Sustained (26 page)

We leave Cousin It at Chelsea’s house, where Chelsea changes into a demure short-sleeved yellow dress with matching high heels. I follow the crowd at Mass, the kneeling and standing, but mostly I just watch her. The way her lips touch her hands when her head is bowed in prayer, the serene expression on her face as the priest gives his final blessing.

We stand outside my car in the parking lot of the church. “I don’t know what to do with myself.” Chelsea laughs humorlessly. “All these months there never seemed to be enough time, and now that there is . . . I don’t want it.” She glances my way. “You have that thing you do on Sunday afternoons, right?”

She’s noticed I disappear every Sunday—but she’s never asked me about it. I wonder if she was waiting for me to tell her about it myself.

“Yeah, I do.”

She nods and just as she starts to look resigned to a lonely afternoon, I say, “You want to come with me?”

Her head whips back to me. “Only . . . only if you want me to.”

“There’s someone I want you to meet.”

•  •  •

I hold Chelsea’s hand as we walk down the halls of the Brookside Retirement Home. Marietta is just exiting the Judge’s room when we get to his door.

“Hey, Jake.” She greets me with a wide smile.

“Hi, Marietta. How’s he doing today?”

“Oh, honey, he’s having a really good day.”

I blow out a relieved fucking breath. The last thing I wanted was to make Chelsea more depressed than she’s been—and the Judge on a bad day is not a happy sight.

I nod past her and walk into the room with Chelsea just behind me.

He’s reading in his leather chair by the window, dressed in a dark blue sweater and tan slacks, those ugly brown loafers on his feet.

“Hey, old man.”

His face is alight, his eyes confident and wonderfully aware. “Jake!” He closes his book and rises, wrapping me in a strong-armed hug. “It’s good to see you, son. How are you?”

“I’m doing good, Judge.”

His eyes fall to Chelsea and he throws me a wrinkled smirk. “I can see why.” He offers her his hand. “Hello, my dear, I’m Atticus Faulkner.”

Chelsea shakes his hand with a huge smile. “I’m Chelsea McQuaid . . . it’s wonderful to meet you. Jake’s told me all about you.”

“Salacious lies, I’m sure.” He winks. “Sit down, sit down. Let me get you some tea, Marietta just brought me a pot.”

Once we’re seated, with our cups in front of us, the Judge tells Chelsea, “You are beautiful, my dear.”

And cue the blush. “Thank you.”

“Now, I must apologize in advance, Chelsea, if I say or do anything that makes you uncomfortable. I . . . forget things . . . very quickly and often lately.”

Chelsea smiles—and she’s more lovely than any of the saints on her church’s stained glass windows. “Don’t worry. If you forget, we’ll be here to help you remember.”

And for the fucking life of me, I don’t know how she’s gotten by without filing a shitload of restraining orders, or without gifts and cards and flowers clogging up her mailbox every day. Because as I watch her with the Judge, I don’t know how anyone could know her and not ridiculously, pitifully love her.

•  •  •

Later that night, Chelsea and I are back at her house . . . soaking together in the oversized bathtub off of her bedroom. She sits in front of me, her back against my chest, her hair pinned up, a few damp strands hanging down, tickling my face. She’s been quiet for a while now—only the sounds of the water rippling against the side of the tub disturb the silence.

“What if we lose tomorrow?”

My lips linger on her shoulder. “We won’t.”

“But what if we do? Will they”—her voice cracks—“will they let me see them? Have visitation?”

She turns around to face me and I choose my words carefully. “I know people . . . who can find out where the kids are. And I know other people who make IDs—passports and stuff. Good ones.” I trace my finger along her jaw. “So . . . if we lose, I’ll call those people. You’ll take out any money you can . . . and you’ll just go.”

“Like . . . to Mexico?”

I chuckle. “No. The glowing-white McQuaid skin would burn to a crisp under the Mexican sun. Maybe . . . Canada? I wonder if Regan would pick up French faster.”

Chelsea stares at me, and her eyes seem a shade darker. Deeper. “You would do that for us?”

My fingers splay across her soft cheek. “I can’t think of anything I
wouldn’t
do for you.”

And that fact scares the ever-loving shit out of me.

