The boy turns in his seat and blinks wide, nervous eyes at his mother, as if to silently ask her, Mom, what should I do?
But back in the aisles, she’s not permitted to speak. All she can do is clutch her chest and lean against her husband for support.
“Well?” snarls the judge. “Don’t keep the court waiting, Mr. Marcus.”
The boy’s lawyer leans over and speaks a few words into his ear. The boy nods.
“N-not guilty, Your Honor,” stammers the boy. He slaps a hand to his mouth and speaks through his fingers. “I meant to say guilty.”
“Guilty or not guilty? Which is it?” There’s a cruel, almost mocking tone in the judge’s voice.
“Guilty,” says the teenager. His lawyer nudges him sharply, and the teenager adds hastily, “Your Honor.”
“Your Honor, as this is Mr. Marcus’s first offense, and his criminal record is otherwise spotless, we recommend leniency,” pipes up the district attorney.
“Spotless, hmm?” The judge laces his fingers together. “Certainly his record may be clean, but I don’t believe for a second that the defendant has not committed this crime before. Or other crimes, for that matter.” He glares threateningly. “Do you know what I think, Mr. Marcus?”
The teenager looks at his lawyer questioningly, who nods.
“What’s that, Y-your Honor?”
Judge Connelly’s lip curls. “I think this is simply the first time you’ve been caught. And I think we ought to make sure that you don’t do it again, don’t you?”
The boy casts another terrified look at his lawyer.
“Answer me, Mr. Marcusss.”
Again, that slur. I scoot forward, hovering at the edge of my seat.
“Mr. Laurent recommended leniency, Your Honor,” says the teenager’s lawyer. “Surely you don’t intend to sentence this boy for the maximum amount? That’s fifteen years of this boy’s life—by the time he gets out, he will have spent half of his life in prison.”
“Yes, Mr. Carney, I’m capable of doing the math.”
The Judge leans forward, smiling cruelly, his eyes drilling into the poor kid, who’s cowering in his chair. It’s judgment time.
And I’ve seen enough.
I get up as quickly and quietly as I can. The judge’s gravelly, unmerciful voice is still echoing in my ears as I walk past the empty pews and push through the courtroom doors.
9
I wish I had a cup of tea. Or that I had thought to bring a bottle of water. Anything to soothe my jumping nerves.
Twisting around as much as I can in the front seat of my car, I try to see if there’s a place within walking distance where I can buy a cup of tea. I don’t need a fancy coffeehouse or anything—even just a deli would be nice.
But there’s nothing. The space around the courthouse is all concrete and cement, framed by the jailhouse and the twisting, roaring highway. The streetlights cast an eerie, greenish glow into the dusky sky. I feel like I’m stuck inside some kind of hellish twilight zone.
I sink into the seat. I’m trapped here, for at least as long as the judge remains in that courtroom with the frightened teenager, his parents, and the rest of them.
For the boy’s sake and mine, I hope it’s fast.
Almost reflexively, I check my phone. It’s nearly five o’clock. The courthouse should be closing soon—at least, I think so.
I notice that there are a few unread text messages. Liam. He must have sent them after I went into the courtroom.
The first: Do what the policeman says. Behave yourself.
I furrow my brow at the screen, confused for a moment. And then I remember the lie that I fed him before I put my phone away—that a cop was telling me to move my car, so that’s why I couldn’t text him anymore. Right. It’s getting hard to keep track of all of these lies.
I look down to read the second text message, which he sent about fifteen minutes after the first: Mardi Gras is only a few days away, you know. I’m going to show you how the real locals celebrate. I’ll be at St. Charles and Napoleon Aves. Meet me there. 10am. Tell your family that you have plans.
Somehow I imagine that whatever Liam has in mind for Mardi Gras is probably a tad racier than however the locals actually celebrate. My breath quickens as I read and then re-read his message.
Okay, I text back. What should I wear?
I’m surprised when my screen flashes immediately.
Could I convince you to wear nothing?
I gasp out loud, and then laugh softly at my own reaction. I’m so tense—I need to relax. I take another wistful look around me for a coffee shop or deli, and then return to my phone.
My thumbs rest on the screen, ready to type out a response—but what? How do I respond to that? Miranda said that men like banter, right?
It depends, I respond coyly. What do I get in return?
I’ll show up naked, too, Liam texts back.
Good sir! I type out, once again pretending to be shocked. You’ll make a lady blush.
Maybe that’s the idea, to see your cheeks turn red again, he says.
Who said I was ever talking about me?
There. Take that banter, Miranda.
Feeling satisfied with myself, I put the phone back onto the seat beside me and gaze at the entrance. Five minutes pass, then ten, and then another agonizing ten, before Judge Connelly finally shuffles through the front doors. His entire body bounces with each step, his knees wobbling beneath him. He wears a complacent smirk on his face.
From the look of him, you’d never know he was just inside, ruining a young boy’s future.
I turn the car back on. I creep forward slowly, putting a safe distance between the judge and me as he walks to his car.
