And it wasn’t like she knew him personally.
Or even wanted to.
She’d been planning to call him, though. To request a sit-down. This morning, one of his client’s names had come up at the meeting of the High Risk team—a group comprised of professionals from the fields of education, medicine, law, counseling, domestic violence shelter workers and law enforcement who came together with the sole purpose of preventing domestic violence deaths.
Had Bill Heber, the offender she’d needed to speak with Powell about, been involved in the morning’s shooting?
“Is the shooter in custody?” If it was Bill, that would be great news.
“Yeah. Shame, too. It was the thirteen-year-old son of the offender. Powell had set up a first meet at the guy’s home.” A “first meet.” The offender was newly out on parole if Powell was seeing him on the outside for the first time.
“Was his partner hit, too?”
“No, Powell insisted the guy wait in the car.”
Powell had been doing a first meet at the home of an offender who was already armed just two days after getting out? Reading the guy’s record, in prison and before, should have given Powell some indication that he might want to schedule that meet in a more protected setting...
Reckless.
And fitting, too, from what she’d heard about Powell. He went all out for the job, which was good, but he was also known as a bit of risk-taker.
Those were the types of men she usually went for. Which was why she’d been thinking about him over lunch. Worrying over the call she had to make. She wasn’t going to let herself be at all sidetracked by desires that had never served her well.
“I’m assuming they brought the offender in, too?” A newly released parolee wasn’t permitted on any premises with guns. Possible charges, degrees of same, popped into her brain.
“They held him for questioning, but no, they aren’t keeping him. He’s the one who disarmed the shooter, his own son. Wasn’t Wallace’s gun. And he had no idea it was on the premises. Turns out,” he continued, “when the kid heard his dad tell his girlfriend some officer was coming to the house, the kid stole the gun from a friend’s brother and backtracked to the house instead of going to school. His dad didn’t even know he was there. Kid’s filled with a boatload of anger. Blames all law enforcement for the fact that his father was put away to begin with. I have a feeling some bad stuff is going to be coming out there—things that happened to the kid while the dad was locked up.”
Wow. Okay, then. Possibility off her desk. Minors were not in her area of responsibility.
And the offender wasn’t Bill Heber, either—an offender she’d never forget. The forty-two-year-old abuser and his twenty-eight-year-old wife, Suzie, didn’t have any children.
Not since the night, four years before, when Bill had beaten his pregnant bride so badly she’d lost the baby she was carrying.
Emma had caught that case. Charged him with attempted murder for Suzie, and second-degree murder for the almost-four-month gestational-aged fetus. And had failed to get the conviction. If she’d gone for lesser abuse charges, she probably would have won. Bill would have been sentenced to four years, served two, and been out. She’d been trying to put the bastard away for life. To protect Suzie for life.
As it turned out, Heber had landed his ass in jail anyway, for breaking and entering. Not her case. But she’d heard he’d been convicted, sentenced to five years and served two. He’d been out for three months and, according to Suzie’s physician at the High Risk team meeting that morning, the woman was badly bruised again. Thank God for the creation of the High Risk team, whose members were legally permitted to report suspected abuse and who, on coming together, were able to get a more complete picture of a victim’s circumstances. Sara Havens Edwin, lead counselor at The Lemonade Stand—the unique, resort-like women’s shelter in Santa Raquel that had led to the formation of the High Risk team—was charged by the team with keeping in contact with Suzie. Something she’d been doing anyway.
Emma’s planned move had been to meet with Bill’s current PO: Jayden Powell. A man who was dangerous to her in a completely nonabusive way. His bad-boy way of going beyond protocol, his sexy body—they called to Emma’s lesser being. The shadow side of the hardworking, caring, responsible woman she’d always thought herself to be.
That hidden, foolish woman who consistently went for the wrong guys and had the deep burns to prove it.
* * *
If it had been left up to him, Jayden would have gone back to the office that afternoon. He could have pushed the point, but figured he’d get more done from home where he could move judiciously and cringe now and then without someone harping at him to rest or take a pill.
No paid meds for him. Or alcohol, either, if he could help it. He didn’t have an addictive personality, thank God, or any sign of alcohol dependency. He just didn’t like anything messing with his brain.
Or his ability to make decisions. Alcohol contributed to foolish choices—sometimes life-changing ones—and a man was accountable to those choices when he sobered up.
Had to live with the ramifications forever.
He’d learned that lesson the hard way—and his self-imposed penance was the solitary life he lived.
Looking at the massive bruising around his left ribs, he figured he’d gotten off lightly that day. No cracks or breaks. And no blunt force trauma to internal organs. Just discomfort and bruising.
That, he could live with.
His nose had quit itching, too. Thank God. The damned grass had driven him nuts.