Chapter 10 Warren
TEN
Warren
"Marcus has made mistakes, Your Honor. Serious ones. But what I'm asking the court to see today is the difference between a criminal and a kid who's lost his way. He's been bounced around. He just needs to get back on track."
I adjust my stance, feeling the familiar pull in my lower back from hours of preparation. The courtroom's fluorescent lights cast sickly shadows across the scuffed wood of the defense table, where Marcus hunches, eyes fixed on his hands.
"We've tried that before, Counselor."
"What this young man needs, Your Honor, isn't isolation. Its structure. Connection. The very things missing from his life since his mother's death three years ago."
The prosecutor, Sandra Whitfield, doesn't even bother hiding her eyeroll. I've faced her enough times to know she's already mentally filing this case away as a win.
"My client has agreed to twice-weekly meetings with a court-appointed mentor. He's arranged community service at the same youth center where he once vandalized property, turning destruction into restitution. Most importantly, he's accepted accountability."
Marcus lifts his head slightly. In his face, I catch a flicker of something rare. I see hope.
"The state would have you believe Marcus Jones is a repeat problem," I continue, voice steady despite the anger coiling in my chest. "I'm asking you to see him as a fifteen-year-old boy with humor, intelligence, and potential who simply has no safety net.
No stable family to catch him when he falls. "
Judge Harrington's expression doesn't change. I've been in his courtroom enough to read the slight furrow between his brows. He's unconvinced.
"The law provides options for rehabilitation outside the juvenile detention system, Your Honor. I'm asking the court to exercise that discretion today."
I finish, return to my seat. Marcus whispers, "Did I do okay?"
"You did great, kid. Now we hope the judge will give us mercy."
It doesn't take long. Judge Harrington clears his throat, shuffles papers, and cites three statutes I know by heart.
"While I appreciate counsel's impassioned argument, the court finds the defendant's prior record and the serious nature of these offenses require stronger intervention than what's been tried and what is being proposed in this court this afternoon."
My stomach drops.
"Marcus Jones is hereby remanded to the Palm Beach Juvenile Detention Center for a period not to exceed eighteen months."
The gavel falls. Beside me, Marcus doesn't react. He sits, perfectly still, as if he'd expected this all along. The bailiff approaches with shackles that look too large for Marcus's skinny wrists.
"I'm sorry," I murmur, the words pathetically inadequate.
Marcus shrugs. "Not your fault, Mr. Carter. Thanks for all you did to try to help me."
But it is. I should have found a better argument. Pushed harder. Something.
I force my face into professional composure as they lead him away, nodding encouragement I have to pull from somewhere unknown. Only when the door closes behind him do my hands curl into fists so tight my knuckles blanch.
I grab my briefcase and stride out of the courtroom, past the murmuring bailiffs and clerks who know better than to offer sympathy.
When I push through the heavy doors, the late-day sun hits me square in the eyes—hot, unrelenting, like it’s taking sides.
The sting makes me squint and pisses me off even more.
“Fuck this day,” I mutter, loosening my tie as I head for Sullivan’s.
The bar's dim lighting swallows me as I push through the heavy wooden door. Familiar scents of whiskey, grease, and decades of spilled beer offer a strange comfort.
Two regulars hunch over their glasses at the far end, and Lou from the DA's office sits alone in a corner booth, his case files spread around him like fallen soldiers.
I drop onto a stool at the bar, my shoulders finally releasing their professional posture.
Vince, the bartender, slides a tumbler of amber liquid in front of me before I can speak.
"Tough one?"
I exhale deeply, picking up the glass and watching the whiskey catch what little light filters through the grimy windows.
"Another kid lost to the system. I argued my heart out, didn't matter."
The whiskey burns perfectly down my throat. Vince wipes an already clean section of bar, giving me space to breathe.
"Harrington?"
"Who else? The man thinks probation is what you get when you cure cancer."
Vince nods, pouring himself a short one. It's his ritual when a regular comes in wearing defeat.
"You care. Most don't. That's the difference."
I shake my head, bitterness rising like bile.
“Caring doesn’t help the kid who’s been handed a life in this shitty system because he didn’t have a dad and his mom died when he was a minor.”
The kid who will be surrounded by predators worse than the ones he already knows. The kid whose mother died three years ago, leaving him with a grandmother too sick to keep up. The kid who just needed one goddamn adult to show up for him.
