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Finally, a gruff voice answers.
“Hello?”
“Judge Hollowell? Please, don’t hang up.”
27
There’s a beat of silence, but I don’t wait for it to stretch out. He probably doesn’t know who this is, didn’t recognize the number—and maybe that’s a good thing. It’ll give me more time before he decides to hang up.
“Judge Hollowell, I really, really need your help. I know it’s Christmas, and I know you said you couldn’t get involved, but my mom needs help.”
Those words seem to click it into place for him. When he speaks again, there’s recognition in his tone. “I can’t do anything for you, Ms. Thomas. I’m sorry. And as you said, it’s Christmas. I’m trying to enjoy a relaxing day at home, and I don’t have time to—”
“Just a few minutes. Please!”
I hear him take a deep breath, as if summoning patience. I rush on, anxious to get everything out before he speaks again.
“That thing you said about Scott Parsons? It’s totally true. My mom said he keeps changing his strategy, keeps promising her he knows what he’s doing, but he doesn’t even seem like he knows all the facts of her case. Please, you’re the only person I know in Fox Hill who understands law—the only person I could think of to call. Can you please help? Even just a little, to go over the case and see what her lawyer is missing, what he’s not doing.”
Judge Hollowell grunts softly, an annoyed sound. “Jesus. That man should be disbarred.”
“Yes! He should!” I blurt, my voice too loud in the small confines of the car. “But he hasn’t been. Instead, he’s representing my mom on a murder charge. He holds her whole life in his hands, and I just want to—to—”
The things that are about to come out of my mouth are not as polite and dignified as I’m trying to make myself seem, so I clamp my lips shut. When I’m a little more under control, I start again.
“Please, Mr. Hollowell. It’s not like I think you and my mom were in love or anything, but you knew her. You talked with her. You have to believe she’s not a murderer. And even if you don’t believe that, doesn’t she deserve a fair chance to prove herself? I know she didn’t do it.”
There’s another long silence, and my body tenses, my muscles straining as if I can physically force him to agree. I can feel him wavering, can tell he wants to help—if for no other reason than that he severely dislikes Scott Parsons.
Hey, if that’s what gets him on my side, I’ll take it.
But then he makes a noise with his tongue. “I’m sorry… Harlow, right? I’m very sorry. I can’t get involved. I truly hope your mom is able to secure better representation. And for the record, I don’t believe she’s a murderer.”
The call disconnects, and I drop my forehead to the steering wheel.
Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.
He was so fucking close. I could hear it in his voice. He wants to help—whether because he really does like my mom or because he just hates to see someone get screwed over by Scott Parsons, I don’t know, and I don’t really care. He wants to help. And Mom needs help right now like I needed chemo—it could save her life.
When I needed treatment for my cancer, my mother moved heaven and earth to give it to me. She went into massive, catastrophic debt to give it to me. The same debt that’s made it impossible for her to hire better counsel now.
My jaw sets resolutely as I lift my head, and I look back at my phone, searching for an address before typing out a quick text to River.
ME: I’m guessing Linc told you. It wasn’t his dad. I just left the prison. My mom’s a fucking mess. I’m gonna try one more time to get Judge Hollowell to help. I’ll be back later.
I’m not really in a hurry to go back to River’s house anyway. This has to be the most awkward day of the year to be an unwanted houseguest—so I’m all for anything that keeps me away a little longer.
I flick on the windshield wipers and pull out of the parking lot, driving slow
ly on the snow-covered streets as I follow the GPS’s bland voice commands that take me toward Judge Hollowell’s house. He said he was at home, and if I don’t try one last time to convince him, I won’t be able to live with myself. He’s teetering on the brink, and since he’s not even the judge on Mom’s case, it’s not like I’m asking him to break the law.
And in person, he won’t be able to hang up on me.
It takes me almost twice as long to get to his house as the map app predicts, because I drive like a grandma on the snowy roads. His place is nice, not quite as ostentatious as the Black family mansion and more modern than the Bettencourt house.
Sliding out of the car, I tromp toward his door, shaking the dusty snow off my shoes as I go. I didn’t own a lot of winter wear when I got here, and I haven’t gotten a good pair of boots yet.
My heart starts hammering hard in my chest as I ring his doorbell, but fuck it, I’m already here. The worst he can do is call the cops on me, and I highly doubt he will.
