Marietta is originally from Jamaica, with large midnight eyes, dark skin, and long black hair that falls in a cascade of braids down her back. Her father was once a resident here, and after he died a few years ago, she started volunteering.
“Hey, Marietta.”
She sets the tray of food down on a corner table with wheels and brings it between us.
“How was his week?” I ask her quietly, the judge’s attention still on the television.
“Not too bad,” she tells me. “He was agitated Wednesday and Thursday night—couldn’t settle down enough to sleep. So the doctor changed his bedtime medication. He’s been good since then.”
I nod and grasp his shoulder. “Judge.” He turns my way and I gesture to the food. “It’s dinnertime.”
He looks over the meal and makes a face. “I’m not hungry.”
I shake my head. “Don’t bust my balls, old man. You need to eat.” I stir the beef stew in the bowl. “I know it’s not Smith and Wollensky, but it smells good.” I push it closer to him. “Dig in.”
His hand trembles as he slowly picks up the spoon and shovels in a mouthful of beef and carrot. While he chews, he glances at the tray, eyeing a dish of chocolate pudding covered with thick whipped cream under clear plastic wrapping.
“I want that.” He points.
“You can have the pudding after you finish your dinner,” I say automatically.
When he brings another shaky spoonful to his mouth, a bit of stew clings to his lower lip and chin. I pick up his napkin and gently wipe his face before it drips on his clothes.
“It’s really good for him that you’re here, that you spend time with him,” Marietta tells me, smiling. “It means a lot.”
I shrug. “It’s not a big deal. I’m just . . . working through a lifetime of favors I’ll never be able to return.”
The Judge grins at me and I smile back. “Besides,” I tell Marietta, “he doesn’t have anyone.”
She puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Of course he does. He has you.”
• • •
Wednesday is a slow day. I lean back in my desk chair and peer out the window at the sun-filled street below. A frustrated dog walker struggles with three four-legged clients as they tangle their leashes, fighting for the lead. A double-decker tourist bus rumbles past, leaving a cloud of black exhaust in its wake. A jogging father pushes an orange running stroller; he nearly takes out one of the yapping dogs but turns onto the grass at the last second.
Maybe it’s the baby in the stroller, maybe it’s the long-haired, ruglike dogs—maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t gotten any in almost three weeks—but the enticing image of Chelsea McQuaid slides into my mind.
Again.
It’s the sole image I’ve conjured every single time I’ve jerked off—which has been pathetically often.
Those striking blue eyes; the quick-to-smile pink lips; her long, pale neck, which begged to be licked; her lithe limbs, which I just bet are oh so flexible; and most important, her firm, perfectly sized tits. I mentally kick myself for not getting her number.
She’s too old—too hot—to be a virgin at twenty-six, but there was something about her that seemed . . . pure. Untouched. Undiscovered. And that’s a course I would love to chart.
I rub my eyes. I need to get laid. This getting-to-know-a-woman-first shit is turning out to be a bigger hassle than I ever anticipated. Is risking contraction of an STD really such a big deal?
And then I remember how it felt waiting for those test results. The sharp, cold terror of being saddled with a disease—possibly for life. Or, even scarier, with one that could cut my valuable life short. Hell yes—it’s a big deal.
No fuck—no matter how spectacular—is worth dying for.
That should be the tagline in every high school safe-sex campaign.
My secretary opens my office door, and I’m grateful for the distraction . . . until she informs me an unscheduled client is here asking to see me. Remembering how this went down the last time, I’m about to tell Mrs. Higgens to tell them to fuck off.
Until she adds, “Miss Chelsea McQuaid is her name, Jake. And she’s got a whole brood of little ones with her.”
My smile is wide and slow and completely gratified. If I believed in signs, this would be a big, flashing neon one.
I straighten my tie. “Show them in, Mrs. Higgens.”
