The courthouse steps might as well have been Everest for all the fucking good my healing body was doing me. Each granite slab sent shockwaves through my still-tender ribs, making my breath hitch in that particular way that told everyone watching I was still broken. The ankle monitor dug into my flesh like a mechanical leech, its weight a constant reminder that the state still owned a piece of me, even if they were about to give it back.
Miguel had his arm looped through mine on one side, Keira on the other, both of them pretending they weren’t basically carrying my ass up these goddamn stairs. Behind us, the entire sanctuary had emptied itself—Phoenix and River moving as one organism, Ezra’s blue hair catching September light like neon rebellion, Della and Bubba flanking them like bookends carved from different kinds of strength. Remy muttered prayers in rapid Cajun French that sounded more like curses, while Renee’s bodybuilder frame cast shadows that could probably intimidate the building itself.
Your strength returns, child, The Mother’s voice whispered through the autumn wind, rustling leaves that hadn’t yet committed to falling. But wisdom walks with a limp sometimes. Let them carry you.
The courtroom smelled like furniture polish failing to mask decades of human misery—fear-sweat and desperation, hope dying slow deaths on hard wooden benches. Judge Christina Martinez presided from her elevated throne, her brown face carrying the kind of weathered authority that came from seeing every flavor of human bullshit and remaining unimpressed by all of it. Mid-fifties, hair pulled back severe enough to hurt, reading glasses perched on her nose like weapons she could deploy at any moment.
Movement in the back caught my peripheral vision—someone slipping through the courtroom doors just as proceedings were about to begin. My breath caught. Ginny. She moved like a ghost trying not to disturb the living, finding a seat in the very last row, her shoulders hunched inward like she was trying to occupy less space than her body required. Our eyes met for maybe half a second before she looked down at her hands, but that was enough. I saw the shine of tears on her cheeks, the way she dabbed at them with a tissue clutched in her fist.
River noticed too—their nurse’s instinct for reading body language caught the subtle entrance. They glanced at me, a question in their eyes that I answered with the smallest shake of my head. Not now. Later. Maybe.
Remy’s head turned slightly, his Cajun senses picking up something in the room’s energy that had shifted. When he spotted Ginny, his expression flickered—recognition, concern, understanding—before he deliberately turned back around, giving her the privacy of anonymity she clearly wanted.
Patricia Chang sat at the defense table in a suit that probably cost more than my car, every hair in place, every document organized with surgical precision. She’d built a fortress of evidence—laptop queued to the security footage, witness statements arranged like artillery, case law citations ready to deploy like tactical missiles.
Across the aisle, the prosecutor—some kid named Davidson who looked fresh out of law school and scared of his own shadow—shuffled papers with hands that trembled slightly. He knew he was fucked. Everyone in this room knew he was fucked. This was theater now, legal kabuki where everyone played their assigned roles until the universe could right itself.
But it was John who stole my fucking breath.
He sat at his own defense table, his lawyer—a public defender named Rodriguez who looked tired in his bones—beside him. John’s face had healed into something I didn’t recognize. The swelling had gone down, revealing features that should have been familiar but felt like encountering a stranger wearing my brother’s skin. His eyes, when they found mine across that courtroom canyon, held nothing I could name. Not hate. Not love. Just a vast, empty confusion that made my chest ache.
Renee sat directly behind him, her massive presence a promise and a threat in equal measure. She caught my eye, nodded once. He’s been good, that nod said.
All rise, the bailiff intoned, and the courtroom creaked to its feet like an ancient beast waking.
Judge Martinez settled into her chair with the grace of someone who’d done this ten thousand times and would do it ten thousand more. Case number 2025-CR-8847. The People versus Wendy Williams and John Williams. Charges of Assault in the First Degree, both defendants. Her voice carried that particular judicial flatness that made everything sound simultaneously important and routine.
