diagnosis?"
I was back there suddenly, in that dusty room, watching a little girl die while her parents screamed. The smell of cordite and blood. The weight of failure pressing down on me like a physical thing.
"Mr. Crawford," Judge Morrison said, and his voice seemed to come from very far away. "Are you all right?"
I forced myself to breathe, to stay present. Paige needed me here, in this moment, not lost in memories of a war that ended before she was even born.
"I'm fine, Your Honor," I said, though I could hear the tremor in my own voice.
Brad nodded sympathetically, as if my obvious distress proved his point. "Your Honor, while we have tremendous respect for Mr. Crawford's service to our country, the evidence clearly shows that he suffers from significant psychological trauma that affects his ability to?—"
My head began to spin. I turned desperately to find Tasha. Her face was pale, her hands clenched into fists, but she caught my eye and nodded slightly.I'm here. You're not alone.
