Chapter 7: The Gas Station Receipt
The morning we went back to the courtroom I recognized the same warm light on the wood. It was late November by then and the heat clicked on behind the paneling. Judge had a stack of exhibits on her bench and the clerk kept handing her manila folders. Dad sat beside me in the same light blue shirt, his hand on the bench in front of us like he owned it.
My mom sat two rows behind me with her attorney, a woman named Ms. Alvarez. I wasn't supposed to look back but I knew she was there because I could hear her pen clicking.
Judge didn't look at me at first. She looked at the papers. She said she wanted to clear up the timeline for Friday, October 18th. She said that date had come up in both sides' statements and she needed it exact.
That was the night I had talked about before. I didn't know they wrote down dates like that.
Dad was asked to stand when he answered. He put his hands on the wooden table and leaned forward the way he did when he was trying to be calm. The clerk reminded him he was still under oath.
He said October 18th was a normal night. He said he picked me up from school at three thirty, we ate at home, I had a bath at seven thirty and was in bed by eight. He said he didn't leave the apartment after that. He said he was home all evening, that was his routine.
He said it twice. Home all evening. Bed by eight.
I stared at the grain in the bench. His routine wasn't like that. On Fridays he let me stay up and watch TV on the couch because he played games on his phone. But I didn't say anything. Judge had told me not to speak unless she asked me.
Ms. Alvarez stood up then. She asked permission to approach with an exhibit. Judge nodded. She carried a plastic sleeve to the bench and then one to Dad's table. From where I sat I could see it was just a thin piece of white paper.
Ms. Alvarez said it was a receipt from the QuickTrip on Highway 31, time-stamped October 18th at 8:47 p.m., with a card ending in Dad's numbers. She said she also had a still image from the parking lot camera showing his car at the pump at 8:49 p.m., and the clerk at the register who remembered him because he bought milk and gas late.
Judge put on her reading glasses. She held the receipt close and then looked at Dad.
She asked him if that was his card and his car.
He glanced at the paper and his jaw moved. He said it was his card. He said he did run out for milk, just a quick errand. He said he must have forgotten. He said I was already asleep so it didn't matter, he was only gone ten minutes.
I felt my hands get sweaty in my lap. I remembered that night. I wasn't asleep. I was awake on the couch and the front door had locked and I couldn't find the remote. I had called for him and no one answered for a while. But again, I kept quiet and breathed the way the advocate had taught me.
Ms. Alvarez didn't raise her voice. She asked what time he left and what time he returned. She asked who was with me while he was gone. She asked how that fit with a child in bed by eight with a parent home all evening.
Dad shifted his weight. He said he thought the question was about having someone over, not about an errand. He said his routine was still basically the same. He said ten minutes wasn't a big deal.
The room got very quiet except for the heater. Judge took off her glasses and set them down on top of the receipt.
She said, very evenly, that he had sworn he was home all evening and that I was in bed by eight with him there. She said the receipt said he was at a gas station almost three miles away at 8:47. She said forgetting a trip out while a six-year-old was home alone was not a small detail.
She didn't say he was lying. She said she was marking a credibility issue with his timeline for October 18th. She said the court needed to hear more testimony about who was supervising me that night and why his earlier statement didn't include it.
Dad's face got red up to his hair. He started to say something else but his lawyer touched his arm and he stopped.
Judge told the clerk to enter the receipt and the camera still as exhibits. She told both attorneys she wanted the store manager available by phone the next morning and she wanted Dad's full card statement for that week.
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She looked at me for a second then. Not long, just a glance to see how I was sitting. I kept my hands clasped. I didn't cry that day.
She said we would continue testimony tomorrow morning at nine. She tapped her gavel once and the sound echoed off the wood.
