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 himselfunder 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.
