Page 4 of First Surrender
The testosterone in this room is suffocating but I’m not easily phased. I’m not in the business of letting men intimidate me. Not anymore.
“We’re motioning to suppress the phone communication between the deceased victim and her daughter. It’s hearsay.” My head snaps to the defense lawyer. My text messages directly from my mother might be thrown out.
“It’s a direct quote from our victim your honor. It shows a history of conflict and motive,” Prosecutor Fulton drones with annoyance. He seems bored by these proceedings and it rubs me the wrong way. My mother is dead but this is only another day for all of these big wigs.
They go back and forth for a few minutes but it’s all too quick to understand, their language of the law flies over my head.
“The texts will be dismissed. Let’s get on with it. Set a date for pre-trial next month.” The judge knocks his gavel on the podium and that’s it—no more arguments.
Everyone begins packing up their paperwork as if they couldn’t care less. Because they don’t care. None of this matters to these people. They’ll get paid regardless. It makes me want to scream.
I sit utterly still until the room clears. I ignore Declan as he’s led out of the room, not giving him the satisfaction of putting my eyes on him for another second.
I know I need to leave. Dec will be home from school soon, but I can’t find the will to move. I tap my four-inch knock-off Louboutins on the bottom of the bar in front of me. In another life, I’d have real ones. I wouldn’t have had to raise myself and I’d be happily fed from a silver spoon.
Standing to leave proves difficult when it feels like an anvil is weighing down my shoulders but I do it anyway and shrug on my coat. As I grab my plain black bag, another rip-off from an off-price street vendor in Brooklyn, I realize I’m not alone like I thought.
The very large cop is still sitting in the back row of the pew-like benches. He’s hard to miss in his dark green uniform and bulky bulletproof vest. His various tools of the trade tacked onto his chest and belt make him look stiff and even bigger than he already is.
His eyes flash briefly toward me as I pass, barely acknowledging my presence. His haircut is clean and sharp. He probably goes to the barber every two weeks and I haven’t been able to afford a haircut in over a year.
I trim my dead ends in the mirror every other month and Dec’s shaggy blonde hair is way overgrown. Funds have been tight since I moved back home. I had to find a job that would work around Dec’s schedule but it doesn’t give me many hours.
I can’t afford a sitter. Our apartment only has one bedroom but Dec has clothes to wear, a coat, shoes that fit, and books for school. That’s all that I care about. He’ll be eight in a few months and I’ve been putting cash away slowly to afford to get him a bike.
I push through the heavy doors to enter the lobby and my steps falter, but only slightly. Declan’s goons are standing there, waiting. I steer past them but have no luck ignoring them.
“Hey, Ice Queen. How’s our boy doing?” One of them asks. I think they call him Zeek but I don’t care enough to confirm. I need to get home before Dec.
“He’s none of your concern.” I smile smugly, only so they know they can’t intimidate me. Ice Queen has been their nickname for me since I started keeping my mother away from Declan. Unfortunately for them, it gives me a sense of pride rather than a complex.
“Ah, but he is. Declan wants to know what his only son is up to. It’s our job to find out.” Zeek steps toward me, but I don’t budge.
“I don’t give a damn. Declan is no concern of mine.”
“Really? Seems odd you keep showing up then. Maybe you have a crush on him.” The other four standing with him snicker at his comment. I roll my eyes and take a deep breath.
“I’m here to make sure he stays right where he belongs. Or even better, maybe he’ll get shanked in jail.” I shrug. It hasn’t been the first time I’ve had that wish.
“You’re a little bitch, you know that?” Zeek steps further into my space, his face inches above mine.
My hands stay planted on my hips, but a big part of me wants to push him out of my bubble. I can’t stand to have him this close, but I would never put my hands on him because I know he would press charges. I couldn’t do that to Dec. I’m all he’s got.
The doors to the side of us open with grandeur, the strength behind the push making both doors swing fully into the lobby. Both our heads snap to the imposing man striding out of the courtroom that we just vacated.
Now that he’s standing, his height is ridiculous and he looks more like a GI-Joe than a street cop. His hair isn’t the only sharp thing about him. He’s all hard lines and edges. His eyes especially, zeroing in on Zeek.
Instead of saying anything about our obvious conflict, he sits on a chair against the wall and folds his arms across his bulky chest. Those cold eyes stare at Zeek with disinterest, hardly blinking, but the tilt to his head screams “Try me”.
“What the fuck do you want, Paul Blart?” Zeek sneers in his direction. The cop doesn’t react, but his non-reaction is enough. Zeek steps back out of my face and toward him.
Again, the cop doesn’t even blink.
“Come to save the little girl from the big bad wolf?” His immaturity makes his gaggle of geese laugh.
The cop’s gaze pings to me but back to Zeek so quickly that I almost missed it. “She seems fine but you need to leave. No loitering in the lobby.” His casual tone doesn’t match the seriousness of his eyes.
“What the fuck ever,” Zeek leans in, “Sheriff Malec.” He finishes after reading his uniform.