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“Also heard you married Whitley.”
“I was always going to marry Whitley,” I grind out.
“Yes, so I heard, and that has been a problem for Kalvin. He was in love with that girl.”
“He wasn’t in love with her; he wanted something he knew was mine.”
“John Paul, that’s an arrogant way of thinking.”
I un-ball my fists and flex them a bit before leaning back in the leather chair. “My first day at Walton, your son who was years ahead of me, shoved me in a locker.”
“Oh, Jesus, that was years ago.”
“He continued bullying me that entire year and didn’t stop until I hit a growth sport over the summer, and then I took his place on the varsity team.”
“It was never his intention to become a sports celebrity,” he says with a fucking condescending smile trying to diminish my accomplishment.
“It’s called a professional athlete,” I say, trying to remain calm, but this motherfucker is pushing every button he can.
“Right.” He sits back and steeples his fingers. “He was always better at golf. Could have been a professional athlete in that sport.”
“Golf a sport?” I shrug. “I consider it part of my training regimen during the offseason. Might take it up professionally when I’m an older man.”
He glares at me. I glare back.
“You know, I came here with some expectations that are not being met. Maybe an apology to my wife and a promise to put your son on a leash. I planned to offer to write you a check for his rear window and expected you to be a man and refuse it since his actions had caused my reaction.”
“My son is his own man.”
“A man?” I laugh. “A man doesn’t tear a phone away from a woman and step on her hand and injure her when it drops on the ground because he sent messages to her phone when he was coked up. A man doesn’t donate money to a women’s shelter and ensure certain people in his organization are employed so he can use it as a place to exchange drugs for money and has the board, which is in his pocket and on the take, force the woman who had helped build that place and volunteered at it to resign.”
“From what I understand, that’s all fabricated.”
“It’s all caught on surveillance cameras. Just like the murder of your son’s right-hand man, Kris Krone, by the man who delivers his drugs, Spud?—”
“His sister, Alice?—”
“Is innocent. She was shot too. But something you might want to know. Right in front of me and Officer Marks, your son tried to get her to take the fall for that.”
“What do you want?”
“Your son in prison and you to stop bullshitting the public that you have their best interest at heart.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “You do know that’s not going to happen.”
“I can assure you, one day, it will. Until then, you can pull the funding for the shelter your son exchanged a victim whereabouts to her abusers in order to manipulate him.”
“I’m sure my money will be appreciated elsewhere. I assure you, my son did not have anything to do with what went down last night. He’s a defense attorney and represented those men. That’s the only connection.”
He’s clearly not caving. I need to bring this back to where I’m getting answers I need, that Whit needs.
“You expect others to believe that, but I’m not eating the shit you’re shoveling. You might even be able to stomach it yourself because it’s easier than figuring out how the hell you can be his father and not see who he truly is. As a father myself, I will not watch my kid go down the wrong path and not jack her up and put her back on the right one.”
He says nothing, doesn’t even react.
He fucking knows.
I push forward.
