Overruled (21 page)

Jake Becker loves his career as a hard, powerful defense attorney in DC. So there’s no way a twenty-six-year-old raising her six nieces and nephews would capture his heart

. . . right?

Don’t miss the next installment in
New York Times
bestselling author Emma Chase’s Legal Briefs series

SUSTAINED

Coming Summer 2015 from Gallery Books!

W
ednesday is a slow day. I lean back in my desk chair and look out the window at the sunny street below. A frustrated dog walker struggles with three four-legged clients as they tangle their leashes, fighting for the lead. A double-decker tourist bus rumbles past, leaving a cloud of black exhaust in its wake. A jogging father pushes an orange-colored running stroller, nearly taking out one of the yapping dogs, turning onto the grass at the last second.

Maybe it’s the baby in the stroller, maybe it’s the long-haired, ruglike dogs—maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t gotten any in two weeks—but the enticing image of Chelsea McQuaid slides into my mind.

Again.

It’s the sole image I’ve conjured every single time I’ve jerked off, which has been pathetically often.

Those crystal blue eyes, her quick-smiling pink lips, her long, elegant neck that begged to be licked, her lithe limbs that I just bet are oh so flexible, and most important, her firm, perfectly sized tits. I mentally kick myself for not getting her number.

She’s too old—and too hot—to be a virgin at twenty-six, but there was something about her that seemed . . . pure. Untouched. Undiscovered. And that’s a particular course I sure as hell would love to chart.

I rub my eyes. I need to get laid. This “getting to know a woman first” shit is turning out to be a bigger hassle than I ever anticipated. Is the risk of contracting an STD really such a big deal?

And then I remember how it felt waiting for those test results. The sharp, cold terror of being saddled with a disease—possibly for life. Or, even scarier, with one that could cut my life short. Hell, yes—it’s a big deal.

No fuck, no matter how spectacular, is worth dying for.

That should be the tag line in every high school safe-sex campaign.

My secretary, Mrs. Higgens—a great lady who looks like everybody’s grandma—opens my office door. “Miss Chelsea McQuaid is here to see you, Jake. And she’s got a whole brood of little ones with her.”

My smile is wide and slow and completely gratified. I don’t believe in signs—but if I did, this would be big, flashing neon.

I straighten my tie. “Show them in, Mrs. Higgens.”

She nods, and a few moments later, Chelsea and her fidgeting, noisy gaggle of nieces and nephews come into my office. She’s wearing casual “mommy-wear,” but on that body, it screams Sexy. A dark green sweater that highlights the red in her auburn hair. Snug blue jeans tucked into high brown boots that accent those endless legs—and the tight swell of her ass. That’s a pleasant surprise—I didn’t notice her ass the first time we met, but it’s fucking gorgeous.

She adjusts her grip on the baby carrier and her smile is strained. “Hello, Mr. Becker.”

I stand up behind my desk. “Chelsea, it’s good to see you again. What brings you . . .”

My eyes flick quickly to each of the faces that crowds my office, then to the empty doorway, as I realize someone is missing.

“Where’s Rory?”

Chelsea sighs. Before she can speak, the grouchy girl—the fourteen-year-old, Riley—answers for her. “The idiot got arrested. He stole a car.”

“A
car
?”

In a week, the little shit went from mugging to grand theft auto. That sure escalated quickly.

The small towheaded one, Rosaline, continues. “And then he crashed it.”

The two-year-old supplies sound effects. “
Brooocshhh
.”

The smart one, Raymond, adds, “And not just any car—a Ferrari
458 Italia Limited Edition. The starting price is around nine hundred thousand dollars.”

I look to Chelsea, who nods. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the whole story. He’s in juvenile detention—serious trouble this time.”

This time
implies there’s been other times—my almost-robbery notwithstanding.
Jesus Christ, kid.

Chelsea explains in a strained voice, “My brother has dozens of attorneys in his contact list, but none of them are defense attorneys. I had your card . . . and you seem like a good lawyer.”

Out of curiosity, I ask, “What makes you think I’m good?”

She raises her chin and meets my eyes. “You look like a man who knows how to win a fight. That’s what I need—what Rory needs.”

I take a few moments to think—to plan.

Chelsea must interpret my silence as rejection, because her voice turns almost pleading. “I don’t know what your typical retainer is, but I have money if—”

My lifted finger stops her. “I don’t think that’s going to be necessary. Wait here.” Then I point to Raymond. “Come with me.” And to the oldest girl. “You too, Smiley.”

