Sealed Fate

By Emma Wolf

So a genie, a sprite, and a baobhan sith walk into a courthouse.

Meet Maddy Sands, a 30-something single woman running a solo law practice in the Houston suburbs. She does divorces, defends criminals, and did I mention that her clients are fairies and other assorted magical creatures? That’s okay. She didn’t know that either.

When a local girl goes missing, Maddy is hired to represent a genie enslaved by a sadistic master and arrested for a crime he didn’t commit. Her client is desperate to plead guilty rather than return to his life and school where he’s bullied, singled out for being different, and under the grip of his master. But Maddy can’t stand by and watch an innocent man imprisoned. Up against prejudice and the threat of violence while she defends her client, Maddy learns that freedom is more than just a not guilty verdict. Though first she has to accept the fact that magic and fairytales are real.

100% of the author's proceeds from this book will go to KIND (Kids in Need of Defense) to assist unaccompanied migrant children.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emma Wolf
• Release date: Aug 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463007181

Emma Wolf

Lawyer. Cellist. Servant to cats. Mom. Sometimes I write things. Sometimes they are even good.

Book preview

Prologue

Zach had thought it would be nearly instantaneous. A your wish is my command sort of thing, followed by a poof and maybe even some smoke. But it wasn’t. He had been waiting several days already and was growing frustrated. It gave him some comfort to know that even though Joseph didn’t want to do it, he didn’t have a choice. Joseph would have to do it eventually, but Zach didn’t like waiting around for eventually to happen.

Joseph was at his locker hunched over his backpack getting ready to go home. Zach sidled up to him and slammed the locker shut. Hey, asshole, Joseph spat out as he stood upright. He broke off his stream of curses when he saw who it was. Zach, he gasped. The red haze in Joseph’s eyes fled, and he slumped slightly. What do you want?

Zach pasted a huge grin on his face and though he enjoyed Joseph’s anger and eventual submission. Nice to see you too.

Joseph’s long fingers fiddled with the combination dial to get his locker open again, and he tried to ignore Zach’s presence.

What kind of Arab name is ‘Joseph,’ anyway? Zach pronounced the word a-rab.

From Zach’s smug smile, Joseph could tell Zach thought it had been an extremely clever question, but Joseph had heard it all before—jokes about his name, ethnicity, and religion and how none of it seemed to match. He was an outsider among outsiders. He wasn’t Arab, but that only seemed to matter to Arabs, who considered him Jewish. That fact, however, didn’t matter to other Jews, who considered him Arab. At the very least, everyone he’d met expected him to be called Yosef. But his parents knew they would move to America long before he was born, so Joseph it was. He never quite felt comfortable going by Joe.

An American one, he said tonelessly.

Zach dropped his voice. Listen, about that project you’re working on. You know what I mean?

Joseph looked up into Zach’s cold eyes and swallowed down his nervousness. His fingers twitched involuntarily. Yeah, what about it? He wanted to sound cold and annoyed, but Joseph knew it wouldn’t have mattered. His feelings didn’t matter.

Zach looked around to see if anyone was listening, but a crowded hallway was better than a quiet room for sharing secrets. With students trying to rush home and locker doors banging, no one would overhear them. Still, when he saw his ex-girlfriend at the end of the hall, he grew tightlipped. Tired of waiting for Zach to continue the conversation, Joseph turned his attention back to his locker.

I’m getting impatient. I want it taken care of before playoffs.

Finished packing his backpack, Joseph shut his locker and nodded. What else could he do? Why can’t you just let it go? Why do you need me for this?

What’s it to you?

If I’m going to do it, I want to know why.

Zach raised an eyebrow. Joseph thought it was meant to look threatening, but it took much more than an eyebrow to scare Joseph. He stood his ground and stared back.

Zach broke into a smile. What do you mean, ‘if?’

That was it. That was where the dog was buried, as Joseph’s mother would say. The idiom didn’t have a good English translation, so it was just one of those things that made her seem foreign and strange.

Joseph turned his attention back to his backpack and angrily shoved books in, one after another. Calculus, American Government, and a collection of short stories for English class. Maybe telling me why will help me figure out a way to do it, Joseph said.

Zach leaned in closer to Joseph. You know what she did to me.

Joseph rolled his eyes. You need to move on.

