The Last Invitation (24)
Retta frowned. “People rarely change for the better as a contested divorce drags on.”
“Your take is a little surprising.” From anyone else, the interrupting would be too much. Jessa lashed out at people for less. Retta could do and say whatever the hell she wanted.
“What we talk about here, between us, or possibly at some point in the future with the group, is separate from the outside world and my job as a judge.”
“Can you really compartmentalize like that?” Jessa could barely maintain a private life, let alone nurture it and separate it and give it room to grow.
“The unique view of the court system that comes from sitting in my chair only intensifies what I learned as a family law attorney. The court is ill-equipped to handle these cases. Emotional issues, domestic violence, privacy concerns, who is the best parent outside of a contentious divorce. These aren’t subjects that can be assessed during the brief snapshot in time of a trial.” Retta moved her untouched teacup to the table. “There’s a reason the judges assigned to these cases insist they’d rather review a mediocre agreement than sit through a fantastic trial.”
“Mediation isn’t appropriate here. Darren would try to intimidate Ellie like he did during the marriage. Though, to her credit, Ellie is willing to fight when it comes to Curtis.” Jessa feared this would be one of those cases that kicked around the courthouse for years. Motions filed. Allegations of this and that. Attempts to change the custody arrangements and tens of thousands of dollars, or more, spent fighting rather than raising Curtis.
“So, you wouldn’t advise Ellie to run.” Retta didn’t ask it as a question.
Jessa decided to answer it as a hypothetical. “No.”
“What would you suggest she do?”
“I’m not her attorney,” Jessa said, parroting back Retta’s earlier point.
Retta frowned again. “You wouldn’t suggest to her that fighting fair might not be enough? That she might need to take drastic steps to protect her son?”
“She needs to let the process work.” Silence followed Jessa’s bold statement, highlighting how juvenile and unrealistic it sounded.
Retta stared at Jessa for a few seconds before speaking again. “Interesting.”
Jessa knew that was bad.
“Do you know why Earl and I called our charitable organization the Sophie Foundation?” Retta asked.
Jessa still wasn’t clear on much about the organization or the group behind it. “No.”
“It’s named in honor of Sophie Kline. Sophie and I went to law school together. Lived together before I got married.” Retta’s voice shook through the first few words but quickly eased back to its usual steady cadence. “She was fun and vibrant. Smart. My closest friend. She had an incredible daughter, my goddaughter, Claire.”
Past tense. Jessa didn’t say a word. She had heard rumors about a tragedy in Retta’s past and watched now as a broad smile stretched across Retta’s face at the mention of Claire then vanished as a bleak chill blew through the room.
Part of Jessa didn’t want the conversation to end. The private, between-friends loosening of the formality made her ache for more. But she sensed pain coming and knew it would blanket and smother every other emotion in the room.
“Sophie married one of our classmates, Adam. There was no stopping her. She was in love, and that love was infectious. She wanted kids. Adam was ambivalent. Still, they tried for years to have Claire, and that pressure drove Sophie to dark and sad places.” Retta let out a soft sigh. “Claire finally arrived, but the marriage never bounced back. The love flatlined, leaving too much room for anger to seep in. The last two years were filled with shouting matches and allegations of bad parenting. Open warfare that took a flamethrower to every good memory.”
“That’s the worst.” Jessa was too familiar with that type of case. She’d had her share of ones that settled, or at least calmed down, but the burn-it-down ones stole every ounce of energy and left her raw and reeling.
“One day, Adam asked Sophie if he could come to the house to talk things out. Settle their disagreements amicably.” Retta visibly swallowed. “He walked into the living room, shot and killed Claire and Sophie, then killed himself.”
Jessa should have seen that turn coming but didn’t. “Oh my God. Retta . . .”
“Just one more story about a horrible family tragedy, followed by public calls for greater protection for women, followed by society’s practiced forgetfulness until the next tragedy strikes.” Retta sat there, unblinking and monotone, as if lost in the horror of those moments.
She sounded like Faith, cataloging the swath of destruction that cut through families and communities. A festering hatred of women that wiped out every ounce of common sense.
“I watch cases now where the media praises the strength and courage of family members and friends for forgiving the killers of their loved ones.” Retta shrugged. “I do not forgive.”
Jessa tried to process the information. Tried not to think about the magnitude of that kind of loss. She’d had her dad for years and an empty hole where her mom should have been. She had a frame with a photo of a woman she never knew but no memories, bittersweet or otherwise.
“The pain never dulls. The loss doesn’t ease with more time and distance. The hole remains, and with every year, each missed moment and lost celebration, it grows deeper and darker as you throw more loss in it. I’ve been unrelentingly rageful since that day. Lost kicking and screaming in a thick, black sea of it.” Retta let out a harsh breath “I would trade anything to bring Adam back to life just so I could relish beating him to death. That’s where I am years later.”