by Sarah Cole
“Are you about ready?” I ask, and she startles from her daydreaming, checking her watch.
“Yeah. If we’re going to drop Emma off at Lorna’s then we better get a move on.” She says, kissing the top of my daughter’s head.
“Flynn?”
“Yeah, angel?”
“I’m scared.” She whispers, taking in a deep breath.
“Me too, but we’ll figure it out.”
“That’s what I’m scared of. What if they ask us questions that we don’t want to answer?”
“You just have to do what you feel is right for Emma, Clara.” I give her a meaningful look, hoping she understands what I think is best for Emma.
She doesn’t respond.
***
The worst part about being betrayed is the fact that it never comes from your enemies. In the most devastating form, betrayal comes from where you least expect it- the people you love and hold close inside your heart. That way, it seems to make it more convenient for them to get their hands on it and tear it to shreds. It’s is a filthy word that we were all so close to learning the true definition of, and we didn’t even know it.
We pull into the parking lot of the county courthouse, and are assaulted with what seems like thousands of flashbulbs.
“Just try not to react. It makes it worse, trust me.” Clara warns, ducking her head, and sliding on a pair of sunglasses like a pro. I often forget that this is the world she knows and has grown up in. I follow suit and grab my own from the center console. She moves to open the door, but I stop her, placing my hand on her knee.
“Hang on, baby. Let me get you.” I hop out of my truck, and push my way through the crowd of paparazzi and reporters, ignoring the questions being hurled at me.
Flynn, are you and Elizabeth secretly married?
Is Emma Elizabeth Scott’s biological daughter?
Do you deny claims that you have an abusive tendency towards women?
Is it true that you suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?
Did you sell military secrets to terrorist organizations?
Has Clara Elizabeth spoken with Quentin Scott recently?
What the fuck? These people are insane! Those are just a few of the questions I hear shouted above the rapid fire yelling, as I work my way around the front of the truck to get to Clara. I open the door, and reach in take her hand, and ease her out of the cab with a firm grip around her waist. Keeping my arms around her protectively, I guide her through the crowd as the flashes and questions increase and reach an oppressive level. We’re met halfway by a couple sheriff’s deputies that help us work our way through the frenzy. We push through the glass courthouse doors to find a large group of people standing inside. Thankfully, the press isn’t allowed inside. I spot the attorney that my aunt and uncle suggested, and head in her direction, Clara still planted firmly at my side, when her step falters and she goes rigid.
I search for what she is fixated on, and find her father and brother standing at the end of the hall with my aunt and uncle. She finds her footing again, and strides forward with purpose as I follow along.
Logan pulls away from the group and greets her with a hug, wrapping her tightly in his arms, and she clings to him as he says something in her ear, giving her encouraging words. He turns his focus to me, holding out his hand.
“Hey man. Long time, no see.” He greets, as I take his hand firmly.
“Yeah. How’ve you been, Logan?” I ask, making small talk on autopilot.
“Can’t complain.” He flashes an overly white smile. “Hey, thanks for taking care of my sister.”
“I think it’s really the other way around. She’s been taking care of us.” I say, looking at Clara who is still just staring daggers at her father.
“Yeah, I think it’s in her nature. She just never had the opportunity to be herself before.”
“I think that probably pertains to all of you.” I comment, catching her father’s eye. I know he’s listening.
CLARA:
“What are you doing here?” I ask my father, “I asked Logan if he could come, but not you. I don’t want you here.”
“Clara…” He starts with his voice uncertain, and I’m floored when he uses my first name, instead of my middle name which he’s used for the past several years.
“What?” I snap.
“I’m sorry.” he starts towards me, but I take a step back.
“No! I’ve heard that before, and every time it has nothing to do with you being apologetic, and instead it is because you need me to forgive you so your own agendas can be filled.”
“Clara, stop it.” he hisses, and I realize the group of people around us has gone silent, and are now focused on us. I bite my tongue and take a cleansing breath. I know it’s not the time to have it out, but I’m tired of being pushed around for a pay day.
“We’ll talk later.” I grit.
“That’s all I ask, sweetheart.” He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder, lovingly, shocking the hell out of me. I look to Logan, who appears to be just as taken aback as I am.
I hear heels approaching and I turn to find Emily. She picks up her pace and I meet her halfway, hugging her tightly.
“Landon couldn’t make it with his rehearsal schedule, but he’s answering anything he can over the phone. I’m here for you guys.” She says as she squeezes me one last time before pulling away, and I feel tears sting the backs of my eyes.
“Thank you, Ems.” I tell her, as our lawyer approaches us, and lets us know we need to get inside soon.
