43. Chapter 43
forty-three
Boston
Not that I have much experience, but I expected criminal court to be… I don’t know, cooler, maybe?
This place is a circus. So many people in the stands, the jury box filled with men and women all wearing prison scrubs—the men in gray, the women in navy blue—a few law enforcement officers and even more people donning fancy suits.
Turns out when the court sets a trial for nine, the judge still has to work through a full morning calendar first, which, today, consists of arraignment after arraignment.
At first it’s mildly interesting, but after about forty minutes of this, the charges all start to blur together. Felony drug possession, battery, grand theft, whatever.
Every single defendant pleads not guilty and the matters are pushed through like they’re processing these things on a conveyor belt. Suits leave as their clients are led out of the courtroom. New suits arrive.
It’s all shockingly… boring.
Finally, the courtroom is cleared out save for a heavyset middle-aged woman with a short bob graying at the roots. She looks decidedly dispirited in her brown wool pencil skirt, the button on her blazer barely hanging on as the fabric stretches across her chest.
She stands at the large oak desk farthest from the jury box.
I’ve seen enough courtroom shows growing up—my mom’s fave—to know that she must be the defense attorney and therefore my mom’s lawyer.
Judging by her disgruntled demeanor, she’s a public defender rather than some high-priced criminal defense lawyer.
Not that my mom could afford one on her own, but I thought maybe Eddie had some ties somewhere, some legal eagle standing by to bail him or one of his henchmen out if they were in trouble.
But either my mom isn’t worth it to him or he really is as much of a dirty rat as he seems.
I remain seated in my spot near the back, inconspicuous, not drawing attention. Just in case Eddie or one of his roider assholes show up. It’s not that I’m worried for my safety. It’s my family I worry about.
“Alright, Pete, why don’t you fetch the defendant,” the judge says, her reading glasses teetering on the tip of her nose as she stares at her computer screen. “Ms. Susan Irene Rawlings. Case Number FN072982.”
“You got it, Judge,” an older officer in full gear says. He, too, looks like he’d have no chance in hell catching any inmate who decided to try their luck and run. Plus, I wouldn’t be surprised if that duty belt added an extra thirty pounds to his already rotund frame.
He marches across the well, then disappears behind a door.
“Ms. Hughes, are we ready to proceed with the trial this morning?” the judge asks my mom’s attorney.
She nods. “Just as soon as Mr. Beckett makes it in, Your Honor.”
The judge looks down her bench to the clerk sitting at a desk to her left. “Janine, why don’t you call up to the seventh floor and see if Mr. Beckett is expected to arrive soon or if he’s tied up in another courtroom.”
The clerk nods, picks up the phone, then dials a number. “Hi, Corrine. Janine here, Judge McMahon’s clerk in courtroom sixteen—”
My attention is diverted by the side door swinging open. In walks my mom. No shackles, no cuffs, not even her navy scrubs. She’s dressed in black pants and a blazer that’s too large for her narrow frame. If I had to guess, I’d say the clothes were loaned, maybe donated. Definitely not hers.
As if she can sense me, she looks up and over. Her face immediately contorts with sorrow, despite the small smile she forces onto her lips.
I smile back at her, give her a you got this nod. She takes a seat next to her lawyer, craning her neck to get another look at me.
“Counsel got tied up in eleven but is on his way,” the clerk says.
I settle a little deeper into the bench. I took the day off work, so I’m in no rush. As long as I’m out of here by four to make it to the dinner shift at AJ’s, all is well.
But only a minute later, the courtroom door swings open and my throat goes dry.
Archer’s dad.
Holy fucking shit. They sent the district attorney? To prosecute my mom’s case?
Look, I’m not saying what she’s alleged to have done is akin to something as petty as shoplifting or speeding, but do drug and prostitution charges really require the head of the entire D.A.’s office?
In the past, I’d only ever seen Mr. Longfellow’s name attached to high-profile cases like when a whole sex trafficking ring got busted or they prosecuted that triple murder where a guy killed his wife and two children in their sleep because he wanted to start a new life with the twenty-two-year-old babysitter.
The guy even went so far as to off the family dog.
Clearly I’m not the only one surprised by Mr. Longfellow striding confidently to the prosecution desk.
“Mr. Longfellow,” the judge says, as he places his brown leather briefcase atop the table.
His pressed navy three-piece suit and shiny brown oxfords scream money.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of having you grace my courtroom this morning? Don’t tell me you’re handling this matter,” she adds like even the idea of Mr. Longfellow handling a case as insignificant as my mom’s is absurd.
Mr. Longfellow chuckles, low and practiced. “As a matter of fact, I am. My apologies for my tardiness, Your Honor. Judge Wiseburn’s calendar ran over.”
The judge nods. “Not a problem. Is the state ready to proceed?”
“Your Honor, if I may have a brief moment to confer with Ms. Hughes?”
“Sure, do you want to meet in my chambers or—”
“Not necessary, Your Honor,” he cuts in.
Seems rude to interrupt a judge, but okay.
He cuts across the aisle, then begins talking with my mom’s lawyer.
His voice is too low for me to overhear, so I study my mom instead. Her expression goes from intimidated and regretful to incredulous—then grateful. Even her lawyer smiles.
