4. Washington
washington
. . .
Iusually left the cold drinks for the foster youth and probation kids.
I’d noted the favorite snacks of those needing the most attention.
Today, a cola had sat there, all cold and innocent.
The second I popped the tab, I got baptized in sticky liquid.
Now, I looked undone. Tacky. The way Madison’s parents always saw me.
“Why are you even mentioning them, Washington?” I muttered, undoing my blazer, then I stripped out of my button-up. While our son lay in a coma, they had planted ideas in Maddy’s head. You’d think his being so close to death might soften their hearts. Nah.
“Okayyy, now, Your Honor.” My assistant strolled into my office, bringing me out of my thoughts, lips tugged suggestively. “Need some wet wipes?”
I’d already set out another suit before Latrice entered. Both cost more than my first wheels and screamed Stanford Law. I rolled my eyes, then nodded since my abs felt like the last time my son said, Oops, and I didn’t want to put a clean shirt on over that mess.
Instead of handing me the baby wipes package, Latrice opened it, her eyes never leaving my chest. “Should’ve known you stashed an entire suit. So, prepared.”
“Yep,” I replied, taking the one square she offered. Woman, don’t be stingy! As I wiped my chest, I added, “I don’t like to be late to hearings.” With foster kids being coined throwaways, I always gave them my best.
But nothing said authority like scrubbing my chest with baby-powder scented wipes as my assistant watched.
“Here you go.” Latrice handed me another wipe, slower than the last. Woman didn’t blink once. She damn sure was running an HR incident through her mind. Reminded me of those old 1990s videos the government had us watch every year. Do you know what sexual harassment in the workplace looks like?
Yep. Latrice Bell.
Clean enough. I shoved into my shirt and had already cleared the doorway before I had on the other pinstriped jacket. There was no time to change pants, so the replacement dress shirt and blazer screamed confused jazz attorney. I tugged on the robe.
I rushed down the hall, my robe flapping. My chest still carried the faint scent of baby powder, and I turned left into a courtroom filled with the smell of wood polish and funky arguments. I glared at the clock. 9:07 a.m.
The bailiff gave me a sideways glance, then strolled toward the courtroom doors. “Rough morning?”
“Yep, gravity won the opening argument.”
He laughed and then opened the doors.
While I had more foster youth cases than juvenile probation cases, the first was a dual hearing.
Cason strolled in, a silent storm in dingy Jordans. I’d worked with the kid for years. He’d entered once, wearing all the latest. And his probation officer had already provided clothing images, exhibits A to Z, identical to the stolen merch.
Today he wore his hoodie half zipped, hood up while the clerk called the case.
“Good morning, Cason,” I said. “How’s the community service going?”
He swiveled in the chair, not even leaning forward to the mic. “You already know.”
Bruh, it’s too early for an attitude. “You’ll be eighteen soon. March 1st.” I had already rehearsed saying that date without requiring the soothing warmth of cognac. “Happy birthday, young man.”
“Mm-hmm …”
“You plan on staying in foster care until you’re twenty-one? Get those extra services?”
“For what? College?” He chuckled.
I sat forward. “Among other things. Housing. You wanted to be an engineer.” The youth looked shocked, appreciative that I remembered, not that I ever patted my own back.
“You slipping, Judge Babineaux. Used to be sharp. Tie straight. Showing up with them fancy cakes on my birthday.”
At the ripple of laughter, my glare pinned the bailiff. I shot a look that said, Try me. “Anything else you need to get off your chest, Cason? I’m sure this roast has a legal argument somewhere. Remove the hoodie. I’ll listen.”
“I got arguments.” The swiveling stopped. The damn kid reminded me of Madison at the NOPD. He sat forward. Shoved the hoodie off. “Where’s your wife? Maddy. With that sexy voice, thick hips. She used to bake my cakes.”
The courtroom fell silent. Instead of punching her time clock, though, the stenographer dictated this mess. Her creepy, long fingernails pounded the keys.
