I wondered if Penelope told JT what was happening yet.
The judge walked into the room and took a seat behind his desk. It was an informal courtroom, not even remotely like the throne-like rooms they showed on television. It was more like the conference rooms that sat on one end of each floor of Ashland-Philips’ corporate offices. The judge sat at a normal desk, I sat at a table with my attorney and Penelope did the same across from us, the whole thing set up in a square so that each party could see the others. I couldn’t tear my eyes from her even as she actively tried to keep her eyes on her hands in her lap.
The judge seemed bored as the clerk read out the basics of the case. However, I knew he recognized my name the moment he heard it. So far, I hadn’t run into too many people who knew who I was here in Texas. It helped that I was using my middle name rather than my surname. But I couldn’t get away with that here and the judge was suddenly interested.
“You’re Harrison Philips?” he asked the moment the clerk had finished his part of this little play.
“I am, Your Honor.”
He studied me for a long moment. “As in CEO of Ashland-Philips?”
That caught Penelope’s attention. She was looking at me—finally—but there was new suspicion on her face.
“Yes, sir.”
The judge sat back, his gaze almost like that of a lover or a crazed fan. “I was just reading about you in Forbes,” he said with something like the giggle of an excited girl. “They say your fortune will surpass Elon Musk’s in a few months if things continue as they’re going now.”
I shot Penelope a glance. Her eyes had narrowed and her lips were slightly puckered. It was just another secret she wasn’t pleased to hear.
I nudged my lawyer and he stood, moving immediately into his argument. The judge listened, but his gaze remained glued to me. And mine to Penelope. The only person who didn’t seem lost in their own agenda was Penelope’s lawyer. But then again, he cast a few glances in Penelope’s direction that made me wonder if there was more than a lawyer-client relationship going on there.
“Your Honor,” my temporary lawyer said, “my client was robbed of his only child’s infancy: his first steps, his first words, his first day of kindergarten. He was robbed of everything a parent holds dear about raising a child. It’s only fair that he be allowed to share in what is left of his son’s childhood.”
Penelope’s lawyer stood as my lawyer sat, clearing his throat before he began his own argument.
“Jonathon Tyler Monroe has been in the custody of the Monroe family since he was a day old. He has never known another family, another life. His parents entered into a contract with the boy’s biological mother with the understanding that the biological father had given up his rights. It is no fault of the Monroe family or JT himself that there was some sort of irregularity with the father’s signature. Please don’t punish this young man for the actions of people he’s never even met.”
Silence fell over the courtroom. The judge stared at me a moment longer, then his gaze shifted to Penelope.
“Why aren’t…” He consulted the papers his clerk had laid in front of him. “…Dale and Robin Monroe here in the courtroom?”
Penelope’s lawyer rose again as Penelope shot me a hateful glare.
“The Monroes were killed in a car accident three years ago, Your Honor. Ms. Monroe, their daughter, was granted custody in this court in May of that same year.”
The judge shifted his gaze back to me.
“Who do you suggest forged your signature on the adoption papers?”
My lawyer stood, but the judge waved his hand. “I’d prefer to hear from the complainant himself.”
I stood, clasping my hands in front of me in a proper show of respect.
“I was not aware any of this had taken place until several months ago. At that time, JT’s biological mother informed me that a lawyer had visited my home and gotten my signature. However, during the time period she stated this took place, I was a student at Stanford.”
“And that can be verified?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who do you think signed the paperwork in your place?”
Before I could answer, the judge gave his clerk a piece of paper that he brought to me. It was the back page of the adoption contract. Julia’s name was written in her juvenile scrawl. My name appeared above it. But it was clearly not my signature. This was neater, marked with curlicues that I recognized immediately. My heart sank, a realization I hadn’t considered sinking in.
I had so wanted to blame my father for this mess. But this…I could no longer continue to vilify my father when it was so obvious he wasn’t alone in his attempts to control the path of my life.
“Do you recognize that handwriting, Mr. Philips?” the judge asked.
I nodded slowly. “I do.”