Flynn grabs my hand and we walk in together, finding a room full of familiar faces. I’ve done enough research to know how this will go, but what I’m most concerned about is when it is my turn to answer questions because I’ve thought long and hard about it. I can’t lie; I won’t lie. I don’t know what the results will be, and it’s killing me. I feel in some ways guilty. If it wasn’t for the spotlight on me, none of this would have ever been blown out of proportion, but there’s also a very small part of me that is grateful. Flynn needs help, and he knows he needs help, but he’s too embarrassed to seek it out for himself. I can’t continue to watch him struggle and live with this disease. I also fear for Emma… what could happen to her. I know I’m dispensable, and I may not always be around to act as a buffer, but Emma’s not. She is permanent, and she needs to be safe. I love them both so much it hurts, and I’ll do anything to protect them both in every way… even if it means risking our relationship.
We rise as the judge makes his way into the room, and are promptly seated once again as opening statements are made by the State of Georgia, the caseworkers, and the state attorneys. The state is petitioning to have Emma removed from the home immediately, until further investigations are made. They claim that while we may care for the child, Flynn’s mental state is unfit for parenting at this time, and given my celebrity status and alleged indiscretions, it isn’t the most ideal living arrangement for the stability that children need. It isn’t long before people are called up and asked questions. Everyone is here. Lucas and Maggie, Rita from the grocery store, Flynn’s old coach and fire chief, Hank, Irene and Mitch, my father, brother and Emily… the list goes on.
Most people are asked basic character questions, and I’m grateful that people paint us as a loving couple that is devoted to Emma, but the questions get more invasive as time wears on.
Emily is called to the stand, “Ms. Frank, it is my understanding that you have been close with Ms. Scott for a number of years, even recently staying with her and Mr. Alexander on a visit. Is that true?
“Yes, Emily answers.”
“In the time that you have known Ms. Scott, have you ever known her to take drugs or drink excessively?” the attorney questions, straightening his tie.
“Not once. She takes her health very seriously.” Emily answers, not missing a beat.
“What can you say about her character?”
“I’d say that she’s genuine. What you see on television a
nd in magazines isn’t what you get with Clara. She’s real and kind, reserved, and very intelligent. She has her teaching degree now, and is just waiting on a student teaching position so she can meet the requirements to obtain a license.” Emily replies.
“What about Mr. Alexander?” The attorney prods.
“To the best of my knowledge, he’s a devoted and loving father. He treats Clara with respect and love, and I’ve never seen him raise a hand in anger, nor do I think he would intentionally.”
“I see. You say intentionally, does that mean you think he’d do so unintentionally?”
Emily pales. I’ve mentioned Flynn and his episodes in the past, but I haven’t gone into great detail. “I don’t know.” She answers uncertainly.
He continues to needle her, and she answers honestly mentioning without great detail about a couple of the situations I’ve been in, until finally she’s dismissed. She sends me an apologetic look as she passes, but I don’t have it in me to give her much more than a slight nod in return. Irene and Mitch are next, and much to my surprise, Irene is extremely honest about Flynn’s struggles stating that while he is a very attentive and loving father, he struggles with flashbacks, and has lashed out at her before unknowingly. I can feel Flynn growing more agitated beside me by the minute, and my heart is crumbling in my chest knowing there isn’t anything I can do to ease his worry.
My brother is called up and briefly questioned, but he has little to offer other than attesting to my true character versus what is portrayed by the shows I’m on.
“Quentin Scott.” I still as my father’s name is called next for questioning. I have absolutely no idea why I am a main subject of questioning here… Flynn is her father. I understand that I am the primary care giver other than Flynn, but still… she doesn’t live with me. Flynn and I haven’t discussed the fact that my house is complete and he didn’t tell me about it. I suppose there was just too much going on to consider that discussion a priority, but I’m planning on having that conversation once all the excitement settles down. I mean, it was only a temporary solution anyways… Right?
“Mr. Scott, what can you tell me about your daughter?”
“I could tell you a lot of things about my daughter that the world doesn’t know. I’m sure she doesn’t even know I know… like she loves to read – anything really, but her favorites are the classics and young adult novels. She talks in her sleep and is terrified of swimming in the ocean; she loves fiercely, and she has a way of making people feel special. Her spirit lights up the room, and she is honest and kind, humble and giving…. Shall I go on?” my father asks, and I feel like the rug was pulled out from under me. It has probably been years since my father and I have had a real conversation about anything other than work or scheduling, or him scolding me about not doing something the way he wanted it to be done… so I don’t know where this is coming from.
“No, that’s quite alright. I think we understand. Based on some of the things that have been said, can you vouch for the fact that much of what we see on the show you produce is fabricated to bolster ratings?
My father shifts uncomfortably in his several thousand-dollar suit and I can’t help the smug feeling that overcomes me knowing he’s going to eat crow on this one.
“That is correct.” My father confirms. “We often stage drama, supply alcohol to people in situations to heighten emotions, instigate confrontations, and edit clips to make them appear more dramatic than they actually are.”
“Would you say your daughter lives the lifestyle that is portrayed on camera or in entertainment news?”
“No, not at all. As I said before, Clara is quiet and kind. She doesn’t like crowds or confrontation. Since she is one of the main stars of the show, we often have to edit her scenes or stage drama to make her appear more engaged in the action.” My father admits, and I hope that somehow this court record gets out, so people can finally understand that I’m not some vapid airhead.
