“Can I ask you something before we go?”
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. “Sure.”
“If it’s not the money . . . why are you helping us?”
It’s an interesting question. Noble isn’t my style. I’m the 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.
But I can’t say that.
So I shrug. “I’m a sucker for a lost cause.”
And because I just can’t hold back any longer, I reach out 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 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. “He had six kids. A bicycle wasn’t gonna cut it.”
I give her directions to the Moultrie Courthouse, where she was notified by phone that 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, 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.