She looked over her reading glasses at both tables, her gaze sharp enough to perform surgery. Before we proceed, I’ve reviewed the preliminary materials, including the security footage. I’ll be honest—this is one of the clearest cases of mutual combat escalating from self-defense that I’ve seen in twenty-three years on the bench. She paused, letting that sink in. However, the severity of injuries sustained by both parties necessitates these proceedings. Mr. Davidson, call your first witness.
The young prosecutor stood, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a fishing lure. The People call Officer Eric Murphy to the stand.
The officer lumbered in, looking uncomfortable in his dress uniform, his massive frame somehow diminished by the formality of it all. He was sworn in, settled into the witness chair like a bear in a dollhouse.
Davidson walked him through the basics—the 911 call, arriving at the scene, the blood, the chaos, both of us barely clinging to life while our family screamed prayers in three different languages. Sean’s testimony was clinical, professional, stripped of the terror I knew he’d felt. In his words, it became just another call, just another night of human violence, nothing special about two siblings trying to kill each other in a basement sanctuary.
And what did you observe about the defendant Ms Williams condition? Davidson asked.
Well, I was a paramedic in the army so I sort of recognized things. Crushed windpipe, severe lacerations, multiple broken ribs, concussion, internal bleeding, Sean recited like he was reading a shopping list. She’d gone into cardiac arrest twice before we got there, once more in the ambulance. EMTs said she’d been dead for nearly two minutes total before they got her back.
And Mr. Williams’ condition?
Similar. Head trauma, crushed trachea, severe facial lacerations, possible brain damage. He was unresponsive, remained in a coma for six days post-incident.
Patricia stood for cross-examination, her heels clicking against courtroom tile like a countdown. Officer Murphy, in your professional opinion, did Ms. Williams appear to be the aggressor in this altercation?
Sean’s face shifted, something personal breaking through the professional mask. No, ma’am. The witnesses were clear—Mr. Williams entered the bar using Ms. Williams’s deadname, made verbal threats, and struck a minor before Ms Williams engaged physically.
Thank you, Officer. No further questions.
Davidson called River next—their testimony covering my injuries, the medical interventions, the multiple times my heart had decided dying was easier than surviving. River was sworn in, settled into the witness chair still wearing their hospital ID badge like armor, like proof they knew what they were talking about.
Please state your profession and relationship to the defendant, Davidson began.
I’m a registered nurse at City Regional Hospital, emergency department. Ms Williams is... she’s my mom. Not biologically, but in every way that matters.
And you were present at the Sanctuary Bar on the night of September 28th?
Yes. Phoenix Chen and I were there. It’s our Safe space. Until it wasn’t. River’s hands gripped the armrests, knuckles going white. I saw the fight escalate. Saw John strike Ezra. Saw Mom lose control trying to protect them. By the time we pulled them apart, they were both... they were dying. Both of them.
Can you describe Ms. Williams’s injuries in medical terms?
River took a breath, slipping into clinical mode like a shield. Severe tracheal crush injury with approximately seventy percent airway compromise. Multiple rib fractures with pneumothorax—that’s a collapsed lung from the ribs puncturing through. Traumatic Head injury with loss of consciousness. Severe lacerations requiring over two hundred stitches total. And cardiac arrest. Three times before EMS arrived, once in the ambulance. She was clinically dead for nearly two minutes total.
And you provided medical care?
River’s professional mask cracked, just slightly. I did CPR. Chest compressions while she seized, while blood came up. I held pressure on wounds that wouldn’t stop bleeding.
No further questions, Davidson said quietly, recognizing the raw emotion bleeding through clinical terminology.
Patricia stood. River, in your professional opinion, could Ms. Williams’s injuries have been fatal without immediate intervention?
Without question, River said firmly, their composure returning. She would have died in that basement. The tracheal damage alone—she was suffocating. And the internal bleeding from her ribs... she was drowning in her own blood. If I hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t had my medical training, she wouldn’t have survived long enough for EMS to arrive.
Thank you.
