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“Yes, Judge.”
I pick up my gavel and slam it down on the sound block, calling the session over. Grabbing the case file, I get up from my chair as Deputy Sanchez walks over to Kevin to escort him back to his cell.
I take a seat behind my desk once I’m in my office. Well, I guess it’s technically called my chambers, but I’ve never been one to follow proper protocol. Like the “Your Honor” shit people call most judges. It’s stupid as fuck and sounds high and mighty. Yes, I may be the one who decides a person’s future, but I’m no different than them. What right do I have to demand they call me something that suggests my status is above them? Pompous assholes. That’s what the government is.
I toss Kevin’s file on top of the only other file on my desk. It’s not often I have to hold court in Malus. Crime rarely happens here, and when it does, it’s petty shit like thievery or kids causing a ruckus or a dispute between neighbors. It’s the way I like it. It’s part of the reason why my brothers and I decided to rebuild Malus. To provide us and anyone who lives here a safe and comfortable place to live.
My phone dings on my desk, and I snatch it up. Excitement builds in my chest as I open the email I’ve been waiting a week to receive.
The package has been delivered. Below is the video confirmation.
No signature. Not that I need one. I know who it’s from and what I’m about to watch. I’ve got a collection of these videos I’ve been gathering the last few years. This one will be added to the same external disk drive as the others. After I watch it, of course.
I grab the bottle of bourbon and glass from my desk drawer and pour a couple of inches. I click on the link in the email and wait for the video to pop up. Sitting back in my chair, I bring the glass to my lips as I wait for it to load.
A smile spreads across my face when the screen turns from black to the view of an office. There’s an older man sitting behind a desk, much smaller than the one I’m at now. It’s a side view of him looking at his computer monitor. I can’t see what’s on the screen, but I don’t need to. Even if I didn’t know what he was watching, I could tell by the horror etched on the man’s face that it’s not something appealing.
Sweat slides down his rapidly paling cheeks. What I wouldn’t give to have been in the room with him as this was taking place. I bet I would ha
ve heard his heart beating from several feet away.
A couple of minutes later, the man slams the lid closed on his laptop and bends over the trash can beside his desk, emptying the contents of his stomach. I laugh at the sight and sound of his retching, more than pleased at the results. Once he’s finished, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sags back in his chair. He looks like shit. Each video I get of him, he looks worse than the one before.
The screen turns black. All I needed was a video of his reaction while looking at the pictures I sent him. More will come later. Much more. Building anticipation is a wonderful thing, and I’m damn sure enjoying it.
I pull out the external hard drive, hook it up to my computer, and transfer the video file. Once I’m finished, I delete the email.
Finished for the day, I shut down my computer, grab my keys, wallet, and phone, and lock the door behind me as I leave.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Beverly,” I call to the receptionist as I pass by her desk.
“Have a good night!” she says back.
A few minutes later, a damn good smell greets me when I walk into the house. My keys and phone get dumped onto the counter as I come up behind Layla and lay a kiss on the back of her neck.
“Something smells delicious,” I rumble and take a step back.
She tosses me a smile over her shoulder before turning back to stir whatever she’s cooking in a pot.
“It’s a recipe Remi gave me. Homemade beef stew.”
I yank at my tie and pull it from around my neck. “How was your day?” I ask, starting on the buttons of my dress shirt.
She taps the wooden spoon on the side of the pot before setting it down on the stove. “It was good.” Going to the fridge, she pulls out a bottle of beer for me and a bottle of wine for herself. I take the bottle of wine from her. As I take care of the cork, she continues. “I had a talk with Katelyn’s parents. They’re going to reconsider letting Katelyn apply to Parsons.”
“That’s great. The girl’s damn good. I’m sure she’ll have no problem getting in.”
Katelyn Monroe is seventeen years old and is set to graduate next year. She’s brilliantly talented when it comes to art. She’s so good that several people in town already have her paintings hanging from their walls. Layla actually has some up in the living room. Layla feels Katelyn can hone her skills and become even better if she’s given the opportunity to attend an art school. The only problem is, the school Katelyn dreams of attending is in Europe. Parsons School for Design is one of the top art institutes in the world, but her parents are reluctant to let her go so far away. I can’t say I blame them. It’s hard to let a child go, especially halfway around the world, but if she were to get accepted, her future could be so much brighter.
“I think so, too. I just hope she’s given the opportunity.”
I pour Layla a glass of wine and hand it to her. Taking my bottle of beer, I pop off the top and take a long pull, regarding her around the glass.
“What’s wrong?” I ask when I notice her unfocused eyes on her wineglass.
Her smile is half-assed at best. “I’m just worried about Holly. You remember her, right?”
I nod. She’s the woman she’s been talking to for a couple years that she met in an online grievance forum.
