CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
SEAN
The courthouse was buzzing with activity.
All the commotion was irritating Matteo and I wanted to yell at everyone to fuck off because I was feeling protective of him.
He hadn’t slept all night, and the weariness was plain on his face.
Every time someone walked by the corner we’d chosen to wait in, he stiffened as if he expected it to be his parents.
The past few weeks leading up to the day of the hearing had been rough.
Matteo was constantly anxious and jumpy.
We’d spent our nights in my bed as we usually did but he wasn’t in the mood to fool around.
Mostly we talked about our trauma, and it seemed to help him knowing someone had gone through what he had.
The only bright spot had been last weekend when we’d tag-teamed handing out food and clothes to the immigrants.
I wanted to see that smile on his face again and the light in his eyes as he chatted lightly in Spanish with the kids while passing out treat bags.
I hated to say it, but I was looking forward to seeing who these people were that had hurt him so profoundly. I couldn't understand how someone could be so cold and cruel to their son. If I were a father, I’d love the fuck out of my kid.
A man dressed in a suit walked by, his shoes clopping on the polished linoleum. Matteo released a heavy breath and sought my protection, which naturally made me feel like the strongest man in the world.
“I need you to know that no matter what happens today, you still got me, okay?” I said, massaging his neck.
He nodded. “Thanks.”
No light tease or snappy comeback. It was breaking my heart to see him like this.
Long minutes passed and I did my best to keep him calm. I wanted to drag him away from this place and shield him from all the miseries of the world. But the sooner he got through this, the better.
A man wearing a slim black suit like it had been invented solely for him, approached. He set his dark eyes on Matteo, and I was tempted to jump in front of him. I seriously needed to chill the fuck out. I was here for support, not to be his knight in shining armor.
“Are you ready to do this?” he asked Matteo.
“No, not really,” he said and passed me a look. “Sean, this is my lawyer, Leander Salvatore.”
I accepted the man’s strong handshake with a frown. “Why does your name ring a bell?”
“Probably because he is the best lawyer in the country, as he never forgets to remind me,” Matteo said with a little bite.
The lawyer ran a palm down his suit jacket. “I’m well known in many circles, Mr. McCarthy.”
I snapped my fingers. “You didn’t by chance handle a case for my friend, Danny Becker, did you?”
His brows shot up. “Small world.”
“He complained that you keep referring to him as a mister.” I nudged Matteo. “You’re in good hands. He got Danny a huge settlement from the company that employed the cucks that bashed him.”
“Really?”
“That’s not important right now. Do you remember everything we talked about the other day, Mr. Fernandez?” He asked like a concerned parent.
“Let you do all the talking,” he said on a heavy breath. “And don’t let my emotions get the best of me.”
“Good. The judge is ready to see us.” He squeezed Matteo’s shoulder. “They aren’t allowed to speak directly to you. You don’t have to even look at them. This is almost over, okay?”
The lawyer’s sudden gentle tone surprised me and his devotion to his client made him a-okay in my book.
“And you,” he said to me, his stare turning hard and cold again. “You are here as a courtesy, understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, offering Matteo a wink in an effort to smooth his nerves.
He gave me a half smile and adjusted a button on my dress shirt. I hated the formal wear. “You brute. Can’t even put the button in the right hole.”
His words were a bit sharp, but I didn’t take it personally. He was terrified. I took his shaky hand in mine and kissed his knuckles. “You got this.”
“Are we ready?” The lawyer prompted.
The walk to the room seemed longer than it was, all the clap of shoes and hum of voices grating on my ears.
I could feel the negative energy rolling off Matteo and I wished there were more I could do.
Mr. Salvatore touched him again and passed him a reassuring nod before opening the door to a space that resembled a conference room as opposed to a courtroom.
But as Matteo had explained, this was a mediation for the judge to decide if Matteo's parents even had a case, and whether or not it met the criteria to go to a jury trial.
Five people, two men and three women turned their attention to us as we took our seats on the opposite side of the long table.
The judge was an older woman, her gray hair gathered into a tight bun with studious glasses framing her face.
