Chapter 12 - MY SLAP CASE
Cole’s face bruised.
His lower lip split when he hit the cart.
No fracture.
No concussion.
The hospital had cameras.
No self-defense argument.
By the time I slapped him, Naomi had restored Poppy’s oxygen.
Cole had said something monstrous.
He was not attacking me.
I hit him because I wanted to.
Then the threat.
“You’ll need one forever.”
The prosecutor reviewed both.
I was charged with misdemeanor assault.
The threat was considered in disposition but did not become the most serious separate charge relatives imagined.
My lawyer said:
“We can argue intense provocation.”
“For sentence?”
“Yes.”
“Not justification.”
“No.”
Good.
The prosecutor offered diversion.
Anger-management.
Restitution for Cole’s documented medical costs caused by my strike.
No unlawful contact.
No interference with his criminal case.
Completion could result in dismissal.
I accepted.
My instructor, Dr. Nathan Reeves, was fifty-two and unimpressed by my surname.
First session:
“What did you want your slap to say?”
“That he was done.”
“Was he?”
“No.”
“What actually removed him from the ICU?”
“Hospital security.”
“What protected Poppy?”
“Naomi.”
“What protected Laurel?”
“Protective order later.”
“So your hand accomplished?”
I stared.
“Satisfaction.”
“How long?”
“About half a second.”
“Then?”
“Poppy saw part of it.”
There.
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My granddaughter had already watched her father use violence around a hospital bed.
She did not need her grandfather teaching the same language in reverse.