I can’t let her get away with that! Zach slapped a locker as he said it. I just feel like after it’s done, all of my problems will be gone. She’s the root of all of them. My bad grades. Nagging from my parents. Coach harassing me. If she’s gone, all my other problems will just fly away. He waved his hands to indicate the airy nature of his problem.

You want her to fly away?

Zach smiled again. Yeah. Now you’re getting it.

Chapter 1

People love talking about how they will never forget where they were when they heard about a traumatic event happening, no matter how far removed they were from the actual event. Years later, people pretend to remember every detail surrounding the moment they learned two planes had crashed into the World Trade Center or that Princess Diana had died. Funnily enough, these same people can’t remember your name five minutes after you tell them at a cocktail party and forget to return phone calls.

Psychologists call these memories flashbulb memories. There’s nothing special that makes the memories so vivid. It’s just that people can’t shut up and enjoy telling the story of how they learned the bad news over and over again—as though the fact that they watched CNN or had their car radio on was something to be proud of. So their version of the events, true or not, becomes etched permanently in their brains. It’s one of the many reasons I hate eye witness testimony.

Well, I can’t remember much about the day I found out Hazel Coronus was missing. It was a perfectly ordinary morning and who the fuck was Hazel Coronus anyway? As far as I knew, she was just some local high school girl who went missing. If I had given her disappearance any thought, I would have assumed that her boyfriend was behind it. Dating violence is sadly too common, even in high school. Her boyfriend’s friend was unlucky enough or connected enough to the crime that he feared he might be a person of interest, which is why his parents came to see me on that perfectly ordinary morning. The only reason that day is worth mentioning at all is because it’s the day I trace everything back to. The Patient Zero of days. The day that events were set into motion to teach me that there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in my law school.

It was no surprise to me that morning that my office building had been tagged by graffiti artists yet again. See above: re. perfectly ordinary morning. Someone had been marking the building with a strange winged heart symbol for almost as long as I’d been working there. It was always the same simple heart with wings spread wide open, and it was never especially artistic.

What was surprising—or at least, what was approaching noteworthy—was that it had been done in spray paint. Usually the wannabe Banksy used chalk, but apparently now he or she was desperate for the message to remain, as though there were someone in my building’s five floors who hadn’t yet seen it over the years and the artist was making one last plea to be noticed. Nonetheless, the property manager, clearly not a fan of modern art, had called maintenance men to come and scrub away the vandalism. Soap and water didn’t seem to be working. They would probably have to power wash. As I walked into the building, I wondered if the building owner would try to increase our maintenance fees to pay for it. I held the door open for a woman in a beige pantsuit. I recognized her as working in the therapists’ office on the third floor but never learned her name.

What’s this, the tenth time this year? she asked and nodded behind her towards the maintenance men scrubbing the building.

I shrugged. I lost track.

And it’s always that same stupid symbol. Do you think it’s a gang sign?

I doubt it. It seems too pretty and whimsical to be a gang sign. It looks like a tattoo you see in cartoons. ‘Mom’ should be written across it in an unfurling banner. It’s probably just some bored kids.

She gave a half shrug. Shame. A bit of gang violence might be good for business.

I laughed. As a criminal defense attorney, gangs and a deteriorating neighborhood would be good for my business too. We were in prim and proper Southeast Texas. Nestled by their trim green lawns and strip malls, our neighbors were thankful they were protected from the crime of Houston to the north and the poverty of Galveston to the south. Murder and robbery were hard to come by, which translated into slow business. I felt a bit ghoulish knowing that I’d profit when the neighborhood turned, but it was good to know I wasn’t the only one thinking like that. She could get away with making the comment because she was a therapist and in the business of helping people, but everyone hates lawyers.

The elevator doors opened on her floor and she exited, saving me from having to make a clever response. I went up two more floors, to the top of the squat, suburban office building, and entered my small office suite.

A man and a woman sat next to each other in my waiting room. She wore a long brown skirt and dark blue blouse. A blue and beige scarf was wrapped intricately around her hair. A few dark curls escaped the scarf and tangled themselves in her earrings. The man she was with dressed conservatively. He wore a gray button down shirt without a tie. His thick hair was graying at the temples and blended into a well-trimmed beard. She kept biting her nails, and his foot tapped a nervous rhythm. They looked like they’d rather be anyplace else than in a lawyer’s office. I couldn’t blame them. I smiled at them, but wondered who they were. I didn’t remember having a meeting scheduled that morning, but that is why I had a calendar and, more importantly, a secretary.

