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.
“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 says. 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’s extenuating circumstances.”