Chapter 5 Everett
EVERETT
Islam on the brakes in haste and cut the engine as I jump out of my car.
“Lemon!”
The house in front of me is nothing but chaos as teenagers scatter across the lawn like shrapnel, red Solo cups litter every surface, and music pounds through the windows hard enough to rattle glass.
But I couldn’t care less about that. What I do care about is that one of them just threw something at my wife’s windshield.
One of these boys—and they’re all boys, I note—just endangered my family.
“Lemon?” I run to catch up with the minivan as it slows to a stop twenty yards ahead. She’s pulling over, and a spike of real fear hits me—she wouldn’t stop unless something was wrong.
The boys across the street are screaming now, slapping their thighs, stumbling over each other as they scatter like roaches when the lights come on. They’re laughing—high-pitched and manic, the kind of laughter that comes from adrenaline and stupidity and thinking consequences don’t apply to you.
I’m about to teach them otherwise—but not just yet.
“Lemon?” I shout again as I come upon the van, and the first thing I see is the windshield—a spiderweb crack spreading from the impact point like frozen lightning. Right there. Center mass. Driver’s side.
Lemon looks pale, still gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. The twins are wailing in the back, Lyla Nell is clapping with glee, and Carlotta looks dumbstruck.
“Everyone okay?” My voice comes out calmer than I have any right to sound.
“We’re fine,” Lemon says, breathing too fast as she rolls down her window, and I’m there in a second. “Everett, I didn’t see what—”
“Don’t worry about it.” I reach in and give her a kiss.
“Drive home.” I scan her face, the kids, looking for injuries I might have missed.
My training kicks in—assess, prioritize, act.
But this isn’t a courtroom. This is my wife.
My children. “Get them in the house. Lock the doors. I’ll handle this. ”
“But—”
“Lemon.” I cup her face, force her to look at me instead of the cracked windshield. My thumb brushes her cheek, and I realize she’s shaking. Or maybe it’s me shaking with rage. At this point, it’s hard to tell. “Go home. I’ll be right behind you.”
She nods. Carlotta’s already twisted around checking the twins, and for once, she’s not turning this into the butt of some joke. That tells me everything I need to know about how serious this is.
I step back and watch the minivan pull away with my family inside, thankfully safe, and the rage I’ve been holding at bay floods in to fill the space where fear just lived.
I blow out a breath and try my best to calm myself.
It could have been worse. The thought slams into me with the force of a verdict I don’t want to read.
It could have caused her to swerve into oncoming traffic.
It could have sent the minivan into a tree and caused irreparable damage to those I love.
It could have killed them.
The rage that hits me isn’t hot—it’s ice cold and surgical. The kind that makes my hands steady and my voice level even when every cell in my body demands to tear something apart.
One of those boys threw a rock at a moving vehicle. At my wife’s vehicle. With my children inside.
Do they have any idea what could’ve happened? Do their parents?
I turn toward the house, and the teenage boys scattered across the lawn come back into focus.
They’re everywhere and nowhere—ducking behind hedges, peering through windows, phones out recording me like they’re about to make me go viral.
And believe me, I’m more than ready to give them the ammunition.
A few of the hoodlums are still on the lawn, hopping up and down, slapping each other’s shoulders, laughing so hard they can barely breathe.
They think this is funny.
And there’s not an adult in sight.
The front door is sealed shut with obnoxious music blaring from inside.
The window to the right is bare, and I can see straight through to a living room that looks like a frat house after finals week.
Empty soda cans. Bags of chips strewn all about, and furniture sitting every which way as if it were aggressively displaced in a hurry.
I walk up the driveway with measured steps. Don’t rush. Don’t yell. Men who yell have already lost control, and I haven’t lost control in a courtroom in fifteen years. I’m not starting now on some punk kid’s front lawn.
But how I want to.
“Dude, he’s actually coming up here!” one kid shrieks from somewhere behind a fence.
“Holy heck, someone film this!” another cries out.
The laughter roars to seismic levels. They’re still treating this like entertainment. Like they didn’t just commit a crime that could’ve resulted in vehicular manslaughter.
Do they teach repercussions in schools anymore? Or have we collectively decided that teenage boys get a pass on basic human decency because they’re just kids?
I mount the front steps and knock with three sharp raps. It sounds authoritative. It’s a knock that says I’m not asking.
