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“We have to be there at eight-thirty, so I’ll just take you to school afterward.”
Great. Damn great. Judge Simms first thing in the morning.
“Can we get breakfast before we go?”
“You bet.”
“At McDonald’s?”
“Of course.”
That was something, then. “Thanks, Mom.”
She kissed him one more time, right next to his mouth. A longer kiss. And he knew everything would be okay. Somehow.
He wanted to kiss her back, to wrap his arms around her neck and hold on, but he’d quit doing that ages ago. He wasn’t a little kid anymore.
And if he moved his shoulders that much, she’d for sure figure out he was hurting….
She looked him in the eye once more before she left. She had to be the most beautiful mom in the world. He was lucky.
Everything was going to be great soon.
With him and Mom, it always was.
Eventually.
He tried to sleep after she left, but he was afraid. After last night he wasn’t closing his eyes until he saw the outside light go out. The one that meant his mom was done working. While he waited, he thought about basketball. The team. Their chances of making it all the way. Coach.
And that was when he started to cry.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE FOLDS of her black robe swirling around her ankles, Valerie stepped through the private back door into her courtroom and up to the bench on Tuesday morning. One quick glance showed her that Abraham and Carla Billings, a C.P.S. worker, Diane Moore, Abraham’s probation officer, and his court-appointed attorney were all in place, standing as she entered.
She waited, but the boy refused to look up at her.
“You may be seated.” She opened the boy’s file. And thought about Blake and Brian on their way to school that morning, talking quietly about their friend. Wondering if he’d be at practice. If he’d be able to play in the upcoming tournament game.
And, characteristically, they were as concerned about whether or not Abraham was all right as they were about their current favorite sport.
It wasn’t like him to miss practice without an excuse, they said. And they’d started to weave a fantastic story around the boy. With their scanty knowledge, spurred on by the fact that he’d never come to their home or invited them to his—and mixing in a bit of twelve-year-old-boy darkness—they’d invented a scenario horrific enough to shut them both up.
The truth was worse.
Valerie forced back another twinge of guilt as she thought about her duplicity in using Kirk Chandler as an unsuspecting source of information.
“Judge, we’re going to Abraham Billings. This is #JV324555.”
Valerie only half heard the bailiff. She glanced up a couple of times. The boy, dressed in clean jeans and button-down shirt, was staring at the table in front of him, rubbing the edge with his right thumb. With his tanned skin and perfect features he seemed more suited to a movie set than her courtroom. Carla, circumspectly dressed in expensive-looking navy slacks and an off-white ribbed sweater, was watching her son.
She loves him.
Valerie didn’t want to know that. Not right then.
She read aloud from the document in front of her and then asked, “Have all parties received and reviewed the report?”
The reply was affirmative.