My curiosity was piqued. They didn’t look like my normal type—i.e., those accused of a crime. They both appeared to be in the late 40s. Maybe they were looking for a prenup. I glanced back at them and got a good look at a gold band on the woman’s ring finger as she chewed her nail. Maybe not.

I leaned over the faux-marble receptionist’s desk. Any messages?

Gabby nodded and passed a few notes to me.

Remind me who they are, I asked in what I hoped was a quiet voice.

Walk-ins, she whispered back. Their name’s Fahima. You have nothing else scheduled, and they paid the consultation fee.

I frowned. I hated walk-ins. Here’s a bit of free legal advice for you: make an appointment with your lawyer by phone. Don’t just show up at her office and expect her to be available. Calling me first allows me to ask a few questions so I’ll be able to do some research before we meet and maybe provide you with a few answers. That way I won’t feel like a bumbling idiot and you won’t feel like you wasted your time and money.

They were pretty insistent, Gabby added in an apologetic tone.

Give me a few minutes to go through these, I said and shook the stack of messages. I’ll call you if there’s something that has to be taken care of. Otherwise, send them to me in five minutes.

I walked the down the small hall, past the server room and break room, to my office in the corner. I opened up the blinds to look out over a mini-golf course and a shopping mall. Many law students dreamed about the corner office and a penthouse suite, but I found the view to be uninspiring. My desk was overflowing with papers and casefiles. My IKEA bookshelves sagged from the weight of trial notebooks and impressive law books that I rarely opened. I reminded myself that I was doing good by my clients, but sometimes, on the days that I had to argue over the little details like which fast food restaurant should be used as a point to exchange child custody or how many text messages were reasonable before it became harassment, my work didn’t feel very meaningful.

I quickly finished an email to a client worried about making her next appointment with her parole officer as Gabby sent the couple in.

Mr. and Mrs. Fahima. Please have a seat. I’m Madeline Sands. Can I get y’all anything? Tea, coffee, Coke?

No, thank you. But call me Omri. And this is my wife Mazel.

Omri, Mazel, I repeated and nodded to each of them. What can I do for you?

Mazel cleared her throat and began. It’s our son, Joseph. He’s in trouble. They both spoke with mild accents that I couldn’t place, but their English was fluent. I guessed they’d moved to America within the last ten years.

It was always tricky dealing with parents, if their son would decide to hire me, that is. They’d want information on their kid’s case that the kid wouldn’t be willing to share. Parents often thought that since they were the ones paying my fees, I would owe loyalty to them. That’s not how it works. It goes better if I get all that out in the open in the beginning.

I held out a hand to stop them. Before you begin, let me tell you a few things. I know you wouldn’t be here unless your son were in some kind of trouble. So let me just say, I don’t know what you know about attorney/client confidentiality, but it doesn’t apply here to you. Even if I take your son as a client, he would be the client, not you. I’ll owe loyalty to him, not you. I can’t tell you what he tells me, and I won’t keep secrets from him. All of this is my fancy lawyer way of saying don’t tell me anything you don’t want to end up in Joseph’s ear. And don’t think I’ll be there to help you with your own problems with your son.

Omri frowned grimly but nodded. He seemed to like the way I was upfront, but Mazel bit her lip, worried. I chalked it up to her being an overprotective mother, a control freak, or some combination of the two.

How old is Joseph? I began.

He’s eighteen. A senior in high school.

Why isn’t he here too? Has he been arrested?

We thought it would be prudent, Omri chose his words carefully, if he continues to go to school and pretend nothing is wrong. I noticed that Omri hadn’t said outright that his son hadn’t been arrested.

It seemed strange to me. Either they had trouble and needed a lawyer or they didn’t. Joseph’s absence meant I was missing an important piece of the puzzle. Okay, so what is wrong? What kind of trouble is he in? Are the police involved?

They called yesterday. Joseph was in an afterschool club. They left a voicemail. The officer left his number and told Joseph to call back.

Did he?

No. We thought we should talk to a lawyer first.

Good thinking, I said. It’s rarely a good idea to talk to the cops. They usually don’t call you in for questioning because they want to clear your name. But ignoring them won’t make them go away. The more you try to avoid talking to them, the more they want to talk to you. This dance would go on until they arrest you or, if you’re lucky, someone else. But you still haven’t told me what this is about.

A boy in his school is getting him into trouble, Omri said simply.

