Sustained (The Legal Briefs 2)

Rosaleen nods eagerly, climbing into the chair.

I stride back into my office, where Chelsea and the two youngest rug rats await. I point at them. “You two look like the real troublemakers in the group, so you’re coming with us.”

“Hi!” the two-year-old replies with a deceptively sweet smile.

“Oh no, you’re not roping me into that again.”

I take the baby carrier from Chelsea’s hands—and almost drop the thing. “Wow,” I say, glancing down. “You’re heavier than you look.” He gurgles back with a mouth full of drool.

I turn to Chelsea. “You grab Thing One. Let’s go.”

Her voice stops me. It’s a whisper, quiet and inquisitive.

“Jake?”

It’s the first time she’s said my name. One small syllable that makes my gut tighten. That makes me want to hear her say it again—in a moan, a gasp. A pleasure-spiked scream.

“Can I ask you something before we go?”

“Sure.”

She searches my face with an honest curiosity that could pierce body armor. “If it’s not the money . . . why are you helping us?”

It’s an interesting question. I’m not the noble type. I’m more of an “every man for himself” kind of guy. So why the hell am I helping them?

Because I want in her pants, of course. Doing Chelsea a favor is the most direct route to doing her. Really not that complicated.

I shrug. “I’m a sucker for a lost cause.”

And because I just can’t hold back any longer, I reach out one hand and gently stroke the ivory skin of her cheek. It’s softer than I ever could’ve imagined.

“And for a pretty face.”

• • •

We walk out to the parking garage and as Chelsea buckles the kids into their seats, I check out her truck. Her gigantically large dark blue truck. She notices my gaze and remarks, “It’s my brother’s truck.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Your brother—the environmental lobbyist—drove a gas-guzzling Yukon XL?”

She climbs up into the driver’s seat. “With six kids, a bicycle wasn’t gonna cut it.”

I give her directions to the Moultrie Courthouse, where Rory was taken after his arrest this morning. I don’t have a lot of experience in family court, but I’m familiar enough with the process to fill her in.

“Rory will be assigned a probation officer who’ll review the charges and his history, and make a recommendation to the OAG. The probation officer decides whether he’s released to you today or has to remain at the Youth Services Center until trial. They’re also the ones I’ll talk plea deal with.”

The good news is, I know one of the probation officers at Moultrie intimately. We used to bang frequently until she got engaged. Our parting terms were friendly.

A soft V forms on Chelsea’s forehead. “The OAG?”

“Office of the Attorney General. That’s who would prosecute his case, but don’t worry—it’s not going that far.”

Juvenile cases are very different from adult ones. The system still has hope for delinquents—it’s all about rehabilitation and redemption. Saving them before they’ve gone too far down that dark, wrong road to nowhere. In criminal courts, the main question is, did you do it? In family court, it’s all about why you did it. An orphaned nine-year-old dealing with his parents’ deaths by stealing a car will garner a shitload more leniency than an eighteen-year-old boosting a joyride.

The Moultrie Courthouse is an intimidating concrete building with a cavernous maze of hallways. After passing through security, we’re ushered into a waiting room with a dozen nondescript tables and chairs scattered around and vending machines along one wall. A few other visitors occupy the room, heads huddled, speaking in hushed whispers.

Chelsea and I sit at an empty table. I put the infant carrier with its sleeping cargo on the table, and the blond, baby-haired Regan squirms on her lap. A guard opens a door across the room and walks in with Rory, who’s still wearing his school uniform: tan slacks, a white button-down shirt, a navy blazer.

His young lips are set in a hard frown, his dark blue eyes so full of resentment you can practically hear the “screw you” thoughts. This is not the face of a sad, little soul who knows he messed up—it’s the face of an angry cherub, desperately trying to look badass, who’d rather go down in flames than admit he was wrong.

For a second, I reconsider helping him—a few days in juvenile detention could be just what the doctor ordered.

But then Chelsea wraps her arm around him and kisses his forehead, looking both elated with relief and like she wants to strangle him. “Thank god you’re okay! Everything’s going to be all right, Rory, don’t be scared. What the hell were you thinking? A car? You’re never leaving your room again—ever!”

I lean back in my chair, just watching.