As they follow me out the door, the brooding teen corrects me. “My name is Riley.”

“I know. But I’m going to call you Smiley.”

“Why?” she asks, like it’s the stupidest, most vile thing she’s ever heard.

I smirk. “Because you’re not.”

Let the eye rolling commence.

I lead them into the office next door. Sofia Santos’s dark head is bent over her desk, her perfectly manicured hands scribbling rapid notes on a document. She looks up as we enter.

“Hey, Sofia.” I hook my thumb toward the sullen girl behind me. “This is Smiley McQuaid—her aunt is a new client and we have to head downtown for a few hours. Is it okay if she hangs with you?”

Stanton’s daughter, Presley, is almost twelve. I figure if anyone is adept at dealing with a preteen female, it’s Sofia.

“Sure. I’ll be here all afternoon.”

Riley moves to my side. “My name is
Riley
.”

Sofia smiles. “Hi, Riley.” Then she points to a chair in the corner, next to a wall outlet. “The phone charger’s over there.”

Riley almost cracks a grin.
Almost.
“Swag.”

I turn to Sofia’s office companion, who’s staring at images on his laptop. And I hope to God it’s not porn. “Brent, this is Raymond. Raymond, Brent. Can you keep him out of trouble for a few hours?”

Brent nods. Then, with the excitement of a boy allowed to watch his first R-rated horror movie, he asks Raymond, “You want to see pictures of blood splatter?”

The boy steps forward. “Is it as cool as it sounds?”

“Waaay cooler.”

“Sure!”

And my work here is done.

I pop my head back in my office and crook my finger at Rosaline. She looks up at her aunt, who nods her permission, and Rosaline steps out to join me in front of Mrs. Higgens’s desk.

“Mrs. Higgens, this is Rosaline. Can you mind her for a bit while her aunt and I head to the courthouse?”

Rosaline looks down shyly, and Mrs. Higgens pulls up a chair beside her. “Of course. I have a granddaughter about your age, Rosaline. I keep coloring books here for when she visits. Do you like to color?”

Rosaline nods eagerly, climbing into the chair.

“And what’s your favorite color?”

She doesn’t even think about it. “Rainbow.”

Mrs. Higgens pulls out said coloring books and crayons. “Wonderful choice, dearie.”

I stride back into my office, where Chelsea and the two youngest rug rats await. I point at them. “You both look like the real troublemakers in the group, so you’re coming with us.”

“Hi!” the two-year-old replies with a deceptively sweet smile.

I just shake my head. “Oh no, you’re not roping me into that again.”

I take the baby carrier from Chelsea’s hands—and almost drop the thing. “Wow,” I say, glancing down. “You’re heavier than you look.” He gurgles back with a drool.

I turn to Chelsea. “You grab Thing One. Let’s go.”

Her voice stops me. It’s a whisper, quiet and inquisitive.

“Jake?”

It’s the first time she’s said my name. One small syllable that makes my gut tighten. That makes me want to hear her say it again—in a moan, a gasp. A pleasure-spiked scream.

“Can I ask you something before we go?”

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. “Sure.”

“If it’s not the money . . . why are you helping us?”

It’s an interesting question. Noble isn’t my style. I’m the more of an “every man for himself” kind of guy. So why the hell
am
I helping them?

Because I want in her pants, of course. Doing Chelsea a favor is the most direct route to doing her. Really not that complicated.

But I can’t say that.

So I shrug. “I’m a sucker for a lost cause.”

And because I just can’t hold back any longer, I reach out and gently stroke the ivory skin of her cheek. It’s softer than I ever could’ve imagined.

“And for a pretty face.”

WE WALK OUT
to the parking garage, and as Chelsea buckles the kids into their seats, I check out her truck. Her gigantically large dark blue truck. She notices and remarks, “It’s my brother’s truck.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Your brother—the environmental lobbyist—drove a gas-guzzling Yukon XL?”

She climbs up into the driver’s seat. “He had six kids. A bicycle wasn’t gonna cut it.”

I give her directions to the Moultrie Courthouse, where she was notified by phone that Rory was taken after his arrest this morning. I don’t have a lot of experience in family court, but I’m familiar enough with the process to fill her in.