They spoke clinically, professionally, but I could see their hands shaking slightly as they stepped down from the witness stand, as Phoenix immediately moved to their side, grounding them back to earth.
Then Ezra took the stand, their blue hair subdued today, their usual energy dampened by the weight of formal testimony. The bruises on their face had faded to yellow-green memories, but the splint was gone from their nose, leaving just a slight crook that would probably stay forever—a permanent reminder written in cartilage and scar tissue.
Please state your relationship to the defendant, Davidson said, his voice gentle now—even he wasn’t monster enough to be harsh with a kid testifying about getting hit.
Wendy’s one of my moms, Ezra said clearly, their voice carrying that defiant pride that made my throat tight. Not by blood, by choice.
And what did you witness on the night of September 28th?
Ezra’s hands clenched in their lap. The Defendant, Mr Williams came down those stairs like he owned the place, like he had a right to our sanctuary. He used Mom’s deadname—Bill—said she was her brother. Called her... bad things. When she stood up to him, he said he’d come to finish what their mother started.
And then what happened?
I tried to stop ‘em. Ezra’s voice cracked. I saw them starting to fight and I just... I rushed in. Stupid. So fucking stupid. John backhanded me, sent me flying into the beanbag chair. Blood everywhere. And then Mom just... she lost it.
No further questions, Davidson said quietly, smart enough to let that testimony breathe.
Patricia stood but didn’t approach. Ezra, did Ms. Williams start the physical altercation?
No. She was defending herself. Defending all of us.
Thank you.
Miguel testified next, describing the whiskey he’d poured—recognizing immediately that I’d seen something that shook me to my bones. How John had come down those stairs with violence already written in his posture, in his clenched fists, in the set of his jaw.
Mom tried to de-escalate, Miguel said firmly, his hands gripping the witness stand. She told him to leave. Multiple times. But he kept pushing, kept using that name, kept threatening. We were all trying to get him to just leave. When they finally did fight... gods, it was like watching two people try to murder each other and themselves at the same time. We couldn’t pull them apart. They were locked together, death-grips on each other’s throats, both of them turning purple.
Della testified about the kitchen knife she’d grabbed, her voice breaking as she described watching two people she loved trying to destroy each other. Bubba talked about knowing both John and Zoe, how Zoe had been a monster wearing human skin, how both of her children had been brutalized in ways that left scars no one could see.
That woman, Bubba said, his deep voice filling the courtroom, she didn’t raise children. She broke them and called it love. What happened in that basement was thirty years of poison finally coming to a head.
Then came the video.
Patricia queued it up on the courtroom’s display, and suddenly we were all back there. The timestamp read 22:47:38. The camera angle caught everything—me coming down the stairs, Miguel’s concerned face, the way my body language screamed trauma before my brain processed it. Then John, descending like divine retribution wearing jeans and a jacket.
The sound quality was too good. Every word cut like glass.
“Hello, Bill.”
I watched myself flinch, watched my entire chosen family react like they’d been slapped. Watched John pull out my autobiography, throw my own words at me like weapons. The escalation was textbook—verbal abuse, threats, invasion of personal space, physical violence against a minor.
When John’s hand connected with Ezra’s face, I heard gasps from the gallery behind me. Watched myself transform into something feral, protective, violent in ways that The Mother herself would recognize—nature defending her young.
The fight itself was brutal poetry. Glass breaking. Blood spraying. Bodies slamming into furniture. My family trying desperately to separate us while we clawed at each other like animals, like siblings raised by wolves and taught that love meant pain.
Then my voice cut through the chaos, words I didn’t remember saying but couldn’t deny were mine: You are never going to hurt another child again. I will stop you. I will not stop now.
The rawness in that declaration made the entire courtroom flinch. It wasn’t rage. It was a vow—The Mother speaking through me, ancient and terrible in her protection of the young. I watched myself on that screen become something more than human, more than broken, more than damaged. I’d become exactly what Ezra needed in that moment: a wall between them and violence.