The laughter ratchets up another notch.
“I don’t feel safe!” a voice calls from inside, high-pitched with barely suppressed giggles. “I’m calling the police!”
I almost smile. Almost. The irony would be funny if I weren’t currently imagining all the ways this could’ve ended with me identifying my wife’s body.
“That’s funny,” I call back, loud enough to carry over the music. “Because I’m thinking about calling them, too.”
I pull out my phone and text Noah. Cedar Street. House with the raging party. Get here. Now.
The laughter falters slightly. Good. Let them sweat.
I knock again, harder this time. “I want to speak to whoever owns this home.”
More whispering. Scuffling. The music volume drops by half, which tells me someone inside has at least two functioning brain cells. Probably the kid who actually lives here and just realized how much trouble he’s in.
The door swings open.
A kid stands there, maybe sixteen, flanked by five or six others who crowd behind him as if they believe in safety in numbers. The one who opened the door is trying to look tough, but his hand shakes slightly on the doorknob.
Good. He should be afraid. Very afraid.
Behind them, boys scatter through the house, still laughing, still treating this like a game. Like this is content for whatever social media platform they’re planning to upload to. And I have no doubt it is.
“Who threw the rock at my wife’s windshield?” I ask, a touch louder and tougher than I meant to.
The kid blinks. “What?”
My jaw tightens as I force myself to even out my breathing. I need to stay calm and measured. I’ve seen situations like this escalate and go sideways faster than that rock they threw.
“The minivan that just drove past this place. Someone threw something. It hit the windshield. My wife almost lost control of the vehicle with my three children inside.” I let each word land like a mallet. Each syllable is a nail in someone’s coffin. “Who. Threw it?” I thunder.
A smaller boy steps forward. Long dark hair, eyes that look like he actually has a conscience buried somewhere under that teenage stupidity. He opens his mouth, glances at his friends, and then looks angry.
“It wasn’t me!”
At least one of them has the sense to be defensive. That’s something.
“Do you live here?”
He gives a reluctant nod.
“Where are your parents?”
His eyes go wide, and he’s showing real fear now, not the performative kind.
“My dad’s here, he’s just—”
“What the hell is going on?” A man appears behind the boys. Thirties, dark hair that hasn’t seen a comb today, rumpled sweatpants with stains I don’t want to identify, and a beer in his hand like it’s grafted there.
This is the adult supervision.
This is what passes for parenting in this house. It all makes sense now.
The rage in my chest shifts and sharpens. This man was supposed to be watching these kids. Instead, he’s—what? Playing video games? Drinking himself under the table? While a couple of dozen teenage boys throw rocks at passing cars?
He surveys me with an arrogance that comes from men who’ve never faced real consequences, and it shows.
“Daryl Pickens,” he growls and doesn’t offer his hand. “You’re on my property.”
“Everett Baxter,” I say. “Judge Everett Baxter from Ashford County.” I watch his expression shift, just slightly, with what I’m hoping is a flicker of concern.
Good. He should be. “One of the boys at your party just threw a rock at my wife’s car,” I tell him.
“She has three young children with her and my mother-in-law. The windshield is cracked. It could have caused an accident.”
Daryl takes a moment to stare me down before he shrugs and downs the rest of his beer as if I’ve just told him his grass needs mowing. “Boys will be boys.”
Four words. Four words that sum up everything wrong with this situation, this parent, this entire generation of men who think consequences are optional.
The cold rage in my chest crystallizes into something sharp and useful.
He nods my way. “Maybe your wife shouldn’t drive so slow past my property,” he adds, like this is helpful advice. Like Lemon is somehow at fault for existing on a public street near his house.
I count to three in my head. Old habit from the bench. When you want to hold someone in contempt, you count to three first.
One. Two. Thr—
Behind us, tires screech to a stop, and Noah hops out of a deputy cruiser. Nice touch, considering he doesn’t usually drive one. And perfect timing. I didn’t realize how much I needed backup until he showed up.
“What are you gonna do?” Daryl’s grinning now, showing off his brown teeth. “Arrest a kid for throwing a rock? Don’t you have real crimes to solve?” He looks past me at Noah striding up the driveway while he flashes his badge. “Mr. Badge and Mr. Gavel. What an honor.”
I take a moment to glare at him.