“Rory will be assigned a probation officer who’ll review the charges, his history, and make a recommendation to the OAG. The probation officer decides whether he’s released to you today, or has to remain at the Youth Services Center until trial. They’re also the ones I’ll talk plea deal with.”

The good news is, I know one of the officers at Moultrie intimately. We used to bang frequently—and thoroughly—right up until she got engaged. Our parting terms were friendly.

A soft V forms on Chelsea’s forehead. “The OAG?”

“Office of Attorney General. That’s who’ll prosecute his case, but don’t worry—it’s not going that far.”

Juvenile cases are different from adult ones. The system still has hope for delinquents—it’s all about rehabilitation and redemption. Saving them before they’ve gone too far down that dark, wrong road to nowhere. In criminal courts, the main question is,
did
you do it? In family court, it’s all about
why
you did it. An orphaned nine-year-old dealing with his parents’ death by stealing a car will garner a shitload more leniency than an eighteen-year-old boosting a joy ride.

The Moultrie Courthouse is a concrete, intimidating building with a cavernous maze of hallways. After passing through security, we’re ushered into a waiting room with a dozen nondescript tables and chairs scattered around and vending machines along one wall. A few other visitors occupy the room, heads huddled, speaking in hushed, confidential whispers.

Chelsea and I sit at an empty table. I put the infant carrier with its sleeping cargo on the table, and the blond, baby-haired Reggie squirms on her lap. A guard opens a door across the room and walks in beside Rory. He’s still wearing his school uniform: tan slacks, white button-down, navy blazer.

His young lips are set in a hard frown, his dark blue eyes so full of resentment you can practically hear the “screw-you” thoughts. This is not the face of a sad, lost little soul who knows he messed up—it’s the face of an angry cherub, desperately trying to look badass, who’d rather go down in flames than admit he was wrong.

For a second, I reconsider helping him—a few days in juvenile detention could be just what the doctor ordered.

But then Chelsea wraps her arm around him and kisses his forehead, murmuring professions of love, relief, and threats, all at the same time. “Thank God you’re okay. Everything’s going to be all right, Rory, don’t be scared. What the
hell
were you thinking? A car? You’re never leaving your room again. Ever!”

I lean back in my chair, just watching.

He brushes her off with a rough shrug. “Get off. I’m fine. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” She grimaces, and I see a flash of hurt feelings too. “You could’ve killed yourself—or someone else.”

“Well I didn’t, okay? So stop freaking out.”

I’ve seen enough.

“Chelsea, go get Reggie a soda or juice.” I pull a few bills from my wallet and hand them to her. She hesitates. I tilt my head toward Rory. “Give us a minute.”

Still looking unsure, she sets the two-year-old on her feet and leads her away.

Once we’re alone, Rory sits down. “What are you doing here?”

“Your aunt wanted a good lawyer. Lucky for you, I’m the best—and I happened to have the afternoon free.”

“Whatever.”

I pin him with an assessing stare. “You’re in deep shit, kid.”

So sure he knows everything, he scoffs, “I’m nine. What’s the worst they can do to me?”

“Keep you here for the next nine years. At least,” I tell him simply.

For the first time since he walked into the room, his confidence wavers. His cheeks bloom nervous pink and his voice rises half an octave as he says, “It’s not so bad here.”

It’s a tiny crack in the facade—but still a crack.

I don’t waste time telling him he’s full of shit. I lean forward and explain. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m going to call your aunt back over, and you’re going to apologize for the way you spoke to her.”

He wasn’t expecting that. He squints. “Why?”

“Because she doesn’t deserve it.”

He lowers his eyes, almost ashamed. Maybe there’s hope for the punk yet.

“Then you’re going to sit there,” I point at him, “and let her hug you and kiss you all she wants.”

His chin rises, not yet ready to give up the fight. “And what if I don’t?”

I look him right in the eyes. “Then I’ll let you rot in here.”

And I will.

He doesn’t look happy; doesn’t like being backed into a corner. He wants to come out swinging—to do the opposite of what I’m ordering, simply because it’s an order.

I know what he’s feeling. I know this kid through and through.

Once upon a time, I
was
this kid.

He needs an out—a way to give up the battle without feeling like he’s lost the war. So I give him one.

“You don’t need to show me how tough you are, Rory—I can see it. I was a lot like you when I was your age—a tough, pissed-off little asshole. The difference is, I was smart enough not to shit on the people who cared about me.” I raise my eyebrows. “Are you?”