Page 2 of Betrothed To Love

“No. Grabbing my things to leave now,” she reveals and I let out a relief-filled sigh.

“Oh good. No questions, please, but I need your help.”

“What is it?”

“I need you to stop by my place and grab one of my suits or dresses and a pair of heels from the closet by the door. I don’t care which, as long as it matches. I’m running behind and not in the house and I need to change. I’ll let you know when I’m by the judges’ entrance so you can bring my stuff down.”

“Of course, I got it and this sounds like you’re going to need a mucho grande today,” she says with a slight grin.

“Yes, with a double shot of espresso. What time is my first case on the docket?”

“Nine-thirty.”

“Okay. It’s definitely going to be one of those Fridays. I’ll see you shortly,” I say, then huff out a breath of air.

“See you soon,” she says and ends the call.

A judge and her judicial aide have a very important relationship. I can’t run my court or chambers without her. She’s my front line, personal assistant, and manager of my chambers, my calendar, and my direct communications. No one gets to me without going through her. She schedules all my hearings, handles any communications with attorneys, prepares all of my travel and administrative paperwork, and makes trips to my home when needed. She has her own alarm and lock codes. She’s my lifeline and lifesaver.

After grabbing my dress, shoes, and mini tote, I take my ass back into the bedroom, place my cell on the hotel’s charging pad on the table by the bed, drop the duvet, and rush into the ensuite bath. Thankfully, the hotel has two complimentary hygiene kits in the bathroom along with body wash and lotion.

I rush because I have no time to dwell on how I got here, who the sexy man in the suit is, or what the hell happened last night. I must be in my chambers by nine and ready to perform my judicial duties by nine-thirty. Those questions can wait until my day is over. So, I push them aside and manage to get showered, moisturized, dressed, looking pretty decent, and in my Range in thirty minutes. I’m in the judges’ parking lot behind the courthouse in another fifteen minutes.

I text Kenya, and when the coast is fairly clear, I creep to the back entrance, ignoring the side eye from security, and slip into the ladies restroom to the left of the security checkpoint. Kenya walks in not even five minutes later with my black wrap dress and pumps. Since we are alone in the bathroom as I change, she gives me a quick overview of my first trial, a bail hearing for possession with intent to distribute a controlled substance. The defendant has no adult priors but had minor charges as a teen. The true issue of bail is the alleged amount of the controlled substance. It’s over four hundred grams, which is a first-degree felony. Typically, no bail is issued.

My campaign for election to the bench centered on justice for all. While I am a letter of the law decision maker, I am well aware of the innate prejudices and unfairness that undermine our justice system, which is why I evaluate each defendant separately and view each case differently. I don’t render cookie-cutter decisions and I don’t let preconceived notions influence my ruling. The law rules, and when followed correctly without bias, it clearly details rules of evidence, rulings, and sentences.

“The prosecution is asking for no bail and defense wants ROR,” Kenya says, referring to the defendant being released on his own recognizance.

“I’ll entertain both arguments,” I assure her when I walk out of the stall looking like I’m heading to chambers instead of making a walk of shame.

When I hand her the bag filled with my masquerade dress and shoes, she smirks, then says, “I’m going to ask about this another day.”

“Yeah, but no time soon. I honestly don’t have any answers yet,” I admit. Not one damn clue.

TWO

“I don’t know what you’re waiting on,” I tell my oldest brother Ace as I nod toward the clothes and shoes laid out on the bench for him.

“This shit just…” he says while shaking his head in total disbelief. “It’s blowing me. How the fuck I get in jail?” he huffs, still as mad as he had been when he was arrested fifteen days ago. “This some bullshit and I want the fuck out of here.”

“Then change so we can go out here and get you out,” I say firmly.

We are in the holding cell inside the courthouse. In twenty minutes, we will be one step closer to getting him bail and getting him home. Of all my brothers, Ace is the one who should never be in jail, maybe Deuce, Tre, or Shiro. Hell, even me, and I went to law school and passed the damn bar exam, but not Ace. He’s no criminal.

Ace got in dumb trouble when he was thirteen, but after that, he went straight as hell. He never even got a damn speeding ticket. He graduated high school, saved, bought my dad’s old F-150, and started a little local moving company. He would pay us a few bucks to help. He did well and upgraded to a twelve-foot truck. After a few years, one truck turned into three and now he has his own national moving company. Being here for a felony drug charge is ridiculous and I’m going to do whatever I can to make sure he gets back home to his wife and sons.

As he reluctantly changes out of the county browns into the black pants, gray and black button up, and black tie, I put on my criminal defense attorney hat and detail what’s about to happen.

“This is just the bail hearing. Because it was over five hundred grams on the truck⁠—”

“This shit,” he grits as he rubs his hands.

His anxiety and claustrophobia are starting to take a real toll on him. I can see it all over his weary face. His incessant pacing, nodding, and hand rubbing confirm it. I hate seeing my brother like this. He’s one of the strongest people I know but anxiety affects even the mighty. My strong, oldest brother is on the edge…

I gotta get him out of here.

“I know. I know,” I sympathize, then continue. “The prosecution is asking that bail be denied.”