Chapter 6: Glenn Archer
I had dealt with Sandra's previous attorney — a cautious, methodical man named Briggs who had always seemed faintly embarrassed by Sandra's more aggressive instructions.
Glenn Archer was not Briggs.
"I'll be brief," Archer said.
"My client has serious concerns about Emma's welfare and the circumstances under which she was removed from the family home.
We intend to file for an emergency reversal of yesterday's placement order."
"On what grounds?"
"Parental alienation.
We have documentation suggesting a sustained campaign by you and members of your family to undermine Emma's relationship with her mother."
I kept my voice level.
"What documentation?"
"That will be disclosed through proper channels.
I'm calling as a courtesy, Mr.
Ruder.
My client is Emma's primary parent.
She has been for three years.
Whatever happened in that courtroom yesterday, a thirteen-year-old's impulsive statement does not override three years of documented, stable parenting."
"Emma's statement wasn't impulsive."
"With respect, you're not in a position to evaluate that objectively."
"She had a notebook."
A brief pause.
"A notebook written by a deceased third party is not evidence of anything except that someone was writing things down.
Grief does strange things to people, Mr.
Ruder.
Your mother was unwell in her final months.
I understand that."
My mother had not been unwell.
She had been sharp and deliberate until the morning she died.
I did not say this to Glenn Archer.
"You'll hear from us by end of day," Archer said.
"I'd encourage you to speak with your attorney before making any decisions about Emma's schedule or communications."
He hung up.
Patricia picked up on the first ring when I called back.
"Glenn Archer," I said.
A pause.
"Sandra hired Glenn Archer."
"You know him?"
"I know of him.
He's expensive and he's aggressive and he wins more than he loses." Her voice was measured, not alarmed.
"He's also the kind of attorney who files motions to create pressure, not because he believes in them.
The parental alienation claim is a tactic.
It's meant to put you on the defensive."
"It's working."
"Good.
Let it work.
Don't respond to it publicly, don't discuss it with Emma, and don't reach out to Sandra directly under any circumstances.
Every communication goes through me now."
"He said they have documentation."
"Of course he said that.
He may even have something — a text taken out of context, a school note, something your mother said to a neighbor.
It doesn't matter.
What matters is what we have." A pause.
"Daniel.
The phone carrier records.
I need you to find out today which carrier Emma's phone is on and whether Sandra is the account holder."
I looked toward the hallway.
Emma was in the bathroom.
I could hear water running.
"I'll ask her when she comes out."
"Also — does Emma have any of her own messages?
Texts, emails, anything from the past year where Sandra discussed the custody situation or your calls?"
"I don't know yet."
"Find out gently.
Don't make her feel like she's building a case.
She's a child, not a witness."
"I know the difference."
"I know you do." Patricia's voice softened slightly.
"You're doing well.
Just keep doing what you're doing."
After I hung up, I sat at the kitchen table and thought about Glenn Archer's phrase.
*Parental alienation.* The accusation thrown like a net — wide enough to catch almost anything, vague enough to mean everything and nothing.
Sandra had been preparing this.
The new attorney, the documentation, the framing.
She had not walked out of that courtroom defeated.
She had walked out recalculating.
Emma came into the kitchen with her hair brushed.
"Was that her again?"
"Her new attorney."
Emma pulled out a chair and sat down.
"What did he say?"
"That they're going to file a motion to reverse the placement order."
Emma absorbed this without visible reaction.
"Can they do that?"
"They can file.
It doesn't mean they'll succeed."
"What do we do?"
"We tell the truth.
All of it.
To Miriam Voss, to the judge, to anyone who asks." I looked at her.
"Emma, I need to ask you something about your phone."
She reached into her pocket and set it on the table between us.
It was a newer model than I would have expected — a detail I filed away without comment.
"Mom pays the bill," Emma said.
"It's on her account.
She has the login."
"Has she ever gone into your voicemail that you know of?"
Emma was quiet for a moment.
"Once I came home and my voicemail was empty.
I had three messages that morning — I remember because one was from a friend about a school project.
When I got home they were gone.
Mom said the phone must have glitched."
"When was that?"
Emma thought.
"October.
Last year."
October.
The first entry in my mother's notebook was a Tuesday in October.
I didn't say that out loud.
But Emma watched my face and understood anyway.
"It wasn't a glitch," she said.
"No," I said.
"I don't think it was."
Emma picked up her phone and turned it over in her hands.
Then she set it back down and slid it across the table toward me.
"Take it," she said.
"Give it to Patricia.
Whatever's on there — she can have it."
I looked at the phone on the table between us.
"You don't have to do that."
"I know." Emma met my eyes.
"I want to."
Outside, a car door slammed.
Emma's head turned toward the window — that same quick, involuntary movement I had noticed the night before.
May you like
This time, it wasn't a stranger's car.
Sandra was standing on the front path.