The silence stretches between us. I take another sip, but the whiskey isn’t numbing anything fast enough.
“I’ve been making the same mistake for years,” I admit, my voice lower now, almost to myself. “Standing on the sidelines. Waiting too long to step in. Letting other people decide who gets protected and who doesn’t.”
Marcus. My family, broken as they were.
Janie.
The silence stretches. I take another sip, but the whiskey isn’t numbing anything fast enough.
Vince tops off my drink without pushing the conversation. That's why I come here. No questions, just quiet company in the shadows.
As I reach for my wallet to pay, a newspaper headline on the counter catches my eye. The Palm Beach Journal's business section features a family photo at some charity gala.
CARTER INDUSTRIES ANNOUNCES MAJOR DOWNTOWN REVITALIZATION DONATION
My father stares back at me from the glossy newsprint, his smile triumphant beside my brother Charlie.
I stare at the newspaper photo, my father's silver hair perfectly swept back as always, his tailored suit announcing success without having to say a word. Charlie stands beside him, hand resting casually on our father's shoulder - the prodigal son returned to grace. My stomach knots.
The headline beneath the photo catches my eye.
CHARLES CARTER III BATTLING PANCREATIC CANCER
My lungs forget how to work. I flatten the paper against the sticky bar counter, fingers suddenly clumsy as I scan the article.
Palm Beach business titan Charles Carter III revealed yesterday his ongoing battle with stage three pancreatic cancer. The announcement came during the dedication ceremony for Carter Pavilion, the new $12 million pledge to revitalize downtown.
"The Carter family remains committed to giving back to the community that has supported us for generations," Charles Carter stated. "This investment into our beloved town represents our dedication to Palm Beach's future."
My eyes skip down paragraphs of flowery praise about my father's "generous philanthropy" and "business acumen." Words like "pillar of the community" and "respected leader" jump out at me.
The Carter name has weathered its share of controversy.
In 2005, Charles Carter IV, then heir to the family empire, was involved in a tragic accident that claimed the life of college student Melissa Thornton when his vehicle veered off Ocean Boulevard into the Intracoastal Waterway.
Carter served four years of a seven-year sentence.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack. Accident. They still call it an accident.
Charles Carter III stood firmly by his eldest son throughout the ordeal, refusing to let one tragic night define the Carter legacy. "Family stands together," became his oft-repeated mantra during that difficult time.
A harsh laugh escapes my throat.
Today, Charles Carter IV serves as Executive Vice President of Carter Enterprises' hospitality division, overseeing their luxury hotel properties.
Not a single word about me. The son who watched was punched by his drunk brother when he tried to take his keys. The son who testified to what really happened.
The son who was cut off, disowned, erased. How is that for family standing together?
My existence, my truth, doesn't fit their narrative.
I fold the paper with trembling hands, crumpling it slightly. My throat burns with what might be anger or grief. Maybe both.
Whether I like it or not, he's still my father. The man who taught me to fish off our dock when I was six. The man who exiled me for refusing to lie.
And now he's dying.
I toss a twenty on the bar. "Thanks, Vince."
"You good to drive?"
"Yeah. I'm good."
The night air hits my face as I step outside, heavy with the promise of rain. My phone rumbles in my hand before I reach the truck. Caleb Vance’s name flashes on the screen.
“Carter,” I answer.
"Warren. I'm glad I caught you," his voice is all business. “I never got your answer about Friday. You’ll be at the CHG Foundation Gala Friday, yes?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’ve got a full docket this week. I’m not sure parading around in a penguin suit and drinking top-shelf liquor is the best use of my time.”
“I'm sorry if I wasn't clear. It’s not optional,” Caleb cuts in. “This is our first major fundraiser. We need to show Palm Beach that CHG isn’t just about concierge care. The community outreach initiative is brand-new, and donors are skeptical. They’ll write checks if they see every board member unified behind it. ”
I grind my molars. “You’ve got everyone else going. Does it really matter if I'm not there?”
“Yes, it really matters. Janie Harrelson will be presenting her plans. The board needs to be standing behind her, literally and figuratively.”
I bite back the instinct to argue. “Fine. I’ll be there.”
I straighten my bow tie for the third time, squinting at my reflection in the ballroom's ornate mirror. The man staring back looks polished, professional, a perfect mask hiding the storm inside.