The water tips over the edge of the tub as she rises up on her knees, straddling my hips. We kiss for minutes that feel like hours. Her hand dips below the water, stroking me even though I’m already hard and hot in her palm. And when she lines us up, sinks down, it’s slow and gentle. My arms wrap around her, pulling her closer,
closer
, and I kiss her breasts, toying with her nipples with my tongue. Her hips rise and fall; I move within her at a steady, unhurried pace.

And when she spasms around me with a tender whimper, when I
pulse deep inside her with a rough groan, it feels like more. Like everything. Like nothing I’ve ever had before and something I can’t fathom reaching with anyone else.

Chelsea’s head still rests on my shoulder long after the water turns cold. Eventually, we climb out of the tub, dry each other off, and fall asleep in her bed wrapped around each other.

T
en a.m. the next morning, Chelsea and I walk into courtroom 7-A in the Family Court of the District of Columbia. We take our place at our designated table; Stanton, Sofia, and Brent sit in the front row behind us. Chelsea is nervous but composed. And me? I’m ready and I’m hungry for a win. It’s the feeling I always get. No nerves—just eagerness.

The attorney representing the Children and Family Services Agency takes her own place at the table across the main aisle to my left, smoothing down the skirt of her conservative, well-tailored black suit. She’s a redhead in her forties who looks almost as confident as I feel.

The bailiff announces that court is in session and we all rise as the judge—a gray-haired, spectacle-wearing woman who, if the lace around her collar is any indication, is a fan of Ruth Bader Ginsburg—enters the room. She goes through the formalities—who’s representing who—then she asks me to begin.

“I call the director of CFSA, Dexter Smeed, Your Honor.”

Dexter Smeed looks exactly like you’d picture someone named Dexter Smeed to look. Round glasses; thinning hair; pressed, starched white button-down shirt; brown tweed jacket; and light green bowtie. He’s sworn in and takes a seat in the witness box.

“Mr. Smeed, have you ever seen Chelsea McQuaid before today?”

“No.”

“Ever met her, visited her home?”

“No.”

“Sent her an email?”

Smeed clears his throat. “No.”

I nod, taking it in. “Have you ever interviewed any of the McQuaid children?”

“No.”

I step out from behind the table and lean back against it. “And yet you felt qualified to override the recommendation of the social worker on the case, Janet Morrison—who has seen, visited, and interviewed Miss McQuaid and the children—to order the removal of custody?”

“I did, yes.”

“And how did you make that determination, Mr. Smeed?”

“I periodically review the files of all the case workers in my agency. The file contained all the information I needed. It’s my job to be critical. To determine who is a fit guardian”—his eyes scan to Chelsea and pause meaningfully—“and who is not.”

Toast. This fucker is toast—the burned kind that not even the dog will touch.

I move to the right, blocking Chelsea from his view. “Your wife is a lucky woman.” I shake my head. “You have got some set of balls—”

“Your Honor!” The agency attorney jumps to her feet.

The judge lowers her chin, glaring down. “That comment will cost you five hundred dollars, Mr. Becker. You will maintain proper decorum in my courtroom or your client will be looking for new representation. There won’t be another warning—do I make myself clear?”

Most judges are really low on sense of humor.

“Crystal clear. My apologies.”

Then I set my sights back on Mr. Smeed. “Let’s come back to that
later. At the moment, can you tell me if the name Carrie Morgan is familiar to you?”

He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “No.”

I pick up a file from the table and glance at its contents. “Three years ago, Carrie, age seven, was taken into the custody of Children and Family Services after her mother was convicted on federal drug charges. She was placed with a foster family, under the supervision of your agency. Six months later, she was dead, from blunt-force trauma to the head. The autopsy found signs consistent with abuse.” I pin him with a stare, my eyes as cold as my voice. “Ring any bells?”

“I’m not familiar with the particulars of that case, no.”

“Hmm. Okay.” I grab another file from the table. “How about Michael Tillings, age fourteen? Are you familiar with his case?”

Smeed shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Yes, I am.”

“Good. Please tell the court, Mr. Smeed, what happened to Michael Tillings.”

“He passed away.”

He’s hedging, digging his heels into the dirt as he’s propelled closer to a cliff he doesn’t want anywhere near. And I’m just the guy to push him over.