The footage ended with both of us on the floor, hands around each other’s throats, everyone screaming, both of us going limp within seconds of each other. The timestamp read 23:04:12. Seventeen minutes of violence compressed into digital evidence that couldn’t be argued with, couldn’t be reinterpreted, just was.
Judge Martinez sat back, removing her glasses to rub her eyes. I’ve seen war footage less disturbing than that, she said quietly.
Patricia stood. Your Honor, the video clearly shows Ms. Williams responding to verbal assault, defending a minor from physical violence, and engaging in self-defense that escalated to mutual combat only after repeated attempts to de-escalate failed.
Noted, Martinez said. Mr. Davidson, do you wish to present rebuttal?
The young prosecutor stood, and I almost felt sorry for him. Your Honor, while the video does show provocation, the severity of force used by Ms. Williams exceeded—
Exceeded what, Counselor? Martinez cut him off, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. The force necessary to prevent her own death? The force needed to stop someone who’d already assaulted a child and was actively trying to strangle her? Please, enlighten me.
Davidson sat down fast. No….No further argument, Your Honor.
I thought not. Martinez turned her attention to John’s table. Mr. Williams, I’d like to hear from you directly. Are you capable of testifying?
John’s lawyer—Rodriguez—leaned over to confer with him quietly. John nodded, stood slowly, moved to the witness stand with careful steps like he was learning to walk in a new body. When he was sworn in, his hand shook holding the Bible.
Judge Martinez’s voice softened slightly—she’d clearly read the medical reports about his amnesia. Mr. Williams, I understand you have no memory of the incident in question. Is that correct?
Yes, Your Honor. His voice sounded different than I remembered—gentler, confused, lost. I don’t remember that night at all. Not arriving at the bar, not the fight, not... not trying to kill my sister. The word caught in his throat—sister, not brother—and I saw tears start tracking down his face. I watched the video. I saw myself doing those things, saying those horrible words, hurting people I should have... should have loved. But it’s like watching a stranger. I don’t know that person. I don’t understand why he would...
He broke then, completely, shoulders shaking with sobs that sounded like they were being torn from his chest. The courtroom went silent except for his crying, this broken man mourning a self he couldn’t remember being.
I saw what I did to her, he managed between sobs. Saw her face when I used that name. Saw her fighting for her life against me. Saw the younger person’s blood on my hand. Your Honor, I should go to jail. I should be locked away where I can’t hurt anyone else. And Her — he looked directly at me for the first time, tears streaming, — she should be left alone. To live how she wants. To be who she is.
I love my sister, he continued, voice breaking on every word. I don’t know how I know that, things are still so fuzzy. But watching that video, all I can think is how much I want to protect anyone from the monster on that screen. And then I realized the monster was me. Please, just... please keep anyone safe from me.
Judge Martinez let him compose himself, then asked gently: Do you believe you pose a continuing threat to your sister or others?
I don’t know, John said honestly.
Rodriguez spoke up: Your Honor, we’ve submitted extensive medical documentation regarding Mr. Williams’s traumatic brain injury and resulting amnesia. Three separate neurologists have confirmed significant personality changes consistent with frontal lobe damage.
I’ve read the reports, Martinez confirmed. Mr. Davidson, you may question the defendant.
Patricia helped me up—my body still protesting every movement despite weeks of healing. The walk to the witness stand took longer than it should have, my damaged hip slowing each step. I was sworn in, settled into the chair, and waited.
Davidson approached, his nervousness less obvious now that he was going through familiar motions. Ms. Williams, you’ve heard your brother’s testimony. You’ve seen the video evidence. You nearly died that night. In your own words, what happened?
I took a breath, felt my still-healing windpipe protest. John came to the bar using my deadname. He made threats. He said he was there to finish what our mother started—Zoe, who tortured both of us as children. When he hit one of my kids, I engaged physically to protect them. The fight escalated from there.
