Chapter 16 - AARON’S LAST WEEK
A week before trial, Detective Bennett gave prosecutor final evidence summary.
No new bombshell.
Good.
But one item mattered emotionally.
Aaron’s calendar.
The week he died:
Monday — counseling.
Tuesday — Drew school pickup.
Wednesday — call family lawyer.
Thursday — work.
Friday — “Peter dinner?”
He never made dinner.
Then an email sent Wednesday to his lawyer:
I want to request temporary order that no exterior locks be used on rooms where children are placed for discipline.
Specific.
Lawyer replied Thursday:
We can raise at next conference. Please document and do not engage in confrontation. If you believe children are in immediate danger, contact CPS/police.
Aaron died Friday before conference.
He had taken a step.
Not enough.
But a real one.
I asked prosecutor:
“Can this be used?”
Maybe limited due hearsay and relevance.
She said:
“We don’t need it for criminal elements.”
Good.
No courtroom vindication for me.
I took copy to Aaron’s grave instead.
Stupid perhaps.
I read:
“You were trying.”
Then:
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”
No answer.
Good.
Dead people should not be ventriloquized for closure.
Then trial logistics.
Drew would testify on second day via closed-circuit after judge findings.
He knew.
I would not be in room because witnesses sequestered.
A child advocate would be nearby, not coaching.
Reena could see screen.
Defense could cross.
I hated every part.
Then Reena made final plea offer from her side:
She would plead guilty to child neglect and misdemeanor unlawful restraint.
No felony.
Prosecution rejected because planning/duration and leg care.
Then prosecution softened sentence recommendation if she pled to felony confinement and neglect.
She refused felony.
Trial.
Not because she denied all wrongdoing anymore.
Because felony label mattered to her.
Employment.
Housing.
Identity.
Maybe parental rights.
That choice was hers.
Then I explained jury to Drew.
He said:
“If they say Mom didn’t, does that mean I lied?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Court asks whether the government proved specific charges enough.”
He squinted.
“Grown-ups made that too complicated.”
“Yes.”
“What if they say she did?”
“That does not mean every memory is perfect either.”
He sighed.
“Can I just go school?”
Soon.
Then the night before trial, he had nightmare.
“Basement.”
I sat at door.
He did not want me in bed beside him.
Good boundaries.
“Can you leave light?”
“Yes.”
“Door open?”
“Yes.”
“Snack?”
“It’s two a.m.”
He looked panicked.
I changed immediately.
“Yes. Snack.”
Food rules matter.
He ate half banana.
Then slept.
In morning, he wore dinosaur shirt under sweater.
No suit.
Child.
That mattered.
May you like
The courthouse should not turn him into tiny adult witness.
Then trial began.