“Your Honor.” Mr. Longfellow retakes his position behind his desk.
He’s not particularly tall—maybe 5’10”— but he carries himself with the kind of confidence that makes him seem bigger than he is.
“At this time, the people are prepared to dismiss the prostitution charge and offer the defendant the opportunity to complete a twenty-four-month diversion program. Ninety days of that at an in-patient facility, and the remaining twenty-one months will be outpatient. Upon successful completion of the program, all pending charges will be fully dismissed.”
For a moment, I’m convinced I misheard—that the blood rushing in my ears distorted the sound.
“That’s quite generous,” the judge says.
“Seeing as this is the defendant’s first encounter with the law and her record is otherwise clean,” Mr. Longfellow says, “the people feel as though she’s a good candidate for rehabilitation.”
The judge turns her attention to my mom. “You understand what is being offered to you?”
My eyes are pinned to the back of my mom’s head as she nods. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“You will be remanded to an in-patient drug rehabilitation center and will remain there for a period of no less than ninety days, following which you will continue outpatient treatment. Dismissal of all pending criminal charges will be dependent upon the successful completion of the entire twenty-four-month-program. Failure to complete the program or a violation of the terms and conditions of the diversion program, including renewed arrests, will result in the termination of the program and the people will proceed with the trial. It is imperative that you understand that, Ms. Rawlings.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” my mom repeats, voice thin. She sounds younger than she is, almost like a little girl. “May I ask a question, Your Honor?”
The judge nods
“Will I be able to have my children back?”
My heart lurches into my throat. Truth is, I no longer trust my mom with Cassie and Bronx’s wellbeing. Not after she exposed them to so much trauma. Not after she chose drugs and her boyfriend over her own offspring. Repeatedly.
“That’s a matter for a family court to decide and not within my purview. At least while you’re in-patient, I don’t foresee a court returning your children to you. Not until you can adequately show rehabilitation. But again, not my call.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” my mom says for a third time.
The judge and the attorneys go back and forth for another minute, ironing out the details.
“Ms. Rawlings, until a bed opens up you’ll remain in custody, but hopefully not for too long before you’re moved.”
The bailiff moves to escort my mom out. She looks back over her shoulder at me, giving me a tired smile. I return it with a pathetic thumbs-up.
“I love you, Boss,” she mouths, then disappears through the door.
By the time I step into the hallway, it’s nearly deserted.
I make it maybe thirty feet before a gruff voice jerks me to a halt.
“Mr. Rawlings, may I have a word!”
It sounds decidedly more like a tell than an ask.
I turn to see Mr. Longfellow striding toward me, leather briefcase clutched in his hand.
I’m surprised he knows who I am and that I was in the courtroom. I didn’t see him so much as glance in my direction, and we met exactly once for ten seconds.
“I hope you’re pleased with the outcome of today’s proceedings,” he says in a tone that, though it’s light, still causes the hairs on my neck to stand.
“Your mother faced quite a bit of prison time given the rather extensive drug and prostitution charges the District Attorney’s office lodged against her following the raid earlier this year. ”
I nod. “Yeah, I… it’s very kind of you to offer her to enroll in a program. I think she—”
“Kindness has absolutely nothing to do with it.” His brown eyes bore into mine, face hardening. “However, it has everything to do with you.”
My brow creases.
“And my family,” he continues, voice low. “More specifically with my son, Archer. And his girlfriend. I think you know her—Skye Monroe?”
I don’t say anything. I don’t need to.
“I don’t know what it is exactly that’s going on between you or why she harbors such fondness for you, but she advocated very passionately for your mother.”
My heart stumbles.
“You should know something about me, Mr. Rawlings: I will not tolerate anyone meddling with my family. And seeing as Skye is with my son, that includes her. So here’s what I’d urge you to pay close attention to: the dismissal of your mother’s significant criminal charges is dependent on her successful completion of the diversion program.
Even a small slip-up—say, another arrest or new criminal allegations—will result in a trial and likely conviction.
I presume that’s not something you’d want for your mother. ”
I shake my head once.
“That’s what I thought. I’m only going to say this once: you’d be wise to stay away from Skye. Far, far away. Don’t interfere with my family, Mr. Rawlings. That’s a fight you don’t want to pick.”
He pauses. Studies me. “Do we have an understanding?”
Fucking great, yet another rich asshole who thinks he can blackmail me into doing what he believes he’s entitled to.
A very real part of me wants to throat punch this fucker right here, right now.
The fuck is he to tell me who I can and cannot be with?
But it’s once again the thought of my siblings that keeps my mouth clamped shut.
They don’t need to grow up with the stigma of their mother being a convicted felon, don’t need to spend the next however many years visiting her in prison or not seeing her at all.
“Do we have an understanding, Mr. Rawlings?” Mr. Longfellow repeats, voice lower still.
I nod.
His face breaks into a smile, posture relaxing. “Good.”
He walks away without sparing me another glance.
I stand in the quiet hallway for a moment longer. Processing.
And it clicks.
That’s what Skye meant when she said that, today, I’d understand. Why she had to walk away from me.
Because she, too, made a deal with the devil.
For me.
Fuck.