And what outcome do you seek from these proceedings?
John hurt people I love, tried to kill me. I’m asking for mandatory psychological treatment—extensive evaluation and therapy. I am already doing the same. He needs to understand where that rage came from, even if he can’t remember it.
Davidson paused, clearly thrown by my position. You’re asking for leniency for someone who tried to murder you?
I’m asking for structure and treatment. If the brain damage gave him a blank slate—a reset I never got—then putting him in prison accomplishes nothing. But therapy, evaluation, monitoring? That might actually prevent this from happening again. That’s not mercy—that’s practical.
No further questions, Your Honor.
Patricia stood for redirect. Ms. Williams, do you fear your brother?
The person he was? I am no more afraid of him now, than I was then. I am sad for him. The person he is now? Not any different. That’s why I want the therapy and help. Let professionals determine if he’s safe.
Thank you. No further questions.
Judge Martinez studied me. That’s remarkably compassionate for someone who was nearly murdered.
It’s not compassion, Your Honor. I was tired of carrying that hate around a long time ago.
You may step down, Ms. Williams.
The walk back to the defense table felt longer than the walk up. Patricia squeezed my shoulder as I sat, her shark’s smile promising victory.
Judge Martinez took her time, reviewing documents, making notes, the scratch of her pen the only sound in the courtroom. Finally, she looked up, removed her glasses, met both John’s eyes and mine.
I’ve practiced law for thirty-one years, she began, her voice carrying that particular weight of someone about to render judgment. I’ve seen every flavor of violence humans can inflict on each other. Domestic. Stranger. Premeditated. Spontaneous. But I’ve rarely seen mutual combat emerge from a place of such profound mutual trauma.
She looked at John. Mr. Williams, you came to that bar intending violence. The evidence is clear. Your verbal assault, your physical assault of a minor, your attempt to strangle your sister—these are serious crimes. However, your current mental state, confirmed by multiple medical experts, presents an unusual circumstance.
Then to me: Ms. Williams, you responded to protect yourself and others in your sanctuary. The video clearly shows self-defense escalating only after repeated provocation and assault of a minor under your care. Your use of force, while extreme, was proportional to the threat you faced.
She put her glasses back on, consulted her notes one more time.
Therefore, I find as follows: Ms. Wendy Williams, you are hereby acquitted of all charges by reason of self-defense. Your ankle monitor will be removed immediately following these proceedings, and your record will reflect this acquittal.
The gallery behind me erupted—Miguel’s whoop of joy, Phoenix’s sob of relief, Keira’s fierce “Yes!” cutting through formal courtroom decorum. Martinez’s gavel came down hard.
Order! ORDER! This is still a court of law, not a carnival.
She turned to John. Mr. Williams, the charges against you are reduced from Assault in the First Degree to Assault in the Third Degree. I’m sentencing you to one year of house arrest followed by three years of probation. However— her voice sharpened, —this is contingent upon your immediate enrollment in a court-mandated psychiatric treatment program.
You will undergo comprehensive psychological evaluation within thirty days. You will attend a minimum of three therapy sessions per week focusing specifically on anger management, trauma processing, and family violence education. You will have zero contact with Ms. Williams unless and until a licensed therapist determines such contact would be safe and beneficial for all parties involved.
She fixed John with a look that could’ve carved stone. Mr. Williams, this is your opportunity. Don’t waste it. If you violate any terms of your house arrest or probation, if you fail to attend therapy, if you make any attempt to contact Ms. Williams without permission—you will serve the remainder of your original sentence in state prison. Am I absolutely clear?
Yes, Your Honor, John whispered, tears still streaming down his face. Thank you. Thank you for giving me this chance.
Don’t thank me. Thank your sister. She’s the one showing mercy you probably don’t deserve. Martinez’s gavel came down with finality. This court is adjourned.
