Chapter 9 - The Settlement
The preliminary hearing for State of Maryland v. Richard Hayes and Sloan Hayes took place on a crisp, gold-and-crimson Tuesday in late October, twelve weeks after the fall at the Harborcrest.
The Queen Anne’s County Courthouse in Centreville was an historic red-brick structure built in the eighteenth century, its tall sash windows looking out over a small, tree-lined square where the autumn leaves were falling in heavy, golden drifts across the grass.
I arrived at nine-fifteen, walking with a single forearm crutch, my right leg supported by a low-profile carbon-fiber brace that fit neatly beneath my tailored charcoal wool slacks.
Weston walked on my left, carrying my legal folder, while Priscilla Oelleron walked on my right, her black trench coat open, her heavy leather briefcase swinging with purposeful, metronomic rhythm.
Inside the second-floor courtroom, the gallery was nearly empty, save for three local reporters and my mother, Eleanor.
My mother sat in the third row on the defense side.
She wore an old gray wool coat that had a missing button at the collar, her hair pulled back into an unwashed, brittle knot, her hands clutching a worn vinyl handbag that was missing its shoulder strap. She didn't look up when my crutch clicked against the hardwood floorboards. She looked down at the linoleum, her shoulders curved inward, looking like an old woman who had finally realized that the currency she had spent her life manufacturing was no longer accepted anywhere in the state.
At the defense table sat my father and my sister.
Richard Hayes was dressed in an off-the-rack navy suit he had bought at a discount outlet in Glen Burnie, his hair uncombed, his skin sagging in gray, loose folds beneath his eyes. He kept his hands flat on the oak table, his fingers twitching rhythmically, unable to look at the bench where Judge Carolyn Martinez sat reviewing the criminal presentment.
Beside him sat Sloan.
She had abandoned the French lace. She wore a simple, high-necked black knit sweater that looked like it had been purchased at Target three days ago, paired with flat black shoes. Her hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail, her face completely scrubbed of cosmetics, revealing the faint, sharp lines of stress and anger that had settled permanently around her mouth.
The public defender assigned to represent Sloan—a young woman named Chen who looked as though she hadn't slept since the weekend—stood up as Judge Martinez cleared her throat.
"In the matter of Case Number Twenty-Six-CR-One-One-Four," Judge Martinez announced, her voice echoing off the high plaster ceiling with the dry, impersonal authority of the state. "The court has before it a negotiated pre-trial diversion and restitution agreement entered jointly by the State’s Attorney, the defendants, and the complaining witness, Merritt Hayes."
The judge looked over the top of her gold-rimmed reading glasses, her gaze pinning my father to his chair.
"Mr. Hayes," the judge said. "Under the terms of this agreement, you have entered a plea of guilty to one count of Uttering a Forged Instrument and one count of Commercial Identity Theft. In exchange for the dismissal of the second-degree grand larceny charges, you will execute a complete, unconditional quitclaim deed surrendering any and all legal or equitable claims to the real property located at 414 North Hampton Road, transferring sole unencumbered ownership to the corporate victim, Merritt Hayes."
Richard’s throat clicked as he swallowed. "Yes, Your Honor."
"Furthermore," Judge Martinez continued, "you will submit to twenty-four months of supervised community confinement, three hundred hours of unpaid community service with the county highway department, and a permanent, lifetime revocation of your notary public commission in the State of Maryland."
She turned her eyes toward Sloan.
Sloan flinched, shrinking back into her knit sweater as if she could hide behind her public defender’s shoulder.
"Miss Hayes," the judge said, her voice dropping into an arctic register that made the court reporter pause over her machine. "To the charge of Reckless Endangerment resulting in serious physical injury, you have entered an Alford plea. The court finds that the evidence presented in the surveillance video and the certified forensic biomechanical analysis would have resulted in a unanimous conviction for First-Degree Assault before any jury in this county."
Sloan didn't answer. A single, dark mascara stain broke from her left eye, running down her cheek, but she kept her teeth clenched together so tightly that the muscles in her jaw jumped beneath her skin.
"Under the diversion agreement," Judge Martinez said, "you are sentenced to eighteen months of intensive supervised probation. You will maintain verifiable full-time employment of not less than thirty-two hours per week at an enterprise not owned or managed by any member of your immediate family. You will surrender forty percent of your net weekly earnings directly to the clerk of this court, to be disbursed as civil restitution to Merritt Hayes until the sum of forty-two thousand five hundred dollars is satisfied in full."
The judge leaned forward over her high mahogany bench, her eyes drilling into Sloan’s face.
"And finally, Miss Hayes," the judge concluded, "this court enters a permanent, non-expiring protective order. You will not come within five hundred feet of Merritt Hayes, her place of residence, her corporate offices, or any vessel or maritime facility where she is conducting professional operations. You will not contact her by telephone, electronic mail, third-party messaging, or social media platforms. If you so much as 'like' a photograph on her corporate website, Miss Hayes, I will revoke your diversion before the sun sets, and you will spend the remaining fourteen months of your sentence in the women's facility in Jessup."
The judge brought her small wooden gavel down with a sharp, concussive crack that echoed through the quiet courtroom like an iron door swinging shut on a vault.
"Case closed," Judge Martinez said. "Clear the well."
I stood up from my seat in the front row, resting my weight evenly between my good leg and my carbon-fiber brace, using the crutch only for balance.
I didn't look at my father as the deputies led him toward the clerk’s window to sign the property deeds.
I didn't look at my mother, who was sitting on her bench with her hands over her face, weeping into her old gray coat.
I looked at Sloan.
She stood by the defense table, clutching her cheap black vinyl purse to her ribs, looking at me across the ten feet of polished oak floor that separated our lives.
She looked small. She looked ordinary. She looked like an unemployed aesthetic technician who had forty-two thousand dollars of court debt, an eighteen-month probation officer, and an eight-mile bus commute to a retail job in Annapolis every morning at six o'clock.
She opened her mouth, her lips trembling, trying to summon the old, venomous theatricality that had kept me small for thirty years.
"Merritt..." she whispered.
May you like
I didn't answer.
I turned my back on her, walked through the swinging oak gate of the bar, took Weston’s arm, and stepped out through the heavy double doors into the clean, cold autumn light.
