Chapter 8
EIGHT
HARLAN
The Hatfield County Courthouse is like my second home.
I’ve visited the county jail more times that I can remember, and with my line of work it’s likely I’ll end up there again in the near future.
Prison doesn’t scare me. It’s the criminals you see in everyday life who shield their true selves who you should watch out for.
I charge into the office and don’t even spare the frail little receptionist a passing glance as I walk by her desk.
I’m notorious in this town, and people know not to cross me.
I push the heavy oak doors and make my entrance into Judge Brant Mullins’ chambers.
The snide son-of-a-bitch is sitting behind his desk, his fingers steepled, as if he was waiting for my arrival.
I take the chair across from his desk and brace my elbows on my knees, challenging Brant with a devious glare.
“I want the truth, Brant. No bullshit lies. And you’re the only person who’s going to be honest with me.”
Brant leans back in his high-back leather chair and appraises me.
“You realize what you’re asking of me, right, son?”
“Don’t fucking taunt me with that. And you have the audacity to call me ‘son?’ You abandoned your daughter at birth, Brant.
Left her a bastard child to a mentally-ill mother, who you raped!
” I jab my finger in his face. “And now you’re trying to get all fatherly on me by calling me son, offering your sage advice when I’m simply here to get the truth.
You can go to hell and take your fuckin’ lies with you. ”
I need to reel in my rage, but this man is the monster of Justice’s nightmares.
I’ve racked my brain all weekend trying to figure out why she would come to him, but then I realized she did it as blackmail.
It was a smart move on her part; after all, she’s not only married to a criminal, she’s the illegitimate child of one as well.
Brant Mullins may sit high on his throne as Hatfield County Circuit Court judge, but he’s a liar, a thief, a rapist, and he’s also in the back pocket of the Donovan Syndicate. He’s as corrupt and dangerous as they come.
“Ezekiel is your son.” Brant slides the birth certificate across the desk. “Now, what does that information change?” he asks. “Absolutely not one damn thing. My hands were tied, Harlan, and I did what I–”
“Had to do to cover your ass, like you always fuckin’ do.” I slam my hand down on the desk. “So help me God, Brant Mullins, you just dug your own grave, but I’ll be the motherfucker to put you in it.”
I slam the doors open so hard the pictures on the receptionist’s office walls rattle, some crashing to the floor with glass splintering in their wake.
I got what I came here for, and that was confirmation that Ezekiel is my son. Brant Mullins has a target on his head; he just doesn’t know it yet.