In the back row, Ginny stood quietly, her movement barely perceptible among the courtroom’s eruption into motion. She dabbed at her face one more time, then slipped through the doors like smoke dissipating, there and gone before I could even think about what her presence meant. River caught it too—the ghost of our sister leaving as silently as she’d arrived. Remy’s eyes tracked her exit, then found mine across the chaos, something unspoken passing between us that tasted like family and loss and questions nobody was ready to ask yet.
The courtroom exploded into motion—Patricia gathering her fortress of documents with satisfied efficiency, Davidson looking relieved this circus was over, Rodriguez conferring quietly with John about next steps. But all I could focus on was John, still sitting at his table, staring at his hands like they belonged to someone else.
Renee approached him first, her massive presence somehow gentle as she spoke quietly. He nodded at whatever she said, wiping his face with shaking hands.
Mom, Miguel was at my side, helping me stand. Let’s get that fucking ankle monitor off and get you home.
But I couldn’t move yet. Couldn’t tear my eyes away from John, this stranger wearing my brother’s face, this blank slate that might grow into something better or something worse. The Mother’s presence whispered through the courtroom’s recycled air: Watch. Wait. See what grows from empty soil. Justice is a seed, not a harvest.
Keira’s hand found mine, squeezed gently. Ready?
Yeah, I managed, my voice rough with emotions I couldn’t name. Let’s go home.
Outside, the September air tasted like freedom—crisp and clear, carrying the promise of autumn’s transformation. The technician who removed my ankle monitor did it with quick, practiced efficiency, the device falling away like a snake shedding skin. The absence of its weight felt strange, like phantom pain in reverse.
Miguel had somehow procured a flask—because of course he had—and passed it around the assembled crowd. Even Della took a sip, grimacing at whatever bottom-shelf bourbon he’d smuggled past courthouse security.
To justice, Bubba raised the flask before drinking. And to The Mother’s wisdom, even when we don’t understand it.
I took the flask when it came to me, the bourbon burning all the way down, a familiar pain that felt almost comforting in its consistency. Above us, clouds moved across autumn sky in patterns that might have been random or might have been The Mother painting messages for those who knew how to read them.
In the distance, a murder of crows rose from bare trees, their wings beating against wind like a thousand small hearts refusing to quit. Transformation wasn’t gentle. Growth hurt. But sometimes breaking was the only way to become something better than what we’d been made to be.
Let’s go home, I said finally, my voice carrying something that might have been peace or might have been just exhaustion deep enough to pass for acceptance.
And we did—walking away from the courthouse and its judgments, from John and his chance at rebirth, from the violence that had defined us and toward whatever came next. The journey was slow, my body still remembering every injury even as it healed. But I wasn’t walking alone. I never had been.
The sanctuary awaited—crimson walls and crackling speakers, Miguel’s bar and Della’s kitchen, the pool table and beanbag chairs and every surface that held the imprint of our collective love. Tonight, there would be music and whiskey and the kind of celebration that tasted like survival. Tonight, we would start again.
Soon, John would begin his therapy. Then, the real work of transformation would start—for him, for me, for all of us caught in the blast radius of our mother’s violence finally finding its end.
But today? Today, we walked home free.
“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” - Theodore Parker, as quoted by Martin Luther King Jr.
Sometimes justice looks like punishment. Sometimes it looks like mercy. And sometimes, when The Mother is feeling particularly transformative, it looks like giving someone a blank slate and the therapy to write something better on it than what trauma had originally carved. The courtroom had rendered its verdict, but the real judgment would come in the months and years ahead—in whether John could truly transform, whether I could truly heal, whether our family could truly move forward. The arc might bend toward justice, but the bending required all of us to push, to choose compassion over vengeance, to believe that even the most broken things could be composted into something that nourished growth. Justice wasn’t a moment. It was a practice, daily and difficult, requiring faith in transformation even when transformation seemed impossible. Today, we’d bent that arc just a little bit further. Tomorrow, we’d bend it again.