Abernathy gave her a steady look, silently telling her to hold on. When it was their turn, Abernathy stood and did his best to push back. He explained that the photos were taken out of context, that they showed a rare moment when Nala had been extremely ill and left alone without help.
He explained that the card had been in her name but in her husband’s possession most of the time. But compared to the neat, printed evidence Cromwell had laid out, his explanations sounded like a story with no supporting paperwork. In the eyes of the court, it was her word against documents.
Then came the moment Nala had been dreading the most. “The plaintiff calls our expert witness, Dr. Valencia, child psychologist,” Cromwell announced.
The courtroom door opened. A woman walked in. Nala’s breath caught.
She was striking—elegant blazer, neat hair, confident posture. She looked every inch the trustworthy professional. As she walked past, a familiar perfume drifted through the air.
Nala’s heart stopped. It was the same scent she had smelled on Tmaine’s shirt that night. It was her.
The woman standing there as an “expert witness” was the same woman her husband had been seeing behind her back. Dr. Valencia raised her hand, took the oath, and sat in the witness stand.
She spoke calmly, using polished, clinical language that impressed everyone in the room. “Yes, your honor,” she answered, responding to Cromwell’s questions. “I conducted naturalistic observations of Mrs.
Nala and her daughter Zariah over the past three months.”
“And what did you observe, doctor?” Cromwell asked. Valencia opened her notes. “My findings were deeply concerning,” she said.
“I observed a pattern in Mrs. Nala’s behavior that suggests emotional inconsistency and difficulty regulating her reactions. There are signs of significant emotional strain.”
She began listing “observations.”
“On one occasion, at a shopping mall, I saw Mrs.
Nala pull Zariah away forcefully while raising her voice, causing the child to cry in fear. This shows challenges with emotional regulation and impulse control.”
Nala closed her eyes. She remembered that day vividly.
Zariah had almost stepped toward a moving escalator in the wrong direction. Nala had reached out and grabbed her, shouting her name in pure panic. She hadn’t been angry.
She had been terrified. Now that moment had been twisted into something ugly. “On another occasion, at a public park,” Valencia continued, “I observed Mrs.
Nala absorbed in her phone while Zariah played alone. When the child fell, the mother did not notice immediately. When she did respond, her reaction was disproportionate and intense, which could have increased the child’s fear rather than soothe it.”
Another lie.
Nala remembered sitting on the park bench, quickly replying to a text from Tmaine about a grocery list. The instant she heard the cry, she had run to Zariah, scooping her up, hugging and comforting her. Valencia kept going.
“My conclusion,” she said, looking directly at the judge, “is that Mrs. Nala currently lacks the emotional stability necessary to provide a consistently healthy environment for a seven-year-old child. There are signs of something we call emotional spillover, where a parent’s unresolved distress affects the child.
For Zariah’s well-being, I strongly recommend that full physical custody be granted to the father, who presents as more stable and structured.”
The room went quiet. Valencia’s testimony sounded scientific, polished, and devastating. Nala wiped at her cheeks.
“It’s not true,” she whispered to Abernathy. “She’s lying. She’s the woman he’s been seeing.
It’s her.”
“Stay calm,” Abernathy said quietly. “They want you to explode. Don’t give it to them.”
He stood for cross-examination.
“Dr. Valencia,” he said, “you’re making serious recommendations about custody based on observations from a distance, correct? You never actually spoke with my client or evaluated her directly, is that right?”
“Natural observation, without the subject’s awareness, is often more accurate,” Valencia replied smoothly.
“It minimizes performance and shows real behavior.”
“And you were paid by Mr. Tmaine for your work?” Abernathy asked. “I was compensated for my professional services,” she answered.
“My conclusions are based on data, not on who paid my invoice.”
No matter what angle he tried, she had a ready, polished answer. When court adjourned for the day, Nala walked out of the courtroom on shaking legs. She saw Tmaine give Valencia a small, satisfied nod in the hallway.
