Judge Wynn opened the binder.
She adjusted her glasses and looked at the first page.
I remained standing.
Across the courtroom, my father had stopped leaning back in his chair.
My mother kept her hands together.
Wyatt was looking at the binder now instead of looking at me.
The judge turned one page.
Then another.
She paused.
"Mr. Marsh, what exactly am I looking at?"
I took a breath.
"That's the original police report filed after I was left at the Greyhound station in February 1994."
She looked down again.
I could hear papers moving.
The courtroom seemed smaller than it had a few minutes earlier.
I had spent years imagining what it would feel like to tell my parents what they had done.
I thought I might shout.
I thought I might cry.
Instead, I stood there quietly.
The judge read the report.
Then she looked at the plaintiffs.
"Mr. and Mrs. Marsh, did you provide this statement?"
Their attorney rose.
"Your Honor, we'd like an opportunity to review the document before my clients respond."
Judge Wynn nodded.
"Certainly. Take a moment."
The attorney accepted the binder from the bailiff.
He opened it.
His eyes moved across the first few pages.
Then he turned toward Arthur and Evelyn.
I watched my mother's expression change.
She had expected a dispute about inheritance.
She had not expected to see the paperwork from the night she left me.
The attorney leaned toward her.
They whispered.
My father shook his head once.
I remembered that movement.
He had done the same thing when I was a child whenever he didn't want to answer a question.
I looked back at the judge.
"May I explain why this report matters?"
"Go ahead, Mr. Marsh."
I pointed to the first section.
"The report describes me as a runaway. It says my parents believed I had a history of unpredictable behavior and that I might have deliberately disappeared."
I paused.
"I was eight years old."
Nobody moved.
"I was sitting where my mother told me to sit. I had been given a granola bar and instructed not to leave the bench."
My voice remained steady.
"I waited for them."
My mother looked down.
I had wanted her to look at me.
Now that she wouldn't, I realized I didn't need her to.
The judge turned another page.
"Is there documentation confirming that the child was located at the station?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
I handed up the next set of records.
The information came from the investigation.
The station employee had spoken to the police.
The officers had found me alone.
There was no evidence that I had run away.
There was no evidence that I had been violent.
There was no evidence that I had hidden from anyone.
The report my parents had supplied described a different child.
A child who didn't exist.
The judge studied the papers.
Their attorney cleared his throat.
"Your Honor, we would caution against drawing conclusions from an old report without considering the full circumstances."
I looked toward him.
"I agree that the circumstances should be considered fully."
Then I opened my own copy.
"That's why there are three binders."
The judge looked at the remaining two.
"Let's proceed carefully."
I nodded.
For the first time that morning, I felt that the court was looking at the actual history instead of the family my parents had described.
And I wasn't finished.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: The Insurance Policy Had Been Purchased Before I Disappeared, and the Date Was Harder to Explain Than the Money
The Little Boy Who Believed His Parents Would Return, Even After Everyone Else Had Stopped Waiting
Part 5 of 24
