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I winced. That explained the bruises and burns.
“I’ve got to call community services—”
“I’ll tell them I fell down the stairs.” Miguel shook his head, emphatic.
“Miguel, you can’t be serious. You want to stay with your dad?”
“No, I just don’t want to go to no foster home. Louisa and me will get split up and I ain’t having that.”
“You were going to leave last night, Miguel,” I reminded him. “You would have been split up anyway.”
“I was going to take her,” he said. “I wouldn’t ever leave her behind.”
Great. Kidnapping on top of grand theft. “I can arrest him, bring him—”
“Yeah, right,” he scoffed. “How long this time? Overnight? A week? Last time you did that he came out more pissed off than ever, and me and Louisa had to stay with Patricia.”
“But, Miguel, he hit you.”
“You think this is the first time?”
“Why haven’t your teachers reported this?” I asked.
“I skip if it’s bad. But it’s not usually bad.”
“It’s my job to report this, Miguel.”
“You do what you gotta do, but no social worker is taking me nowhere.”
Rock. Hard place. The kid didn’t trust the system and frankly, I didn’t blame him. Bonne Terre, much less the parish, had no place for a kid like Miguel. It was the streets, holding cell four, or DOC over in Calcasieu Parish. Bonne Terre didn’t have a whole lot of crime, but what we did have was largely juvenile-perpetrated and we just weren’t equipped to help.
Punish, yes. Help, no.
And this was one of those situations that defined the differences between me and my father. These circumstances dictated that I help this kid.
“We need to get you to the doctor,” I said, deciding to put off the question of community services until I had a better answer.
“Am I going to jail?” he asked, and for the first time, something scared colored his voice.
Not if I can help it.
“Well, it’s not up to me. It’s up to the guy whose car you tried to steal.” He sniffed, the big man, as if it didn’t matter, as if jail would be no problem. And maybe, when push came to shove, it was better than home.
But, man, I wanted to give him another option. He was bright. Smart. Compassionate. He loved his sister, laid down his body for her.
The boy deserved a choice. A chance.
A safe home.
You’re soft, my father’s voice whispered. You’re way too soft. This was how you felt about Tyler and look how that ended up.
The door to the holding cells opened and Owens walked in, his tall frame casting a long shadow down the hallway. “Got a name on that Porsche,” he said, coming to stop in the open door of cell four.
“Yeah?” I asked, my stomach tight. If I could just convince the owner not to press charges, to give the kid a pass, then I’d think of something. A way to give the kid a real opportunity, maybe get him out of that house.
But it all depended on the owner of that Porsche.
“You’re not going to believe it.”
“Who does the Porsche belong to, Owens?”
“Tyler O’Neill.”
4
I took Miguel to the clinic before heading out to Tyler’s. I bypassed urgent care altogether and headed straight to the new family doctor.
Dr. Greg Roberts was a good guy. He’d keep his mouth shut, unlike the nurses in the urgent care who lived for cases like this. Bonne Terre was a small town and the most exciting thing the clinic had seen in the past month was when Mrs. Paterson had gotten a little overzealous with her weed whacker and had taken a chunk out of her husband’s ankle.
The gossips had turned it into a domestic abuse case before Mr. Paterson’s bandages were on.
“Boy said he fell down the stairs,” Dr. Roberts said, his voice indicating he didn’t believe it for a moment.
“That’s what he told me, too.” I looked him right in the face and lied, knowing that if I told Dr. Roberts, he’d have no choice but to call in the social workers. Hell, I was supposed to be calling them in myself.
“Chief Tremblant,” he whispered, and I knew he was on to me. “What are you doing with this kid?”
His brown eyes were soft and sympathetic and for a moment I was tempted to tell him the jam I was in. We were friends. Sort of. And Greg was smart. Maybe he had an idea, something. Because right now, I had zip.
But Miguel, nearly passed out in the chair outside Greg’s office, shifted and moaned slightly in his doze and I shook my head.
“My job,” I told Greg. “I’m doing my job.”
“He’s what, sixteen? The boy should be in foster care.”
“You want to call Office of Community Services? Do it.”
“I don’t want to fight with you,” he said. He stepped closer, the warmth from his body making me slightly claustrophobic. He was a young guy, and occasionally I got the vibe that he was interested. Why I couldn’t relax and just go with it was a mystery. “If this kid needs help, I’m on your side.”