In the lobby, Nala leaned against a wall and sobbed. “We lost,” she whispered. “They have everything.”
Abernathy said nothing for a long moment.
Then he looked toward the exit where Tmaine and Valencia walked side by side, keeping a careful distance but sharing glances. “Not yet,” he said quietly. “Something about that woman doesn’t sit right with me.
The way she looks at him when she thinks no one is watching—that is not how a neutral professional looks at a client. We have to figure out who she really is.”
A few days before the next hearing, Abernathy called Nala back to his office. He looked tired.
The stack of papers on his desk seemed even higher than before. “I tried to dig into her background,” he said bluntly. “The result is…complicated.”
“What do you mean?” Nala asked.
“Her credentials are clean,” he said with a sigh. “Too clean. She’s properly licensed, registered, has a listed clinic.
Everything checks out on paper. Either she’s a real psychologist who chose to support your husband’s version for money, or your husband built this connection very carefully. We can’t argue she’s a fake.
The court would toss that claim immediately.”
“So we can’t prove she’s lying?” Nala asked weakly. “We can’t prove she isn’t who she says she is,” Abernathy replied. “The only way to fight her testimony is to give the judge a full picture from your side.
And that means you will have to take the stand. You’ll have to talk about all of it—your routine, the credit cards, the photos, and your husband’s behavior. And whatever happens, you cannot lose your temper.
Cromwell will try everything to push you over the edge and make you look exactly the way Valencia described.”
Nala swallowed hard. “I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ll try.”
The next hearing came.
It was Nala’s turn to testify. She sat in the witness stand, raised her hand, and swore to tell the truth. Abernathy started gently, asking her to describe her daily life as a stay-at-home mom.
She told the court about leaving her job at her husband’s request, about her routine from early morning until late at night. “Can you explain the context of the photos the plaintiff’s attorney showed?” Abernathy asked. “Yes,” Nala said, trying to keep her voice level.
“Those pictures were taken about two months ago. I had a very high fever for three days. I could barely get out of bed.
I asked my husband to help around the house, but he said he was too busy, so things piled up. I didn’t even know he was taking pictures. I didn’t have the strength to clean.”
“And what about the credit card charges?” Abernathy asked.
“It was an additional card in my name,” Nala explained. “But he kept it more than I did. He told me he needed it for business when his main card ran too high.
I trusted him. I never saw the statements until the lawsuit. I never bought those luxury bags or jewelry.”
People in the gallery shifted.
Some looked at her with sympathy. The judge’s face remained unreadable. Then it was Cromwell’s turn.
He stood, straightened his tie, and walked toward her with a practiced, almost pleasant smile. “So, Mrs. Nala,” he began, voice silky, “if I understand you correctly, your husband, who was out working, providing for your family, somehow found the time to secretly take photos of the home, secretly misuse a credit card, and secretly spend money—all just to make you look bad.
Is that your story?”
“I—I didn’t say it like that,” Nala stammered. “I just told you what happened.”
“It sounds very convenient,” Cromwell replied. “The dishes in the sink, the messy living room, the overflowing laundry—none of that is your responsibility?
You bear no fault in that at all?”
“I was sick,” Nala said. “I could barely walk.”
“Do you have any medical documentation from that time?” he asked quickly. “A doctor’s note?
A hospital record?”
“I didn’t go to the hospital,” Nala murmured. “I took medicine at home. I thought I’d recover.”
“So you have no proof of this supposed illness,” Cromwell said.
“Just your word against clear photographs.”
He moved on. “You say your husband used the credit card,” he continued, “but the card is in your name. Did you ever notify the bank that someone else was using it?”
“No,” Nala answered.
“Did you ever confront him? Cancel the card? Do anything to stop this?”
“No,” she said again, her voice small.
“So you said nothing. You signed nothing. You reported nothing.
