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“Ready,” Quinn said.
Andrea went through the door first and called out, “All rise,” and Quinn spared a moment to wonder who they’d been talking about. Somebody in her court, which told a story all by itself. She could wonder why smart women could be so stupid about men, but she’d given up trying to figure that out a long time ago. She walked to the bench, sat down in her high-backed chair, settled her black robe around her, adjusted the microphone, and got ready to begin. Traffic court. That would make an easy morning, unlike this afternoon, when she had preliminary hearings covering just about every disgusting felony under the sun. Being a judge wasn’t always good for your faith in humanity.
The bailiff prepared to call the first case, and she looked up. And got distracted for a moment.
Well, yeah. There, in the second row. Surfer-dude looks, check. Slightly weathered face, almost-shaggy sun-streaked hair, casual, confident demeanor, and a whole lot of long, lean muscle. And, she happened to know, an accent that was more of a knowing drawl. English, she thought, but not the upper-crust kind. Wherever that accent was from, it must be the hot-guy place.
He was with his kids again.Thatwas weird. She tore her gaze away and focused on the seventeen-year-old kid who was standing before her now, pleading Not Guilty to a charge of speeding in a school zone and excessive noise, explaining that his tires had been low, which was why they’d squealed, and he hadn’t meant to accelerate that much. Quinn said, “You peeled out hard and fast from a stop sign. In a school zone. Not too many ways to slice that. You’re impulsive enough to do something like that, and you’re seventeen. How much more impulsive is a seven-year-old going to be when she sees her mom across the street? Do you want to find out how it feels to hit a little kid?”
The boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “No, ma’am.”
“Keep that image in mind,” she said. “It’ll help. Bad things don’t just happen to other people. Guilty. Fine is eighty dollars plus court costs. Next case.”
Surfer dude was the eighth case. When the bailiff called his name and he walked forward, all confident, loose-limbed grace in dark jeans and a buttoned white shirt, she read the charge and took his plea. Guilty, so why hadn’t he just paid the fine and avoided this? Maybe he didn’t know he could.
But—thecharge.She looked at him in astonishment. “Mr. Hughes. You tried to outrun a train?”
“I did.” There was that accent again. He wasn’t flushed, and he wasn’t rattled. Casual still.
She folded her hands on the bench and leaned forward a little. “This was on August twenty-fifth. In other words, the first day of school. Ten minutes after I saw you at the lake.”
“Yes,” he said.
“I’m guessing,” she said, “that you had your kids in the car. That you were taking them to school while you disregarded the warning signals of an approachingfreight train.”
“Yes,” he said again. “Not my finest moment.”
“Itoldhim.” That was the girl, who was probably eleven or twelve and had the kind of flaxen curls and blue eyes you usually saw on Christmas angels.
Quinn leveled her gaze on her. “Hello again. What’s your name?”
The girldidflush, but she said, stoutly enough, “Janey Hughes. I’m his kid.”
“Well, Janey,” Quinn said, “much as I agree with your assessment, I’m on record here. That means the court reporter is typing everything we say, and it means nobody talks except the defendant—your dad—and me. Do you understand that?”
“Yes,” Janey said, then burst out, “But heiscareful about us being safe. It was just because we were late, because of Bacon.”
Beckett said, “The dog.” Looking resigned.
“Yes. Well—” Quinn began.
“And anyway,” Janey rushed on, “Dad’s not really used to doing things like the first day of school yet. He only started after our mum died. He didn’t even fix my brother’s hair until I told him. That was the first thing that made us late. He was startingkindergarten.”
“I’m very sorry about your mom,” Quinn said, “but you need to stop talking now, because you’re in court.”
The little boy, who was as blond as the rest of them and maybe five, looked apprehensive, the same way he had with the crows. He stage-whispered to his sister, “Shhh. We could go tojail.Plus, shedoeslook like a witch. She might be one.”
Janey said, “She’s not a witch! There are no witches. She’s wearing a big black dress, that’s all.”
The defendant—Beckett Hughes—said, “Quiet. The judge told you. We’re in court.”
“Oh, OK,” Janey said. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”
Quinn said, “Nobody’s going to jail. I just need to talk on the record to your dad.” She ignored the part about the witch—she’d been called worse—and turned her attention back to Mr. Hughes. Beckett Hughes. He even had a surfer-dude name.“You brought your kids to court today. Why?”
“Teacher work day. No school. I reckoned it’d do them good to see the consequences of my actions. Life lesson.”
“Where are you from, Mr. Hughes?”
