Egomaniac

Judges hate hearing cases on New Year’s Eve. But I knew what my ex-wife was up to. She thought dragging me into court on our anniversary with some vague emergency motion was going to upset me. Was she really that fucking clueless? Did she think I was sitting home pining for her three months after our divorce was finalized? I’d gotten what I wanted from her out of our divorce: my freedom and liberal shared custody of our son. Whether or not he was my biological child didn’t change the way I felt about him. He was my son. No paternity test was going to tell me otherwise.

The smartest thing Alexa had ever done was not fight me on shared custody. After I offered to pay a hefty monthly child support—even though technically I could have probably paid nothing—she was suddenly amicable to sharing custody. Money was all my ex-wife was ever interested in. Even while I was married to her, I think I knew the truth down deep.

I’d called her to find out what the fuck she was up to half a dozen times, but of course she didn’t answer. The manipulative side of her had reared its ugly head in the days since I’d packed her bags and had them moved to a rental a few blocks away—a rental I still footed the bill for. If it weren’t for Beck, I would have tossed her shit out the window when I changed the locks. But I wanted my son close to me, and he didn’t deserve to live in a tenement Alexa could barely afford.

“New Year’s Eve. What poor schlep are you beating up and leaving miserable to start a new year?” George, the court officer at the entrance to the family court joked as he scanned my ID. He did side work for Roman, covering surveillance stakeouts at night, and we’d become friends over the last year.

“This poor schlep. Ex-wife’s still a bitch.”

He nodded, having heard all about my fucked-up situation over beers with Roman one night. Handing back my ID, he asked, “You going to Roman’s party tonight?”

“Looking forward to it.”

“See you there. Good luck today.”

Alexa and her dirtbag lawyer, Wade Garrison, were already sitting in the courtroom when I walked in. It was difficult not to laugh at her knee-length skirt and neckline that looked like it might choke her. Especially since I had a thousand photos of her out partying on weekends wearing skin-tight skirts that barely covered her ass and displaying enough cleavage to be mistaken for a hooker. They were compliments of Roman after she and I had split up—in case I needed them someday.

My ex-wife kept her face straight ahead, refusing to look at me. If there was one thing I knew about Alexa, it was that she avoided my eyes when she was being over-the-top cuntly.

The court officer called our docket number, and I made sure to go ahead of them, so I could open the gate and force eye contact with Alexa.

“You wearing that to the frat party you’re going to tonight?” I whispered. “Might want to put on a better bra. Your tits are looking saggy. Probably from breastfeeding.”

She glared at me. I smiled wide.

“What do we have here, folks? I read the motion and have no idea why you are standing before me today wasting my precious time,” Judge Hixton said.

“I’d like to know why we’re here, as well,” I added.

Judge Hixton turned his attention to the other side of his courtroom. “Why don’t you enlighten both of us, counselor?”

Garrison cleared his fat throat. How the hell could he talk with that collar buttoned so tight? Looked like he needed to move up from a twenty-three-inch neck to a twenty-four. “Your honor, we actually have an amended petition we’d like to submit, along with an affidavit from New York Laboratory.”

The judge motioned for the court officer to collect the documents. “Have these been served on opposing counsel?”

“No, your honor. The affidavit was just received late last night. We have a set for Mr. Jagger there, as well.”

The court officer distributed the documents to me, as well as Judge Hixton, and we both took a moment to read through them. I skipped the amended petition and paternity lab results and went right to the third-party affidavit. I only had to read the first half-page:

We, Alexa Thompson Jagger and Levi Archer Bodine, have read and understand the consequences, alternatives, rights, and responsibilities regarding this affidavit and being duly sworn upon oath depose and say:

I, Alexa Thompson Jagger, am the biological mother of Beckett Archer Jagger, as documented in New York Live Birth Certificate number NYC2839992.

I, Levi Archer Bodine, am the biological father of Beckett Archer Jagger, the child referred to in New York Laboratory case number 80499F.

Wherefore, paternity has been established by Levi Archer Bodine with a scientific certainty of at least 99.99%.

Therefore, together we wish for a correction of the birth certificate to identify Levi Bodine as the father. We also wish to pursue full parental rights, including shared custody and visitation.

Judge Hixton’s voice was sympathetic when he spoke. “Mr. Jagger, would you like a few days to respond to this motion?”

My heart was heavy with anger and sorrow. It felt like my entire world had just been ripped out from under me. I cleared my throat to fight back tears. “Please, your honor.”

Everything that came after that happened in a fog. Garrison asked for temporary visitation for Bodine, which the judge declined in order to allow me time to review the legitimacy of the testing presented. A date to reconvene was set for two weeks from Tuesday, and then the gavel slammed down.

I was still standing in place after Alexa and her attorney exited the courtroom.

Levi Archer Bodine. The man had the same middle name as our son. Alexa had picked the fucking middle name. I’d suggested we use one of our father’s names, but she’d insisted she loved the middle name Archer. She’d always dreamed of giving her little boy the middle name Archer.

Fucking liar.

But why was his name so goddamn familiar?

Levi Archer Bodine.

Levi Archer Bodine.

Levi Bodine.

I knew it from somewhere.

Eventually, the court officer came over and quietly told me I needed to leave so he could call the next case.

Stunned, I made my way through the courthouse. I passed a handful of people I knew and ignored them. I heard their voices, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. It wasn’t until I walked outside into the fresh, crisp air that my fog lifted. Which was perfect timing to watch Alexa get into a bright yellow Dodge Charger with the number nine painted on the side.