Page 102 of This Reckless Home

He indicates I go before him so he’s at my back — fucking hate having someone behind me — and directs me down the hall to a small room, again no fucking window. There’s a table bolted to the floor, two chairs either side of it and a fluorescent light. I’m told to sit in one of the chairs, the cuffs taken off, and the guard goes to wait by the door.

The room is cold, functional, and my stomach growls, reminding me I’ve not eaten since lunch yesterday because apparently we didn’t qualify for dinner last night even though they interrupted ours.

The door opens, a man in a suit with a briefcase walking in. His hair is dark and looks like it’s got too much product in, his nose is the ruddy red of someone who drinks too much and his suit strains over his pot belly. It’s hard not to roll my eyes, because whatever this douche has to say, I’m not interested in hearing it.

“Mr. Vaughn, I have here a plea deal.” He opens his briefcase as he sits, taking out a file. “It’ll give you a reduced charge, time served plus probation, no trial. Clean and quick, no fuss and we can all get on with our day if you just sign here on the dotted line.”

He sets the paper before me, also placing a biro next to it.

It feels like a deal with the devil, and his name is Wilson Devonshire.

I start to read the text on the page, ignoring the impatient huff from the lawyer who didn’t even fucking introduce himself.

The charge, even reduced, goes on record. A record means that the kinship application for Justin is finished. We’d never get custody of him, even if we are to stay with Blossom when we get out.

A guilty plea sticks, stains. And it’s a stain that isn’t even ours because we are innocent of any crime.

Not to mention our treatment during the arrest is not mentioned anywhere. The hit to my head that still throbs. The slurs whispered to Nox. And now they ask us not only admit to something we had no fucking part in, but to make peace with what was done to us by simply agreeing it happened and moving on. Clean and quick for them. Life-shattering for us.

No.

Fuck no.

“No.” The word slips from my mouth, firm and unwavering. Fuck them. Fuck their corrupt system that lets rich white men abuse the power they’ve stolen.

Sweat beads on his slimy fucking forehead. “You understand, Mr. Vaughn, what a trial means? The cost? The risk of being found guilty anyway?”

“I understand. My answer is still no.”

I hold his gaze, watch that sweat drip down his temple and wonder how much shit he’s gonna be in with Mr. Devonshire. I hope a whole fucking heap of it.

“Fine. On your head be it.” He snatches the pen and paper up, stuffing them in his briefcase as he makes his way to the door.

And I get put back in cuffs, shown back to a cell I didn’t earn, and wonder if I’ve made the right choice. Wonder if my brothers also said no.

Wonder if we’ll ever get the fuck out of here.

Ido finally get some food, a shitty sandwich and some water, but no painkillers for the head trauma. Unsurprising.

Once more my door opens, that same guard coming in.

“You have a visitor. Another lawyer.”

I stand, letting him cuff me and once again I’m taken to the cold interview room, only when he opens the door my knees tremble a little because sitting in two chairs with a third left empty are my brothers.

“Thank fuck,” Ant breathes, his gaze roaming over me, pausing at the swollen place where the baton hit me. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I say, the guard taking my cuffs off and showing me to the seat on the end. “You?”

“Yeah, though the bastards tried to get us to sign a plea deal. We refused.” Relief makes my tense muscles loosen a little.

“Same.”

Before we can say anything else, another guy in a suit walks in, younger than the last one, his dark skin a contrast against his crisp white shirt collar. His suit is sharp, fresh pressed and not rumpled — no sign of being a drunk like that old guy from before — his tie knotted with the kind of precision that says he means business and doesn’t miss details. I sit up straighter. “Afternoon gentlemen,” he greets, placing his briefcase on the table, looking each of us in the eye. “My name is Dwight Johnson and if you’ll have me, I’d like to be your defense attorney.”

“Who’s paying you?” Ant asks, arms crossed and a standoff vibe rolling off him in waves. Dwight gives an approving smile.

“No one. I often do pro bono cases, especially with the nature of this one.” He stops, looks at the guard. “Some privacy with my clients please.”