Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
For a girl who constantly snitched on herself, I patted my back for that and for finally mentioning the title in a sentence some decades later.
My steps paused. Wait. This guy was an informant! He’d told my parents on me. How else would they have known I wasn’t at the meeting? Or Lynetta, but no, she didn’t have time.
As Omari sipped coffee, I approached. He unraveled a cashmere scarf from his collar and stood.
“Don’t.” I grinned, planting my hand on his arm. Okay. Nice.
Lean beefcake reclaimed his seat with a dazzling white smile against glowing dark brown skin and perched a brow.
My head tilted, and my grin tugged upward. Smug. Petty. “Since you like to check in with my parents. I don’t think I’ll be able to work with you, Mr. Omari Snitch. I mean, Mr. Omari Riche.”
washington
. . .
Iusually left the cold drinks for the foster youth and probation kids. I’d noted the favorite snacks of those needing the most attention. Today, a cola had sat there, all cold and innocent. The second I popped the tab, I got baptized in sticky liquid. Now, I looked undone. Tacky. The way Madison’s parents always saw me.
“Why are you even mentioning them, Washington?” I muttered, undoing my blazer, then I stripped out of my button-up. While our son lay in a coma, they had planted ideas in Maddy’s head. You’d think his being so close to death might soften their hearts. Nah.
“Okayyy, now, Your Honor.” My assistant strolled into my office, bringing me out of my thoughts, lips tugged suggestively. “Need some wet wipes?”
I’d already set out another suit before Latrice entered. Both cost more than my first wheels and screamed Stanford Law. I rolled my eyes, then nodded since my abs felt like the last time my son said, Oops, and I didn’t want to put a clean shirt on over that mess.
Instead of handing me the baby wipes package, Latrice opened it, her eyes never leaving my chest. “Should’ve known you stashed an entire suit. So, prepared.”
“Yep,” I replied, taking the one square she offered. Woman, don’t be stingy! As I wiped my chest, I added, “I don’t like to be late to hearings.” With foster kids being coined throwaways, I always gave them my best.
But nothing said authority like scrubbing my chest with baby-powder scented wipes as my assistant watched.
“Here you go.” Latrice handed me another wipe, slower than the last. Woman didn’t blink once. She damn sure was running an HR incident through her mind. Reminded me of those old 1990s videos the government had us watch every year. Do you know what sexual harassment in the workplace looks like?
Yep. Latrice Bell.
Clean enough. I shoved into my shirt and had already cleared the doorway before I had on the other pinstriped jacket. There was no time to change pants, so the replacement dress shirt and blazer screamed confused jazz attorney. I tugged on the robe.
I rushed down the hall, my robe flapping. My chest still carried the faint scent of baby powder, and I turned left into a courtroom filled with the smell of wood polish and funky arguments. I glared at the clock. 9:07 a.m.
The bailiff gave me a sideways glance, then strolled toward the courtroom doors. “Rough morning?”
“Yep, gravity won the opening argument.”
He laughed and then opened the doors.
While I had more foster youth cases than juvenile probation cases, the first was a dual hearing.
Cason strolled in, a silent storm in dingy Jordans. I’d worked with the kid for years. He’d entered once, wearing all the latest. And his probation officer had already provided clothing images, exhibits A to Z, identical to the stolen merch.
Today he wore his hoodie half zipped, hood up while the clerk called the case.
“Good morning, Cason,” I said. “How’s the community service going?”
He swiveled in the chair, not even leaning forward to the mic. “You already know.”
Bruh, it’s too early for an attitude. “You’ll be eighteen soon. March 1st.” I had already rehearsed saying that date without requiring the soothing warmth of cognac. “Happy birthday, young man.”
“Mm-hmm …”
“You plan on staying in foster care until you’re twenty-one? Get those extra services?”
“For what? College?” He chuckled.
I sat forward. “Among other things. Housing. You wanted to be an engineer.” The youth looked shocked, appreciative that I remembered, not that I ever patted my own back.
“You slipping, Judge Babineaux. Used to be sharp. Tie straight. Showing up with them fancy cakes on my birthday.”
At the ripple of laughter, my glare pinned the bailiff. I shot a look that said, Try me. “Anything else you need to get off your chest, Cason? I’m sure this roast has a legal argument somewhere. Remove the hoodie. I’ll listen.”
“I got arguments.” The swiveling stopped. The damn kid reminded me of Madison at the NOPD. He sat forward. Shoved the hoodie off. “Where’s your wife? Maddy. With that sexy voice, thick hips. She used to bake my cakes.”