Mazel shook her head. No, it started before then. She took a deep breath to prepare herself for the story. Joseph was being bullied in school. Kids stole his things. His cell phone, his watch, his jacket. That sort of thing.

What did the school do?

Mazel gave a short snort of laughter to show her amused disappointment with the school’s methods. Not much. There was a mediation with one of the students. Zach was his name. He was forced to take some sort of sensitivity training. A class on other cultures or something. Then the school tried to keep them apart. That was last school year. It helped for a while, maybe. Or maybe it was just that it was summer and they were apart. Things calmed down. Then this year began.

I raised my eyebrows. They’re not staying away from each other, I take it?

Mazel scoffed. Now they are almost best friends.

That’s good, right? The best way to defeat an enemy is to turn him into a friend. I thought I had read that in a fortune cookie once.

Omri and Mazel didn’t look too impressed by the wisdom of desserts. I wouldn’t call them friends, Omri said. They spend time together, but Joseph is just as miserable as he was when Zach was bullying him.

Mazel nodded. All the time, this boy Zach is at our house or Joseph is at his. But he seems to hate it and resent Zach. First I thought, as you did, that maybe they had become friends and the bullying would stop. But... she looked to her husband and trailed off.

People didn’t hire a lawyer to counsel their kids on friendships. I wondered what was really going on and why they were so reluctant to come to the point. Okay. So did this Zach kid get Joseph into some kind of trouble with the police?

They nodded. Recently, some of the other parents have started calling us. Telling us that Joseph has been bullying their kids. But Joseph is such a nice boy. Mazel’s voice was full of both pride and sorrow. He remembered what it was like being bullied by Zach. How horrible it was. Why would he hurt other kids?

It was the nature of high school. Kids would do anything to get a sense of belonging. Of course, I wouldn’t say that to upset parents.

Omri continued the story in a grim tone. Saturday evening, I got a call from a father of one of the girls in Joseph’s school. Hazel is her name. Hazel Coronus. She came home from school Friday afternoon, dropped off her backpack and did her homework, and then vanished. She’s missing, but that’s all anyone knows.

Why call you about it? Is she friends with Joseph?

Mazel bit her lip. I don’t think so. Not exactly. But she’s Zach’s girlfriend.

I nodded as the picture became clearer in my mind.

It’s always the boyfriend, isn’t it? Omri asked. When someone disappears, isn’t the boyfriend who did it? His questions seemed more rhetorical than anything else. At least, he didn’t wait for my answer on crime statistics. And Joseph, as someone who associates with the boyfriend, he might know something or... He couldn’t bring himself to say that anyone would think his son was involved.

I wondered if the Fahimas were getting ahead of themselves or if they knew more than they were letting on. Right. So when the police called yesterday, they were calling about her?

They nodded again. Joseph’s in school today because he didn’t do anything wrong, Mazel said. And we came to talk to you about what happens next.

I nodded. I suppose that made some sort of sense. I handed Mazel my card. Have Joseph call me before he calls them.

Mazel let out a sigh of relief. So you’ll take his case?

I’ll talk to your son, I corrected. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We don’t even know if there is a case yet. Or if Joseph will want to hire me.

This was Joseph’s idea, Mazel said. He said you were recommended to him.

I smiled politely. At least, I hoped I did. I wondered who had recommended me to them. Who of my previous clients—mostly drug addicts, crooks, and cheating husbands—traveled in the same social circle as this high school student? I also wondered why he thought he needed a lawyer so soon. It didn’t even seem that the police knew if there was a case yet—Hazel could have run away—let alone if Joseph was a suspect, but he sent his parents to a lawyer’s office. Strangest of all perhaps, one that he himself had recommended. Most people didn’t bring the lawyers in until further down the road. I figured either the family was smart and proactive or Joseph had murdered the missing girl.

Joseph called me that afternoon. I’d expected that he would call immediately after school, but he waited until nearly five o’clock. I had just about given up on him and was getting ready to go home when Gabby told me he was on the line.

Unless there’s anything else you need, I’ll head out, she said.

That’s fine. Just put him through. See you tomorrow.

I’d hoped to get more answers out of him, but he was soft-spoken and guarded over the phone, giving only one-word answers. He was either hesitant to talk with his parents nearby or was hiding something.

Why don’t you come by my office tomorrow afternoon? I suggested. That way we can talk with more privacy.

Can I come sooner? His words came out in an eager rush.

