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“Do you think that lawyer of his can pull it off?” she asks, pressing the question.
Immediately, I tense.
My father has had the same lawyer for as long as I can remember. He’s a grease stain of a human named Wilford Carmichael. I’ve despised the man since I was a teenager.
Why a good Christian pastor needed a slimy defense attorney was beyond me. What did my father have to defend?
Obviously, now it makes a lot more sense.
But with the news of these charges, it’s obvious Carmichael has about as much skill in a courtroom as he does merit as a human being.
Which is to say none at all.
“You know what I’m thinking, right?” Jules asks.
I let out a groan of frustration. “That he’s going to ask me to help him get a lesser charge.”
“I’m amazed he hasn’t already,” she replies.
At this point, I’m sure my father wishes that it was his good son, Adam—you know, before their big falling out last year—who was the skilled defense attorney and not me.
The last person in our family, aside from Isaac, who would be expected to defend my father’s good nature, would be me.
We don’t exactly get along, and we honestly never have.
I have never looked up to Truett Goode the way my older brother did. I just didn’t see the appeal. He never came across as impressive or powerful to me. He’s always just seemed like a selfish old man who loved power, attention, and fandom. The man who taught us not to worship false idols and yet proceeded to parade around as if he were one.
“So what are you going to say if he does?” she continues.
“Fuck, I don’t know, Jules. Am I really the best man for the job?”
This makes her laugh as she leaves my office with her eyebrows raised and her head shaking.
“Not even close.”
Six
Briar
21 years old
Sean’s arm is slung over my shoulder as he walks me to my next class. He doesn’t have a ten a.m. course, but he insists on walking me around campus as if I’m not safe here by myself.
“What are we doing tonight?” I ask, glancing up at him. Secretly I hope he has something planned for just us. A movie, a date, or even just being alone at his apartment. But lately, getting my boyfriend to even express interest in me feels like pulling teeth.
I throw out the line, and he never takes the bait.
“I’m going out with the guys. There’s a fight on tonight. I told you that, babe.”
I nod. “Sorry, I forgot.”
He chuckles and playfully tugs on my hair. “My little dumb blonde. Always forgetting.”
Forcing a laugh in return, I shake it off.
I can be such a ditz sometimes.
When we reach my building, I stop at the door, but he insists on walking me all the way in. After I open it, I feel him following me. My art history class is in the big lecture hall, and there are plenty of open seats, so I don’t have to rush in. Technically, I’m not eveninthis class. I’m the TA, so I don’t need to find a good seat.
