Chapter 115 Judge Hilar Judgement
Judge Hilar’s POV
I sighed as I listened to Attorney David’s arguments. He had hit the nail on the head, leaving no room for a contrary opinion. Mr. Micah, without a doubt, should be sentenced to life in prison with every fiber of strength the law permits.
However, as a judge, I could not allow emotions to dictate my judgment. The law was not based on sentiment but on logic and fairness. Even when all fingers pointed at Mr. Micah, my duty was to ensure that those fingers were justified before delivering a verdict. A mistake in judgment could cost an innocent person their future, and I could not allow that to happen under my watch.
With this thought in mind, I looked up at the courtroom. "Thank you, Attorney David," I said first, acknowledging his argument.
Then, I shifted my attention to the documents spread before me. These were files submitted to my desk by Attorney David and Attorney Deborah at the beginning of this argument via the bailiff. Each document contained crucial information—evidence, testimonies, and legal precedents—that would help me arrive at a fair judgment.
Flipping through the pages, I straightened my posture and spoke. "The judgment has now been adjourned. We will reconvene in two hours."
“Court!” The bailiff struck the gavel against the wooden block, his voice echoing across the courtroom. As I stood, everyone else followed suit as a sign of respect.
Inside my office, I found myself unable to take my eyes off the documents submitted by both attorneys.
One argued that Mr. Micah’s crimes stemmed from a psychological condition beyond his control and that therapy, rather than prison, was the appropriate course of action.
The other prosecution attorney, however, provided damning evidence, making it clear that claiming he had no control over his actions was nothing more than an excuse.
I raised the blue-bound document higher, focusing on the passport-sized photograph attached to the right edge. It was a picture of Mr. Micah.
Staring at it, I felt a wave of disbelief wash over me. Could a man so seemingly gentle, so strikingly handsome, be capable of such crimes?
Instinctively, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. Holding the document steady, I snapped a photo of his face and uploaded it into Google Lens. If there was anything else incriminating about him—anything hidden beyond what had been presented in court—I needed to know.
A moment later, search results populated my screen. Clicking on the first image that matched, I found myself on one of his social media accounts, scrolling through countless photos.
The more I browsed, the more I learned about his life—his friends, his travels, his past. Then suddenly, my eyes widened.
There it was. A photo that made my breath hitch.
In the picture, a woman stood beside Mr. Micah, smiling. It was an old image, the timestamp confirming its age. I hurriedly read the caption beneath it.
“December 2004, With my Mum at Riverside County.”
I froze.
Katrina?
My heartbeat pounded in my ears as I looked closer.
Katrina was his mother?
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
Katrina—my first wife. The woman I divorced in 1994 after catching her in bed with her ex-boyfriend. The woman I had left with our child—the son I never saw again.
I had heard nothing from them since our separation. The last I knew of her was in 2014 when the hospital contacted me—my number had remained her emergency contact. They informed me of her passing due to breast cancer.
Could it be? Could Micah be… my son? The child I had left behind all those years ago?
I hurriedly scrolled through his older photos, desperately searching for more proof. The further back I went, the more images of Katrina I found.
A lump formed in my throat.
Micah was indeed my son.
And with my own hands, I was about to send him to prison—for life.
Tears welled in my eyes, spilling down my cheeks. I wept, my body shaking as I buried my face in my hands. I had searched for my son for so long, only to find him now—in the worst possible way.
For ten minutes, I sobbed, unable to comprehend the cruel twist of fate.
After remarrying, I had been unable to father another child. My second wife, Sonya, left me because of it. I had spent years dreading the idea of dying alone, without a son to carry my name, without someone to bury me when my time came.
At times, I had even considered adopting or, in my darkest thoughts, abducting a child to call my own. But I knew how that always ended—sooner or later, the child would grow up, start asking questions, and go in search of their real parents.
I didn’t want to put myself through such emotional turmoil.
And yet, here he was. My real son, standing before me.
And I was about to condemn him to a fate worse than death.
Sniffing, I wiped my tears and turned to my laptop. I needed answers. I had to understand what had led him to this.
My fingers trembled as I typed into the search bar: "All I need to know about sadomasochism."
I took my time reading, absorbing every detail.
By the time the two hours I had given for recess elapsed, I had made my decision.
With a heavy heart, I returned to the courtroom.
“Court!” The bailiff’s voice rang loud as everyone rose to their feet.
They did not sit until I had taken my seat.
Slowly, I turned my gaze toward Micah, standing in the dock with his hands cuffed. His face was pale, his entire body tense. He looked terrified—like he knew his fate, like he feared the judgment I was about to pronounce.
Still looking at him, I could hear his heartbeat in my mind. It was rapid, panicked.
How could I not have seen it before?
Now that I truly observed him, I saw the resemblance—the striking similarity to my younger self. He had my eyes, my nose, my face.
Even more shocking, I remembered something else. When I was younger, I, too, had been drawn to BDSM. It was Katrina who had introduced me to it, shaping the way we explored intimacy in our marriage.
How had I completely erased that from my mind?
I took a deep breath and began.
"Attorney Deborah and Attorney David have both spoken well." My voice echoed through the silent courtroom.
"They have each presented strong arguments—one for mercy, the other for strict prosecution. After thorough deliberation, I have reached my judgment.”
The tension in the room was suffocating.
“As the judge of this Supreme Court of Mandena, and because you, Mr. Micah, have been proven to have committed attempted rpe and rpe in the past, I hereby sentence you to court-mandated therapy and community service for the next two years.”
Gasps erupted throughout the courtroom.
“What?” Murmurs of disbelief spread like wildfire.
I raised my hand for silence. “Because you have been diagnosed with a condition known as sadomasochism, you shall be required to attend therapy every day while also completing your assigned community service. This is my ruling.”
The courtroom broke into an uproar.
"Is this some kind of joke?!" someone shouted.
"Order in the court!" the bailiff barked, his voice struggling to regain control of the room.
Before the protests turned into chaos, I quickly rose to my feet and escaped into my office, shutting the door behind me.
My hands trembled as I exhaled shakily.
I had found my son.
And I had spared him.