Cason shook his head. “Heard she brought cake for all the worst ones. She taught you not to be so judgy, huh? Now she upgraded? Too fine for you anyway.”
His lawyer groaned, “Cason.”
Though my personal life was off the table, I adjusted the sleeve of my robe instead of saying, Fix that tone before I fix it for you.
Right words? Yep. Wrong setting. Honestly?
I needed to let Cason go a little further.
See what was up with his attitude. Under no circumstances would I get roasted.
Even as a first-year law student, I’d have run circles around his ass.
“Cason, you’ve been moody for two years. ”
“Nah.”
“Three years, actually.” I agreed. Okay, we’re onto something. “I missed your fifteenth birthday and when you turned seventeen too?”
“I miss … that cake.” He rubbed his hands together. “How do I get a piece of them chocolate cakes?”
I was seconds away from jumping, hell, teleporting across the room, my good shoes landing on his ass.
“Wrong,” I snapped. “My switch up got you in your feelings. I had always delivered until that point.” The young man fought back moist eyes. “So, you took my absence personal.”
“I ain’t take nothing personal.”
“Your fifteenth birthday fell on a day I took off. I missed an entire week. It wasn’t a planned trip. Last year—”
“Now you wanna be honest?”
“I intended to be here those days, Cason.”
“Don’t matter, bruh.”
Anybody else calling me bruh in a judicial capacity? Absolutely not. But his face said I’ma do me even if nobody else cares. That type of mentality ruined lives. That’s why I allowed him to take it there.
Because he mattered. Not enough young Black men thought they mattered. They needed that one person to believe.
I’d prided myself on being that one.
“Cason, I should’ve asked why you switched it up back then. We’ve always been good. I let you down.”
“You didn’t.” Defiance flashed in his eyes, and he swiped his forearm over his face, mouth trembling.
“I was in a bad headspace.”
“Bruh, miss me with that!” he snapped. “My whole life is a bad headspace. Yours ain’t nothing but old episodes of Seinfeld and Friends.
Don’t know which one was worse. Then your woman left you, huh?
She got tired of running cocoa butter on your dome for hours every night?
Her new boo got an actual hairline, huh?
Gone bang that gavel like a drumline or be honest? ”
“Nope. We didn’t divorce until last year.”
“You a lie! She had you whipped. Then she—”
“Our son died, Cason!” And then my world fell apart. “He’d been on life support for two years. We removed the machines, hoping he found rest, and pretended like we hadn’t lost faith. His death broke us.”
Hours later, I stood on a yellow fire escape that was like throwing a rainbow at the turquoise and orange row house. I glanced through the window and caught sight of Madison. Seeing her put a smile on my face after my long day.
I’d climbed into my feelings for Cason’s sake. And I mean all the way. I ended up doing breathing exercises and self-chants. Some crap men didn’t do, but I did because I couldn’t let Cason carry the weight of those days alone.
Now he had relief, and I had the image of half of my ex-wife’s ass to get me through.
I nearly dropped the takeout bag as I watched her.
She’d just pulled up her underwear as I reached the window.
I should’ve been a few minutes earlier. She stepped out of her towel and tugged on sweats and a T-shirt.
I was about to knock when Madison glanced at something on her dresser. Whatever she was looking at made her break out into a dance. Mesmerized by her curves, I watched, my eyes tracing her every movement, my heart beating fast.
It took me back to when she taught me to dance. You’re lucky you have that face, or I’d go out with my girls tonight. She’d been a soror. Didn’t stop there either. She’d told me that Drake, a whole character, had nothing on me. Apparently, I was doing it wrong … learning to dance.
Then later, we had a good marriage. The standard squabbles about who would cook, who washed, who pretended to wash but really soaked pans. Man, that was always my MO.
I still missed her petty laugh when saying, I hope you take out the trash soon, because that’s not part of my marriage contract.
Contract … Damn. I’d survived trying to get my feet right on the dance floor and being a good husband for this mess.
I wasn’t sure how long I stood there hypnotized, but I needed to move; someone might call the cops.
Cradling the bag in the crook of my arm, I knocked.