Part 8
The trial of the State of Colorado vs. Madison Carter began on a chilly morning in October. The courthouse steps were lined with news vans, reporters, and protestors holding signs demanding justice for unborn children.
My father was not in the courtroom. He was currently sitting in a jail cell of his own, facing felony charges of burglary, stalking, assault, and violation of a protective order. His bail had been set incredibly high, and with their assets heavily frozen due to the civil lawsuit Ethan had filed, my mother hadn't been able to bail him out.
My mother sat alone on the defense side of the gallery, looking withered, exhausted, and ten years older. She didn't look at me once.
Madison sat next to her new defense attorney—a aggressive, high-priced lawyer my mother had somehow managed to secure by mortgaging their house. Madison was dressed in a conservative gray suit, her hair styled neatly, an obvious attempt to make her look innocent and fragile to the jury.
The prosecution’s case was meticulous. The DA called the paramedics to the stand, who testified to the state of the living room, the blood, and the utter lack of concern from my parents. They testified that my mother had tried to block them from reaching me, claiming I was "just throwing a tantrum."
Then, the medical examiner took the stand. He displayed graphic, heartbreaking medical images of the placental abruption. He explained in cold, scientific terms that the sheer force of the kick to my abdomen, combined with the trauma of the fall, had cut off the oxygen supply to the fetus almost instantly.
"The injury was not consistent with an accidental bump or a stumble," the medical examiner stated firmly, looking directly at the jury. "It required significant, intentional force. The equivalent of a targeted strike."
Madison's defense attorney tried to rattle him during cross-examination, suggesting I might have had a pre-existing medical condition, but the examiner shut him down completely, citing my perfect medical records from earlier that very morning.
Then, it was my turn.
When the bailiff called my name, a heavy silence fell over the room. Ethan squeezed my hand tightly as I stood up.
"You can do this, Emily," he whispered. "Give our baby a voice."
I walked to the witness stand, took the oath, and sat down. My eyes locked onto Madison. She was glaring at me, her jaw clenched, her fingers digging into the edge of the table.
The DA walked over, offering a reassuring smile. "Mrs. Carter, please tell the court what happened on the afternoon of June 28th."
I took a deep breath. I started from the beginning. I described the joy Ethan and I felt leaving the clinic. I described walking into my parents' house, hoping for a shred of familial love. And then, I described Madison's words, the terrifying look in her eyes, and the agonizing pain of her foot striking my stomach.
"She knew I was pregnant," I said, my voice echoing through the silent courtroom, tears finally spilling over my eyes. "She looked me in the eyes, asked what would happen if she kicked it, and then she did. She didn't care about the baby. She wanted to hurt me, and she didn't care if she killed my child to do it."
"Objection! Speculation!" Madison's attorney shouted.
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"Overruled," Judge Vance snapped. "The witness is testifying to her direct perception of the event."
The DA turned to the defense. "Your witness."