“Passed away? That’s a very delicate way of putting it. He was murdered, isn’t that correct? While in a group home, run by CFSA—he was beaten by several other boys at the facility?”

Begrudgingly, he answers. “Yes, we suspect it was gang related.”

“Gang related or not—the boy died. While in your agency’s custody.”

Smeed nods, his eyes flat. “That’s correct.”

I pick up a third file. “Matilda Weiss, age four.”

The opposing attorney pops up like a rodent in Whac-a-Mole. “What does this have to do with Chelsea McQuaid’s competency as a guardian?”

“I’m getting there, Your Honor.”

“Get there quickly, Mr. Becker,” she replies.

“Tell me about the Weiss case, Mr. Smeed—your signature is on her file.”

He rubs his hands on his pants, sniffs, and then answers. “There was an allegation of child abuse against the Weiss family.”

“And you investigated? Visited the home, conducted interviews?”

“Yes.”

“What were your findings?”

He pauses, like he really doesn’t want to answer. But he really doesn’t have a choice.

“I determined there was not sufficient evidence of abuse to warrant action.”

My fingers tingle with unspent energy. “So you closed the case file?”

“Yes.”

“And two months later, what happened?”

“A neighbor found Matilda . . . digging through the garbage. Looking for food.”

“Because her parents were starving her,” I state, my stomach churning.

“Yes.”

“Abusing her—even though you had determined that no such abuse was taking place?”

For the first time he looks me in the eyes, his expression not just strained but guilty. Haunted by the ghosts of lost children and faceless names. “What exactly is your point, Mr. Becker?”

I walk closer. “You said it’s your job to be critical—to determine who is a fit guardian and who is not. So, my point,
Dexter
, is sometimes you and your agency just flat out get it wrong.”

I let the words hang.

Walking back to the table, I add, “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“No, I would not.”

“Oh, no?” I lift a box from the floor and place it on the table. “I have a box full of tragic examples that say otherwise. We can do this all day long.”

He stutters. “Every . . . each case is different. Just because . . . circumstances may have been overlooked in one instance doesn’t mean there will be errors in the next one.” He takes a breath, composing himself. “You speak of those children, Mr. Becker, rattle off their names and ages—because they’re just names to you. To me . . . they matter.”

He couldn’t be more fucking wrong. They’re not just names—they’re faces. Riley’s, Rory’s, Rosaleen’s—I saw them all, in every page of those god-awful reports.

“I will do everything in my power not to fail another child under our care.” Smeed taps his finger on the ledge of the witness box. “Which is precisely why the McQuaid children should remain in our custody. The red flags—”

I slap my hand on the table. “Red flags—I’m so glad you brought that up. Let’s talk about them.” My movements are swift and sure as I stalk back and forth in front of him. “You said in your report it was the combination of events that pushed you to remove the McQuaid children from Chelsea’s care?”

“That’s right.”

“One of those events was Riley McQuaid being detained at a party where alcohol was present.”

“Yes.” He answers and starts to lecture, “Underage drinking is a sign of lack of parental supervision.”

I lift my eyebrows. “Are you aware that fifty-one percent of teenagers experiment with alcohol before their fifteenth birthday?”

“I can’t say if that’s true or not, I don’t know the exact statistic.”

Again I’m moving forward, closer to him. “But if it was true—fifty-one percent, that would be . . . average, wouldn’t it?”

“That doesn’t make it permissible—”

“No, Dexter, it doesn’t. It just makes it
normal
.”

I flip the page of the file with a snap and trail my finger down the center. “Your next issue? Rory breaking his arm?”

“That’s right. Grave injuries, fractures, are always cause for concern.”

“Even though over seven million people broke a bone in the US last year?” I inform him. “Even though the average adult will have sustained two bone fractures within their lifetime? Rory is a healthy, active nine-year-old, so again, by these statistics it’d be more surprising if he hadn’t broken his arm at some point.”

He sighs. And rubs his eyes. Because I’m wearing him down. Stressing him out.

Good.

“What else caught your attention on the red-flag parade?” I ask.

“Rory McQuaid’s arrest, as well as the physical altercation between one of the other minors and a classmate at school.”

“The other minor’s name is Raymond. And again, a schoolyard quarrel really isn’t atypical for a boy his age.”