Certainly all the stuff with Drake had soured her. How could it not? But she’d thought, when she’d tried her second live-in relationship, that she’d gotten beyond that.
Wow.
Not the kind of home she wanted to provide for her baby.
So she had some thinking to do. Some self-watching. From that moment on she’d be more aware, make conscious attempts to find good in every situation.
Her resolve lasted through lunch. And two cases in court. She prided herself on how well she was doing as she came from a successful plea agreement, applauding the defendant for taking accountability for her actions and wanting to make amends.
And then she went to Luke Lincoln’s arraignment. She’d expected the proceeding to merely be a formality. She’d gone armed with her recorded copy of Jayden’s testimony, which she’d also printed to give to the judge. The arraignment was for the gun violation charge for which he’d been arrested. The defendant was to be held without bail, while awaiting his hearing before the parole board. They would likely send him back to prison to serve out the remainder of his original sentence. She could have handled the case during her first year of law school. It was that clear-cut.
Except that not only did Luke Lincoln have an attorney, he had an überaggressive one—one who sought to convince the judge that Luke had been unaware of the gun at the residence. The home didn’t belong to him. He was only staying there until he found a place he could afford, as had been approved by the system prior to his release.
Not only was the gun not his, he hadn’t known it was there, or he’d have called Officer Powell immediately and made arrangements to be somewhere else. His attorney was asking, on Luke’s behalf, that the charges be dropped and that Luke be released, at least until the parole board hearing.
Emma objected, of course, vehemently. And asked the court to listen to Officer Powell’s interview with her.
When the defense had no objection, the judge allowed her to play the recording. Watching the judge’s face, Emma relaxed again, confident that, in spite of the little glitch she hadn’t anticipated, the hearing would end with the expected result.
It didn’t. At all.
In spite of the risk Jayden had taken, the good work he’d done.
And therein ended Emma’s temporary ability to find the good in every situation.
* * *
Jayden was at home, typing up reports from his visits that day, when his cell rang with a call from Emma.
He picked up, ready for her. She’d had her hearing with Luke. Though the results were a no-brainer, he’d expected her to call, just to confirm. And had steaks thawing in the kitchen for the invitation he planned to issue.
Maybe they’d finally sleep together that night. If they gave his ribs another night or two to heal, that was fine. If not, he’d be just as “feeling good,” as she’d ever need him to be.
“The judge dismissed the charges.”
In his recliner, with his laptop across his thighs and a grape energy drink on the table beside him, Jayden wasn’t sure what she was talking about.
“Come again?”
“Luke Lincoln. The judge dismissed the charges. Obviously, you haven’t had a call yet. He’s still in jail on the parole violation and chances are he’ll be back on your list soon.”
Slamming down the footrest, he dropped his laptop on the seat and stood. He’d changed into sweats and a T-shirt when he got home—only until he knew for sure she’d be joining him for dinner—and paced barefoot to the kitchen.
“What the hell! What happened?”
“He’s got some high-dollar attorney who pulled out every obscure case on the books to substantiate his claim that since Luke neither owned nor was aware of the weapon on the premises, all charges against him should be dropped.”
“What the hell!” He was repeating himself. He had no other words. He didn’t blame her, at all, but...what the hell!
“I found the gun in his room, stuffed in his pillowcase. I took pictures before I left the scene. They’re time stamped.”
“I know. The arresting officers took pictures, too. But Luke claims that he doesn’t sleep in the bed. That he sleeps on the couch. He says the room is too small, reminds him of his cell. And that the bed is too big. He’s more comfortable on the couch.”
“It’s still his room. His pillow. The damned pillowcases even matched—the one on the couch and the one on the bed.”
“So you saw the one on the couch?”
“Yeah.”