I assumed the elderly man digging through a briefcase was the Fernandezes’ lawyer.
Matteo proceeded to stare at the polished surface of the table while I glared at his parents across from me who refused to meet my eyes. I was curious about what they thought of me. Perhaps they assumed I was Mr. Salvatore’s assistant.
Matteo’s father had that air of superiority most rich motherfuckers did and was the spitting image of his son, so much so that I thought I was looking at Matteo thirty years down the line.
His mother clung to her husband's side, hunched over, her expression blank. They were both very-well dressed and it was because of Gabriel’s love of labels that I recognized all the designer clothing and accessories. A draft of chilly air hit me.
The hearing got started with the judge and two lawyers going over technical stuff and spitting out fancy terms that went over my head. I touched Matteo’s thigh under the table to remind him he wasn’t in this alone. He passed me a weak smile and proceeded to stare at the table.
As the Fernandezes’ lawyer pleaded their case, Matteo took my hand, his skin cold. His breath shuddered out of him as his ‘troubled’ history was laid bare.
He was accused of being a difficult teen because he’d skipped out on Bible study several times and was found at a friend's house. The fact that they had to hire psychologists to ‘correct his behavior’ was levied against him as a serious offense. They stated that his attitude had become atrocious so they’d sent him to a boot camp to which a statement from a counselor was submitted as evidence of his refusal to comply with the program.
As the lawyer depicted Matteo as an out of control teenager, I balled my fist. I didn’t know every detail of his life and was aware there were deeper hurts he hadn’t yet shared, but it was clear they were desperate if the worst thing they could come up with was playing hooky from Bible study.
There was some more bullshit nit-picky things like the ear piercing he’d given himself with a sewing needle at fifteen.
How the lawyer could frame such a thing as mutilation was both infuriating and baffling.
Matteo was right. They wanted to destroy him on the account he was gay. It was enough to drive me to assault. His hand was clammy in mine, and I gave it a good squeeze to remind him I had his back.
The lawyer saved the best for last and painted Matteo as a promiscuous teen because he’d been discovered in his room with another boy, tangled in a compromising position. This whole thing was so stupid and vindictive it made my own parents look like saints.
The Fernandezes’ lawyer finally rested and Mr. Salvatore, who had been silent and still the entire time, perked up.
“Thank you, counselor, for that colorful embellishment of my client’s history.
I imagine, your honor, if the worst thing our kids do is pierce their own ears, we should count ourselves lucky. ”
I passed a look at the judge, noting the tick at her lips. She was amused but was determined to remain professional.
Matteo relaxed as his lawyer jumped right in.
He attacked the credibility of the boot camp counselor with documentation showing he was an uncredited chaplain with no psychological training nor experience in working with children.
He moved on to the boot camp itself, highlighting the fact that the organization running it was found liable for abuse of minors.
“Let’s call it what it really is. A cleverly disguised attempt to pray the gay away. ”
“Objection. Unfounded allegations.”
“Really?” Mr. Salvatore asked, holding up a stack of papers. “You’re going to argue against state records?”
They went back and forth for a few minutes until the judge dismissed the Fernandezes’ lawyer’s argument.
“My client has always been a model student.
He has shown excellence not only in academics, to which he graduated in the top ten percent of his class, despite allegedly suffering from mental illnesses.
Freshman year of high school, he won an award for an essay submission to a religious magazine about what God means to him.
My favorite part of that one-thousand-word work is this: To me, God is everywhere.
He is in the summer sunshine and the silver moonlight.
The wind is him at my back, spring birdsong is his voice.
He is the sound of my piano as his hands guide my own.
Wherever I look he surrounds me with his glory, and I am reminded of the beauty of this world, so amazingly created it makes me cry.
It’s quite inspiring. I’m wondering what part of his work might be Mr. or Mrs. Fernandez’s favorite?”
As the silence stretched and the lawyer’s question remained unanswered, it told everyone in the room what they needed to know: They didn’t give a shit about the unique person he was. I wondered if they truly didn’t know or just didn’t care.