7
Mrs. Higgens heads out of the office and a few moments later, Chelsea and her fidgeting, noisy gaggle of nieces and nephews come into my office. She’s wearing a casual outfit—definitely “mommy wear,” but on that body it screams sexy. A dark green sweater that highlights the red in her auburn hair. Snug blue jeans tucked into high brown boots accent those endless legs—and the tight swell of her supple ass. That’s a pleasant surprise—I didn’t notice her ass the first time we met, but it’s fucking gorgeous.
She adjusts her grip on the baby carrier and her smile is strained. “Hello, Mr. Becker.”
I stand up behind my desk. “Chelsea, it’s good to see you again. What brings you . . .”
My eyes scan each of the faces that crowd my office, and I realize one is missing.
“Where’s Rory?”
Chelsea sighs. Before she can speak, the grouchy girl—fourteen-year-old Riley—answers for her. “The idiot got arrested. He stole a car.”
“A car?”
In a week, the little shit went from mugging to grand theft auto. That escalated quickly.
The small towheaded one, Rosaleen, continues. “And then he crashed it.”
The two-year-old supplies sound effects. “Brooocshhh.”
The smart one, Raymond, adds, “And not just any car—a Ferrari 458 Italia Limited Edition. The starting price is around nine hundred thousand dollars.”
I look to Chelsea, who nods. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the whole story. He’s in juvenile detention—serious trouble this time.”
This time implies there’s been other times—my almost-robbery notwithstanding.
Jesus Christ, kid.
Chelsea explains in a strained voice, “My brother has dozens of attorneys in his contact list, but none of them are defense attorneys. I had your card . . . and you seem like a good lawyer.”
Out of curiosity, I ask, “What makes you think I’m good?”
She raises her chin and meets my eyes. “You look like a man who knows how to win a fight. That’s what I need—what Rory needs.”
I take a few moments to think—to plan.
Chelsea must interpret my silence as rejection, because her voice turns almost pleading. “I don’t know what your typical retainer is, but I can afford—”
My lifted finger stops her. “I don’t think that’s going to be necessary. Wait here.” Then I point to Raymond. “Come with me.” And to the oldest girl. “You too, Smiley.”
As they follow me out the door, the brooding teen corrects me. “My name is Riley.”
“I know. But I’m going to call you Smiley.”
“Why?” she asks, like it’s the stupidest, most vile thing she’s ever heard.
I smirk. “Because you’re not.”
Let the eye-rolling commence.
I lead them into the office next door. Sofia Santos’s head is bent over her desk, her perfectly manicured hands scribbling rapid notes on a document. She looks up as we enter.
“Hey, Sofia.” I hook my thumb at the sullen girl behind me. “This is Smiley McQuaid—her aunt is a new client and we have to head downtown for a few hours. Is it okay if she hangs with you?”
Stanton’s daughter, Presley, is almost thirteen. I figure if anyone is adept at dealing with a teenage female, it’s Sofia.
“Sure. I’ll be here all afternoon.”
Riley moves to my side. “My name is Riley.”
Sofia smiles. “Hi, Riley.” Then she points to a chair in the corner, next to a wall outlet. “The phone charger’s over there.”
Riley almost cracks a grin. Almost
. “Swag.”
I turn to Sofia’s office companion, who’s staring at images on his laptop. “Brent, this is Raymond. Raymond, Brent. Can you keep him out of trouble for a few hours?”
Brent nods. Then, with the excitement of a boy allowed to watch his first R-rated horror movie, he asks Raymond, “You want to see pictures of blood splatter?”
The boy steps forward. “Is it as cool as it sounds?”
“Waaay cooler.”
“Sure!”
And my work here is done.
I pop my head back into my office and crook my finger at Rosaleen. She looks up at her aunt, who nods permission, and Rosaleen steps out to join me in front of Mrs. Higgens’s desk.
“Mrs. Higgens, this is Rosaleen. Can you mind her for a bit while her aunt and I head to the courthouse?”
Rosaleen looks down shyly, and Mrs. Higgens pulls up a chair beside her. “Of course. I have a granddaughter about your age, Rosaleen. I keep coloring books right here for when she visits. Do you like to color?”