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“What sign?” Zac asked.
“Judge Hammond has Covid, so he won’t be here today. Judge Smith is handling his cases. Fifth floor.”
“Shit! No, we didn’t notice the sign,” Zac said, jumping to his feet. So did I. We had less than ten minutes to make it to court.
After quickly gathering up all our paperwork, the two of us power-walked to the elevators and Zac pushed the button. Then he looked at me and blew out a disbelieving laugh. He didn’t have to tell me what he was thinking. I already knew because I was thinking the same thing. Not due to any fault of our own, we were in one hell of a time crunch to get to the correct courtroom before Judge Smith took the stand.
When our elevator arrived, Zac and I hurried onto it and once again, it was just the two of us alone together. As we stood side-by-side with our briefcases in hand and not saying a word, my lover leaned over and quickly kissed me on the lips. With another floor still to go, I reached over and grabbed his crotch, making him flinch.
“You’re killing me, Sinclair,” he chuckled.
“Likewise.”
Right before we reached the fifth floor, I looked up at Zac again and noticed his mouth. “Sparkly lips, Buchanan.”
He’d just finished wiping off my lip gloss when the elevator doors opened, and the two of us took off jogging toward the courtroom. When we made it to the doors, we stopped to catch our breaths while looking around. People were everywhere in the hallway—legal personnel, defendants and undoubtedly, victims too.
“Ready?” Zac asked me.
Before answering him, I glanced down at his mouth: the evidence of our secret kiss was all gone. Right or wrong, part of me would’ve liked to have seen a sparkle or two still left on those soft and capable lips of Zac’s. Proof of not only what we did within those sixty seconds on the elevator, but also proof that he was mine and I was his in this forbidden way.
“Ready,” I said, and then Zac opened the courtroom door.
20
#joanofarc
Zac
AS STEVIE ANDI entered the courtroom, she headed straight to the prosecutor’s table and I hurried over to my client, Mr. Ferguson. Thankfully, my opposing counsel and I had made it to court with three minutes to spare and in that short amount of time, we were able to prepare for what was about to take place here.
“All rise for the honorable Judge Mike Smith,” the bailiff said, bringing court into session.
Every person here rose to their feet, and then the judge appeared through the doorway to the left of his bench and walked over to his chair. After telling everyone to be seated, my legal argument with Stevie began.
This was the second hearing that had come about due to my client’s negligence and now physical abuse of his four-year-old son. His wife had the same charges but I wasn’t representing her. Last year, this couple was charged with neglecting their little boy—the root of it being found to be their illegal drug use. At that time, they were court-ordered to go into three months of treatment for their drug problem and also into counseling on how to be proper parents while their son was temporarily placedinto foster care. The couple successfully followed through with the order of the court and then had their son returned to their home. A month later, their home life had gone back to being a toxic environment that involved illegal drug use, plus abuse of their son. He was again placed into foster care while his parents were charged for their crimes and awaited the legal end result of them. Today, I was attempting to sway the judge into giving my client one last chance to get his life right.
After presenting my side of this matter, which included Mr. Ferguson’s agreement to go back into drug treatment and parental counseling, Stevie had her turn at presenting her argument on the case. I watched her rise from her chair and approach my client on the stand, coming to a stop a few feet away from him. There was something different about Stevie. There’d been a major shift in her demeanor and the look on her face was all business. And her eyes? They were fierce.
“Mr. Ferguson, I’m Stevie Sinclair and I’m representing your four-year-old little boy, Jacob,” she said.
“Hello, Mrs. Sinclair.”
“Ms.”
Mr. Ferguson smirked. “Ms.”
“I need you to clarify something for me if you don’t mind.”
“What would that be?”
“You’re listed as William and also Billy in the legal paperwork that I have on you. So which is it? Which name do you prefer to go by?”
“What does that matter?”
“Please answer my question, Mr. Ferguson.”
He sighed. “I used to go by Billy. I prefer William now.”
