Give him something else to focus on.
Last night, after talking to Mr. Weston and then fighting with me, there had been a frantic trip to the nearest pharmacy for dye, and I’d helped him color his hair completely black for court. I brushed my fingers through his soft strands again. Already, I missed the bright pops of color on his head. I dug my fingers in against his scalp, and he went boneless in my arms.
I loved him any way he wanted to be around me, and I hoped all these small changes meant he trusted me to see the real Angel.
Out of the crowd of people in the hallway, a good-looking man in a mahogany suit with a short clean beard approached us. As he got closer, I was snared by his odd violet eyes. He smiled at me and nudged his glasses up his nose while he did a double take at Angel, which wasn’t entirely unusual. We made an odd pair.
The man brushed his hand over his dark hair, which was longer on top, and patted it like he was making sure it was still okay. “Are you Mr. Uhlig? Casey? Angel?” He stuck out his hand. “Nice to finally meet you in person. I’m Caleb Weston, but most people call me West. I’ll be representing Mr. Gaffin today.”
Angel didn’t move to shake the man’s hand, so I did. Instead, my cutie only snuggled in tighter against my front. I was half tempted to carry him to the fucking car.
“Thanks,” I said, even though I didn’t mean it.
“Nice to meet you,” Angel mumbled.
Mr. Weston’s face screwed up, and something close to sympathy turned down the corners of his mouth and had him shaking his head as he zeroed in on Angel. “Your father wants me to fight the charges. It’s an absolutely awful, and I cannot stress this enough, imbecilic idea. I should be walking in there to present a guilty plea and beg for rehab rather than jail. I know the prosecution has at least five eyewitnesses. Plus a hospital report. Ah, there’s the bailiff.” He pointed at a skinny man in a tan uniform who stepped out into the hall and nodded at him. “Our case must be up. We need to go in. Come on.” He charged forward, and I felt like I’d gotten caught in a whirlwind.
Angel clutched my hand as he unwrapped himself from around me, and we went through the courtroom door together. I was surprised by how much this space didn’t seem like anything “official.” The walls were soundproofed with blue carpeted panels, the lawyers were supposed to sit at flimsy fold-out tables, and the judge’s desk on a raised platform wasn’t very far across the room from the spectator seats. I would’ve been embarrassed to have any of this furniture in my office.
Angel’s grip on my fingers nearly hurt. I wanted to tell everyone who stared too long at us as we walked in to fuck off. My adrenaline spiked. I squeezed Angel’s hand right back. The seats in the room were the type of hard plastic chairs I wouldn’t have wished on my worst enemy. Mr. Weston directed us to chairs behind a short room divider, and then he went through a gate and made his way to a seat in front of us. I dragged Angel’s chair beside mine. When he sat our legs brushed together, and I had to sit with my arm around him. If I could have put him on my lap, I would’ve.
“I’m here for you, little brother.”
The judge came in and the fluorescent overhead lights gleamed on the white beads that dotted her auburn dreads, which ended in a high bun on her head. She went to the desk and got comfortable before she took stock of the people who were filtering into the chairs near us and then the tables at her front. Her attention landed on Mr. Weston.
“For those of you who don’t know, I’m Judge Whitaker. Mr. Weston. Where is your client?” She tilted her head and picked up her glasses from where they hung around her neck on a beaded necklace and then slid them on her button nose. Mr. Weston rubbed his hands over his thighs as he chuckled, and though I wouldn’t call him nervous, he definitely didn’t seem happy.
Angel leaned against my side and a small, nearly scared sound escaped him. I pressed a kiss to his forehead, but he didn’t unclench.
“Mr. Gaffin is coming from lockup, Your Honor. Not escorted in yet. He also needed accommodations, so perhaps it’s taking longer than usual? Speaking of, if there comes a time where this is relevant, I’d like to make sure you’ve noted the need for mobility accessibility in the prison, which would limit the locations where he could do time. He would be better served if he didn’t go in with the general population, either.”
She checked around on her desk and snatched up a document, which she began to read. When she was done, she waved the paper like a white flag. “I see that here. It’s noted, counselor. I’ll do all I can, but those choices aren’t entirely up to the Court. I will, however, gladly make an attempt on the behalf of your client to place him where he can best be rehabilitated, should things go that direction.” She picked up another document and let out a little “mm-hmm” before she gave him a smile.
The judge sounded like she already knew damned well Peter Gaffin was headed to prison, and Mr. Weston wasn’t talking like he would get away with this current round of bullshit. Inwardly, I was already celebrating, but Angel burrowed against my side. Fuck, this was difficult. I wanted him safe and happy, and I also wanted Peter to rot somewhere, and there didn’t seem to be any fucking way to reconcile the two.
“Casey bear, he’ll end up dead in prison.” Angel buried his face against my suit jacket, and my heart ripped apart at his quiet sob. It would be wrong to say “good.” But, I wanted to anyway.
“How do you figure, little brother?”
“He’ll fuck with everyone.” He leaned back. “They’ll murder him.” Tears glistened on his pale cheeks, and I wiped them away with a finger. He held his breath and let me. His lip ring sparkled, his pretty brown eyes shimmered, and the general effect was, again, that I just wanted to run away home with him.
“Cutie, I have you. It will be okay. Mr. Weston was just talking about things they might do to help your father out.” Of course, that might mean a shower chair and nothing more, but I didn’t want to rain on any hope Angel might still have.
Mr. Weston must have heard some of what we were saying because as soon as Judge Whitaker turned back to her paperwork, he came over. He beckoned us closer to the divider, and Angel stood, but I only had to lean forward.
“What’s up?” Angel asked.
Mr. Weston flashed us a quick smile. “I can ask for accommodations, but I can’t do anything about Mr. Gaffin’s colorful attitude. He was combative with the police. The hospital staff. With me. With everyone, so far as I’ve been told. I understand your concerns, and I’ve argued that part of the issue is a long-term alcohol addiction.” He patted Angel’s shoulder. “If we’re lucky, they’ll send him to inpatient rehab. If we’re unlucky, jail and then… who knows?”
“Is there anything else we can do?” Angel asked. I rested a hand against his back and could feel him quivering.
Mr. Weston’s smile slipped. “Nothing. He won’t let me do anything reasonable. He’s sick as hell, too, or was yesterday. Alcohol flu.”
“From detoxing?” I asked. “Shouldn’t he be over that?”
Mr. Weston nodded. “There’s some speculation he might have been sneaking alcohol in the hospital somehow. It dragged everything out and was part of what made this take so long to happen.”
Angel leaned back against my hand. “No one told me! I tried to call him a couple of times and he wouldn’t come to the phone. What should I do?”