I’m about to close up shop.

What if the cops call again?

Don’t answer the phone. Tell your parents to tell them you can’t talk.

I can’t have them lie.

It’s not a lie. You can’t talk to the cops until you talk to me. I’m not letting you.

He grunted in reluctant agreement to those terms and told me he would come in tomorrow after school.

I turned off my computer, switched off the light, and locked up the office to head home. On the drive home, I put on the radio in my car to a classic rock station and mumbled along to a Janis Joplin song until the news came on. The station reported that there would beautiful weather for the rest of the week, of course, and a bit about the latest in a local politician’s sex scandal. Nothing earthshattering, but then I heard the name Hazel Coronus—the name of the missing girl the Fahimas had mentioned. I turned up the volume.

The reporter had nothing to say that the Fahimas hadn’t already told me—just that she was a high school student missing since Friday. At a stoplight, I pulled out my phone and entered her name into the search engine. The station’s website appeared with a short article about her disappearance and a yearbook picture of her. She was cute with a heart-shaped face and a ring through her lip. So there was the victim of the murderer I was about to represent.

Chapter 2

My alarm went off too early the next morning, as it seemed to always do on days I have to be in family court. Family court was the worst. Sometimes people ask me how I can represent murderers and rapists and people accused of all sorts of terrible things. How can I read the police report, talk to their victims, and still fight for them? There’s a long answer for that question, but the gist of it is that at least they aren’t petty assholes like my family law clients fighting over furniture and television sets. God forbid they had kids together! Then comes the real fun of seeing the exact point at which the parents hate each other more than they love their children. At least it paid well.

I growled as I gently nudged my cat Meena off my chest. She meowed in protest then followed me down to the kitchen where she yowled for her breakfast.

Never get married, Meena, I said as I emptied the can of Whiskers into her bowl. Well, I’m sure you and that tom cat from the down the street will defy the odds, but if you want a prenup, let me know. She just scoffed down her food.

Over breakfast, I skimmed through the files of the clients I’d meet in court later today. The family law client was Isla Frank—soon to be Isla Moon again. This should be relatively simple. Her and her current husband would be there to finalize their divorce with the court. All the details about their property had already been agreed upon in a binding mediation a few weeks ago.

The other client would be Bran Kennedy for his first appearance on a mischief charge. I had laughed when I first read the police report. You’ve got to love crimes like mischief. It sounds like something out of a cartoon. Like one of Wile E. Coyote’s plans to catch the Road Runner. I laughed even harder when I read what the State was offering him—four months in jail for releasing a couple of chickens at a KFC. Yeah, we would never take that deal.

I got to the Galveston County Courthouse early, passed through security, and went up to the courtroom for Bran’s first appearance. The gallery was already full of nervous-looking litigants—mostly defendants feeling uncomfortable in their Sunday best and younger couples going through divorces staring daggers at each other—and their attorneys—nearly all like in our black suits, white button down shirts, and ties for the men. Sometimes we wore a splash of color among the shirts or pinstripes running down a suit, but mostly we were a dull bunch.

Bran wasn’t among them. I checked the clock. I still had some time, so I looked for the district attorney on his case. Emmitt was a barrel-chested older man with a mellifluous baritone voice. I approached Emmitt at the counselor’s table and rolled my eyes dramatically. Mischief, come on!

Hello Maddy. He pulled out a chair for me to sit next to him. What’s this? His fifth charge this year? We should give him a punch card. After ten convictions, the 11th one is free.

Nah. The guy’s Teflon. Nothing sticks.

Emmitt nodded. He’s got a hell of a lawyer.

My cheeks burned. Thanks, Emmitt.

So are you gonna sweet talk me or what?

What are you offering?

You saw our offer, he said as he tapped the file.

I thought that was a joke! Please, he released some live chickens in a KFC. Everyone had a laugh chasing them around. It’s not like he doused the place in pig’s blood.

He’s lucky we don’t charge him with domestic terrorism.

I rolled my eyes again. You really think he was trying to make a statement about vegetarianism? They probably weren’t even chickens.

Is that your defense?

I guess you’ll have to wait and see. He’s pleading not guilty.

Can’t wait.

What have you heard about Hazel Coronus? Emmitt might know what the police and district attorneys were thinking. I tried to make my question sound casual, like I wasn’t representing a potential suspect in her murder. Assuming she’d been murdered, of course.

Who’s she? Some avian expert?

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