She looked at Hartwell specifically on the last part of that sentence.
“Furthermore, the court will appoint an independent guardian ad litem to assess Emma Dalton’s interests without reference to either party’s financial presentation.”
Jessica leaned toward Hartwell. He said something brief in response. Her face did not change.
“Mr. Dalton,” the judge said.
I stood.
“Supervised visitation, twice monthly, was the request. That arrangement will not stand pending the outcome of the complete review. You may have unrestricted scheduled visitation with your daughter during the continuance period, subject to any logistics the parties can agree on. If they cannot agree, this court will set the schedule.”
She removed her glasses.
“I want to say one thing for the record.”
The room was completely still.
“This court exists to serve the interests of the child in a custody proceeding. It does not exist to serve the interests of whichever party presents the most compelling financial contrast. The purpose of these hearings is not theater.” She looked at the gallery briefly, then back at the tables. “I expect the next thirty days to be used for accurate, complete, and honest disclosure from both parties. That is all.”
She rose. The room rose.
In the corridor afterward, Sandra walked beside me toward the elevators.
“How do you feel?” she said.
“Like I’ve been awake since five,” I said.
She almost smiled. “That’s accurate.”
David Park was waiting in the lobby, which I had not expected, and which told me he had been following the hearing in whatever way he could from outside the courtroom.
He looked at my face when I came through the door and said: “Well?”
“Continuance,” I said. “Thirty days. Complete disclosure from both sides.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“And Emma?”
“Unrestricted visitation while we wait.”
He nodded once.
We walked out into the afternoon together, into the parking lot and the flat ordinary light of a weekday in November. He had driven over in his truck, which still had a cracked bumper from a parking garage incident two years ago that neither of us had gotten around to addressing. I had driven over in my car, which was an eight-year-old Civic with good tires and nothing to apologize for.
“You know what happens now,” he said.