He brushes her off with a rough shrug. “Get off. I’m fine. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” She grimaces, and I see a flash of hurt feelings, too. “You could’ve killed yourself—or someone else.”

“Well, I didn’t, okay? So stop freaking out.”

I’ve seen enough.

“Chelsea, go get Regan a soda or juice.” I pull a couple of bills from my wallet and hand them to her. She hesitates. I tilt my head toward Rory. “Give us a minute.”

Still looking unsure, she sets the two-year-old on her feet and leads her away.

Once we’re alone, Rory sits down. “What are you doing here?”

“Your aunt wanted a good lawyer. Lucky for you, I’m the best—and I happened to have the afternoon free.”

“Whatever.”

I pin him with an assessing stare. “You’re in deep shit, kid.”

So sure he knows everything, he scoffs, “I’m nine. What’s the worst they can do to me?”

“Keep you here for the next nine years. At least,” I tell him simply.

For the first time since he walked into the room, his confidence wavers. His cheeks bloom nervous pink and his voice rises half an octave as he says, “It’s not so bad here.”

It’s a tiny crack in the façade—but still a crack.

I don’t waste time telling him he’s full of shit. I lean forward and explain, “Here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m going to call your aunt back over, and you’re going to apologize for the way you spoke to her.”

He wasn’t expecting that. “Why?”

“Because she doesn’t deserve it.”

He lowers his eyes, almost ashamed. Maybe there’s hope for the punk yet.

“Then you’re going to sit there”—I point at him—“and let her hug you and kiss you all she wants.”

His chin rises, not ready to give up the fight. “And what if I don’t?”

I look him right in the eyes. “Then I’ll let you rot in here.”

And I will.

He doesn’t look happy, doesn’t like being backed into a corner. He wants to come out swinging—to do the opposite of

what I’m ordering, simply because it’s an order.

I know what he’s feeling. I know this kid through and through.

He needs an out—a way to give up the battle without feeling like he’s lost the war. So I give him one.

“You don’t need to show me how tough you are, Rory—I can see it. I was a lot like you when I was your age—a tough, pissed-off little asshole. The difference is, I was smart enough not to shit on the people who cared about me.” I raise my eyebrows. “Are you?”

He watches me. Looks deep inside with that sixth sense that all children have, to see if I’m being straight with him or just fucking patronizing. After a moment, he gives the briefest of nods and says in a small voice, “Okay. I’ll apologize to Aunt Chelsea. And I’ll let her kiss and hug me if it makes her happy.”

I smile. “Good. Smart and tough. I like you more already, kid.”

• • •

I leave Chelsea with the kids and head upstairs to the probation offices. I knock on Lisa DiMaggio’s door, even though it’s open. She swivels around in her desk chair, her long blond hair fanning out behind her.

“Jake Becker.” She stands, giving me a perfect view of tan, toned legs beneath her black skirt, and hugs me. Parting on friendly terms most definitely has its benefits. “What are you doing in my neck of the woods?” she asks, stepping back with a smile. “Or is this a social call?”

“I’m here about a client.”

“Since when do you play in family court?”

“Long story.” I shrug. “And its name is Rory McQuaid.”

“Ah.” She retrieves a file from her desk. “My car thief. I did his intake this morning. Said he took the car because, and I quote, he ‘wanted to see if driving was as easy as Mario Kart.’ ” She shakes her head. “Kids these days.”

I lean back against the wall. “That’s not why he took the car. There are extenuating circumstances.”

“Enlighten me. I haven’t had a chance to interview the parents yet.”

“The parents are dead,” I tell her. “Robert and Rachel McQuaid were killed in a horrific crash two months ago, leaving Rory and his five brothers and sisters in the care of their aunt—their only living relative.”

She sits down in her chair. “Jesus.”

“The kid’s been dealt a shitty hand and he’s not dealing with it well. But he doesn’t belong in lockup. Talk to his social worker; I’ll bet my left nut he was a saint until his parents died.”

“That’s really saying something—I know how precious your nuts are to you.”

I nod.

“Unfortunately,” Lisa sighs, “Rory picked the wrong person’s car to steal.” She names a cranky, influential former presidential hopeful. “And he wants the