“I see, and what can you tell me about your daughter’s relationship with Mr. Alexander?” the attorney asks.
“Honestly, I can’t say that I know much, other than what was reported back to me. I haven’t spoken with her in several months. I know via my son, that he treats her well, and is a good man. I know my daughter well enough to know that she wouldn’t associate or be involved with anyone that didn’t treat her well. Obviously… that is very much the reason she left California in the first place.”
Who is this man? This is not the Quentin Scott that I left behind a few months ago.
“Thank you, sir. You may take your seat again.” My father passes, giving me a meaningful that that is tinged with what I think is a mixture of regret and weariness as he takes a seat in the row behind us.
“Clara Elizabeth Scott.” My name is called and my heart begins to hammer double time in my ribcage, and my palms immediately begin to sweat with apprehension.
I take my seat at the front of the room and look at all the solemn faces of my family, and people who have become my family over the past few months. My heart is racing as the attorney begins asking me questions. Some are expected, and some I answered previously when Ms. Copeland paid us a house visit, but when the vein of questioning shifts from me to Flynn, the world shifts with it, and I’m not sure if it will ever be right again.
20
FLYNN:
I feel like I’m going to throw up. I spent a decade in a warzone, but at least there, I knew what to expect. You give and you receive orders, you process and you act – you don’t have time to sit around and worry. So, this is absolute torture. It’s like being on trial for a crime when you know you’re innocent. I know I have issues – shit, apparently, the entire country knows at this point, but now I’m being punished for it? Nothing about this has been easy, listening to my family and friends answer questions about me. The entire time, I have just been sitting here, thinking about how screwed I am and realizing all the while that I wasn’t fooling anyone. The whole fucking town saw the changes in me – the good and the bad.
Clara is being asked question after question, and I can tell she’s close to tears. I know this is wearing on her nearly as much as it is me, but she just has a harder time of hiding her feelings. She wears her heart on her sleeve.
“Have you ever witnessed Mr. Alexander fall subject to a fugue state, or exhibit any common symptoms related to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, including flashbacks, nightmares, violent tendencies, mood swings, dissociative personalities or detachment of emotions?”
Her face falls, and she wets her lips as she looks at me. With that one look in her eyes, she tells me everything she can’t say right now – she’s sorry, but right now sorry isn’t enough, and I don’t think it ever will be.
“Yes.” she finally answers on almost a whisper, and I feel like I’ve been kicked in the nuts. She’s fucking throwing me under the bus.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat your answer?” the attorney asks. Asshole.
“Yes.” she says a bit louder, her voice breaking with emotion.
“And, during these times has Mr. Alexander ever physically harmed you or Emma Alexander?”
She doesn’t answer, she just stares at me as I see her struggle internally. I only know how I wish for her to answer, but it won’t be what comes out of her mouth. It’s the only time, I can ever fault her honesty, and I break eye contact trying to look anywhere else besides her face. Because looking at her hurts too much right now.
“Ms. Scott?”
“He’s a good father…” Her voice cracks again as she pleads. “He would never hurt us intentionally-”
“Ms. Scott.” The attorney interrupts, holding his hand out to stop her. “Please just answer the question that was asked.”
“Yes, he’s unintentionally harmed me. Never Emma besides for in the park that night.”
I clench my jaw and try to quell my anger.
“That is all.” The state attorney concludes, and I know I’m up next, but it won’t matter
what I have to say, because Clara just offered me up on a silver platter.
***
“We are calling for an hour recess while counsel deliberates on the outcome.” The judge says and sounds his gavel. Everyone in the room stands, and stretches after being cramped up for hours. I see Clara stand and start to move towards me, but I deliberately walk out of my way to avoid her and don’t bother looking back. After the fucking emotional wringer they just put me though, I need to get out of here, but there’s absolutely nowhere to run with all the reporters outside. I’m like a caged animal, and I can’t seem to quiet the hot rage that is simmering just under the surface. I need to hit something- destroy something that isn’t my life for a change.
I charge into the bathroom and kick open the wooden stall door letting it ricochet back and rattle on the hinges. As it swings I land blow after blow to the hollow wood, using it like a punching bag. I only stop once I feel the pain and see blood coating my knuckles.
The door swings open and Logan strides in looking cocky and confident as fuck until he spots me.
“What the hell, Flynn?” he asks, eyeing my bloodied hands.
“Just leave it alone Logan.”
“You really think that busting up the bathroom and your hands during a court recess is going to help your case? Get it together, man!” he scolds.
“No, I don’t think it will help. Not that it matters much now anyways since your sister just fed me to the fucking wolves out there!” I rage.
“Watch it now. That’s one of my baby sisters you’re talking about, and the only reason I’m not ripping you to pieces right now is because I know you’d never lay a hand on her knowingly, but shit. Flynn… do you really think she had a choice? She was under oath. Don’t you think it killed her to do that? Were you even in the same god damned room?” his eyes spark, challenging me.