Chapter 4 - Under the Microscope
Dan Miller’s law office was located in an old Victorian home on Princess Street, where the floorboards creaked under Persian rugs and the smell of old paper and pipe tobacco hung permanently in the air. Dan was seventy-one, with hair like dandelion fluff and eyes that had seen forty years of coastal North Carolina dirty laundry.
He looked over the divorce complaint, then the Pineville surgical slip, and finally the ultrasound photograph Lacy placed on the mahogany desk between them.
"Arthur Vance is a loudmouth," Dan said, setting his reading glasses on top of the paperwork. "He likes to shock and awe. Filing an Alienation of Affection suit against Jody is purely tactical. He wants to isolate you, Lacy. He wants Jody’s wife to pressure Jody, he wants the community to shun you, and he wants you so desperate for an end to the public humiliation that you’ll sign a waiver of alimony and walk away with your clothes and your maiden name."
"I don't care about his money, Mr. Miller," Lacy said, her chin trembling. "I don't want a dime of his dirty money. I just want my name cleared. I want people to know I didn't betray my vows, and I won't have my baby born with a scarlet letter pinned to its blanket."
"Well, you ought to care about the money, young lady," Dan said sternly. "Because raising a child in this state without support is a hard row to hoe, especially when the father makes two hundred and forty thousand a year and just hid sixty grand of your equity in a dummy corporation."
Dan leaned back in his leather swivel chair, folding his hands over his stomach.
"Under North Carolina General Statutes, a child born during a lawful marriage is presumed to be the legitimate child of the husband. The legal burden of proof to rebut that presumption is on *him*, not you. Brent has to prove by clear, cogent, and convincing evidence that it was physically impossible for him to be the father."
"He says the vasectomy proves it," I chimed in.
"A piece of paper from five years ago proves he had a surgery," Dan countered. "It does not prove he is sterile today. And Arthur Vance knows it. That’s why he’s trying to force a confession out of Jody through financial intimidation before we can get a medical test."
Dan leaned forward, tapping the ultrasound picture.
"Lacy, how far along did the doctor say you are?"
"Nine weeks and two days," Lacy replied.
"Then we don't have to wait for an amniocentesis," Dan said, a thin, wolfish smile touching his weathered lips. "There’s a test now. Non-Invasive Prenatal Paternity—NIPP. They take a blood sample from your arm, extract the cell-free fetal DNA floating in your bloodstream, and compare it against a buccal swab from the alleged father. It can be done as early as eight weeks, with zero risk to the baby."
Lacy sat up straighter. "Will Brent give a cheek swab voluntarily?"
"Not a chance in hell," Dan chuckled dryly. "If he gives a swab and it turns out he’s the daddy, his whole alienation suit against Jody goes up in flames, Arthur Vance looks like an idiot, and Brent is on the hook for temporary spousal support, child support, and your legal fees. He’ll fight the swab until a judge orders it."
"Can a judge order it?" I asked.
"In a standard custody or support hearing, yes. But that takes months to get on the docket," Dan said. He pulled a yellow legal pad toward him and began writing with a gold fountain pen. "Unless we flip the script. Instead of defending against his divorce filing, we file an emergency motion for temporary support and paternity determination. We allege that the husband has abandoned his pregnant spouse, intentionally deprived her of marital funds, and publicly defamed her to avoid statutory child support obligations."
Dan looked up, his grey eyes piercing over the rims of his glasses.
"We make Brent Dawson walk into the New Hanover County courthouse, under oath, in front of Judge Evelyn Cross—who, by the way, despises Arthur Vance’s theatrical stunts—and we make him explain why he refuses a simple, fifteen-second cotton swab if he’s so sure he’s shooting blanks."
As we walked out of Dan Miller’s office onto Princess Street, the afternoon sun was blazing through the live oaks, casting dancing shadows on the sidewalk. For the first time in four days, Lacy took a deep, full breath.
"Travis?" she said softly as we reached the truck.
"Yeah, Lece?"
"What if..." She stopped, her hand creeping down to rest against the waistband of her jeans, where her belly was still flat and firm. "What if the test comes back, and... what if Brent's surgery *did* work? What if something happened that I don't remember? Travis, I’ve been racking my brain every night. Did someone slip something in my drink when I went to that real estate mixer with him? Did I..."
"Hey," I said, cutting her off firmly. I took both of her shoulders in my hands, looking straight into her tear-filled hazel eyes. "Stop that right now. Brent has been gaslighting you for five years, telling you that your body was defective so he wouldn't have to admit he lied to you. You are not crazy. You did not cheat. You carry yourself with your head up, you understand me?"
She swallowed hard and nodded.
May you like
"Now," I said, opening the passenger door for her. "Let's go down to the lab on Medical Center Drive and get your blood drawn. When the judge orders Brent’s swab, we’re gonna make sure your half of the test is already waiting."
***
