“Rory will be assigned a probation officer who’ll review the charges, 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 officers at Moultrie intimately. We used to bang frequently—and thoroughly—right up until she got engaged. Our parting terms were friendly.
A soft V forms on Chelsea’s forehead. “The OAG?”
“Office of Attorney General. That’s who’ll prosecute his case, but don’t worry—it’s not going that far.”
Juvenile cases are 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’ death by stealing a car will garner a shitload more leniency than an eighteen-year-old boosting a joy ride.
The Moultrie Courthouse is a concrete, intimidating 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, confidential 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 Reggie squirms on her lap. A guard opens a door across the room and walks in beside Rory. He’s still wearing his school uniform: tan slacks, white button-down, 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, lost 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, murmuring professions of love, relief, and threats, all at the same time. “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 Reggie a soda or juice.” I pull a few 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 facade—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. He squints. “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 yet 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.
Once upon a time, I was this kid.
He needs an out—a way to give up the battle without feeling like he’s lost the war. So I give him one.