Chapter 10 - The Process Server at the Greyhound Station
The journey back to the Midwest was a thirty-six-hour descent into physical and psychological agony.
Patricia had been forced to sell her heirloom gold locket and diamond stud earrings to a local Key West pawnshop for a fraction of their value, walking away with barely enough cash to buy three non-refundable tickets on the multi-leg regional bus network. For two days and nights, the former 'aristocrats' sat on stiff, stained bus seats, surrounded by screaming infants, coughing passengers, and the pungent smell of industrial disinfectant.
Megan cried until her eyes were swollen shut, her ruined linen dress covered in coffee stains. Patricia sat in stone-faced silence, her back aching, her joints swollen from the endless vibrations of the bus, refusing to look at her son. Eric sat staring blankly out the window, his stubble thick and ragged, watching the miles of highway tick by like a countdown to his execution.
On Friday afternoon, the bus finally hissed to a halt at the Minneapolis Greyhound terminal in downtown Minneapolis.
The air outside was a freezing thirty-two degrees. Eric stepped off the bus wearing only his thin linen shirt and light trousers, shivering uncontrollably as the icy Minnesota wind whipped through his clothes. Patricia and Megan huddled behind him, wrapping cheap bus station blankets around their trembling shoulders.
As they dragged their battered suitcases toward the station exit, a tall man in a heavy charcoal overcoat stepped out from behind a concrete pillar.
“Eric Dawson?” the man asked in a deep, authoritative voice.
Eric flinched, pulling back. “Who... who are you?”
The man reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a thick, formal legal packet encased in clear plastic, and slapped it firmly against Eric’s chest.
“You have been served with a petition for dissolution of marriage, an emergency order of protection, and an order for immediate appearance in Hennepin County District Court,” the process server said clearly.
He then turned toward Megan. “Megan Dawson?”
Megan gasped, dropping her handbag. “What? Me?!”
The server handed her a second thick envelope. “You have been served with a third-party civil summons and subpoena for financial records regarding Dawson Consulting LLC.”
Before either of them could speak, two uniformed Minneapolis police officers stepped into view behind the process server.
“Mr. Dawson,” the lead officer said, placing a heavy hand on his duty belt. “We are here to ensure you do not violate the temporary restraining order regarding the property on Oak Ridge Lane. You are prohibited from coming within one thousand feet of Laura Bennett Dawson, Noah Dawson, Grace Dawson, or the marital residence. Do you understand?”
Eric’s knees buckled. He would have collapsed onto the dirty concrete floor if the second officer hadn't caught him by the elbow.
“Where... where am I supposed to go?” Eric whimpered, tears freezing on his cheeks. “That’s my house! My clothes are there! Everything I own is there!”
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“Your personal property has been delivered to a secured storage facility,” the officer stated flatly. “The access instructions are in the legal packet. If you step foot on Oak Ridge Lane, you will be arrested on sight and booked into Hennepin County Jail. Move along, sir.”
Patricia let out a high, mournful wail that echoed across the bus terminal lobby, but not a single commuter turned to help them.
