“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 fa?ade—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 boy’s ass in a sling.”
“Fuck that,” I growl. “Besides, a public servant has no business owning a car like that.”
I don’t know if it’s because I have a hard-on for his aunt or because he reminds me so much of myself, but if anyone wants a piece of that kid they’ll have to come through me first.
“Okay,” Lisa says. “Then what are you offering?”
“Court-mandated therapy, once a week. Monthly progress reports.”
“Twice a week,” she counters. “And I want to pick the therapist. No feel-good quacks permitted.”
“Done.”
Lisa’s gaze travels over me, head to crotch. “I’m surprised by you, Jake. I don’t remember you being so . . . soft.”
I move forward, bracing my hands on the arms of her chair—caging her in. “?‘Soft’ isn’t in my vocabulary—I’m still as hard as they come.” I smirk. “And after.”