I follow him cautiously through the streets. He seems to be driving carefully, at precisely the speed limit. We’ve only been driving for a few minutes when Judge Connelly pulls off the road and into a gas station. The turn is so sudden that I nearly drive right past him. I turn after him just in time; my wheels hit the side of the curb and the whole car bounces as I pull into the parking lot.
I pull up to the pump behind his. He’s already out of his car, halfway to the mini-mart to pre-pay for his gas. Almost mechanically, his hand reaches into his jacket pocket.
There’s no time to waste.
I grab the paper bag from under the passenger’s seat and bolt out of my car, leaving the door wide open behind me in my hurry. I swing open his unlocked door, finding an immaculately clean leather interior. I unscrew the top of a miniature bottle of white rum and sprinkle some of the contents onto the floor, enough so that the smell of booze is noticeable, but just barely. I slip the empty bottle into the pocket behind the driver’s seat.
I open another bottle—this one is a miniature container of plain vodka. There is a water bottle in the cup holder in between the front seats; drops of condensation cling to the inside, as if it hasn’t been touched for days. I grab it and dump the entire contents of the bottle of vodka into it.
A door slams behind me. I jump and look around nervously. Someone is leaving the mini-mart, but it’s not the judge.
But he won’t be inside for much longer, I know.
My hands begin to move more urgently, dumping out two miniature vodka bottles at once and putting the empty containers into the glove compartment. I crack the seals on the remaining two miniatures and toss the bottles onto the floor of the back seat.
My work complete, I quietly shut the front door and dash back to my car. My fingers wrap around the now-empty paper bag, crushing it into a tight ball.
I’ve barely returned to my car when the door to the mini-mart slams again. My eyes dart over to see the judge strolling back across the parking lot, a sour expression on his face. He walks up to the pump and jerks the nozzle out of its holder. He pops out the gas cap, then shoves in the nozzle. As the gas pumps, the Judge stares blankly out onto the road.
After a few seconds, his shoulders tense up, seeming to sense that someone is
watching him. His head swivels in my direction.
“What’re you looking at?” he snarls.
“Excuse me?” I say, feigning innocence.
“Didn’t your momma tell you that it was rude to stare?”
The mention of my mother makes me bristle with anger.
“Self-involved, are we? I was looking at the sign,” I say sharply, nodding my head towards a large billboard behind him. He turns to read it. It’s an innocuous picture of a plate of crawfish, advertising a local seafood restaurant.
His shoulders relax. He seems to be convinced that I wasn’t staring at him after all—even though I really was—but even so, he doesn’t apologize when he turns back around.
What a cranky, sour old man, I think to myself in irritation.
He crosses his arms, waiting impatiently for the gas tank to finish filling up.
Since it looks suspicious to stand by the pump station without actually pumping gas, I slide my credit card and grab the nozzle. I glance back over at his car and try to memorize his license plate.
“It’s fine, you don’t need to apologize,” I call over to the judge. “It’s clear that you’ve had a long day.”
He narrows his eyes at this, but otherwise ignores me.
I want to bait him, to make him angry. Something about his rigid posture indicates to me that he’s the kind of person who drives a little too fast and turns a little too roughly when he’s irritated. Ordinarily this would be the last thing I’d want to do, to unleash a reckless driver onto the streets, but I don’t intend for him to be on the road for long.
And I’m going to need him to be reckless to increase the chances that my plan will succeed.
I call out again. “So what’ve you been doing all day, anyway? It looks like it’s taken its toll on you.”
His head snaps over to me. He barks, “I am a judge of the state of Louisiana. You ought to treat me with a little more respect.”
“Oh, really? A judge?” I say, forcing a mocking tone into my voice—but in all honesty, I’m terrified. I’m the kind of girl who will bend over backwards just to avoid a confrontation. I have to summon every ounce of my courage to keep going. “So what, you spend your day doling out fines for public indecency? Real noble work you do there.”
“I dole out justice,” he spits. A vein throbs on the side of his neck.
I don’t even have to lie with what I say next. “Justice, huh? Yeah, you definitely seem like the kind of guy who gives people the justice they deserve. The punishment always fits the crime, right?”
He gives me a confused expression as he yanks the nozzle out of his car. He hops inside and slams the door. My legs tremble beneath me as I watch his car lurch back onto the road. He’s definitely driving faster than he’d been before—my plan is working. So far.
Scrambling, I lean into my car and grab my phone. I quickly tap out a number.
“Hello, this is 9-1-1. What is your emergency?” says a woman’s calm voice on the other end of the line.
“There’s a man driving really erratically and I think he’s going to hurt someone,” I say. I don’t need to fake the trembling in my voice; my heart is pounding a mile a minute. “He’s coming down Washington Avenue, just past South Lopez Street. He’s in a white sedan.” I rattle off the license plate numbers. The woman thanks me, and I hang up the phone.
Moving as quickly as I can, I close out my transaction at the pump, and then jump into my car to race down Washington Avenue, eager to see the show.
I can see flashing police lights up ahead, not at South Lopez Street but instead farther in the distance. I manage to drive forward a few blocks before I’m stopped by a traffic light. My knuckles are white against the steering wheel as I lean forward, straining to see what’s happening ahead. That’s definitely the judge’s white sedan that the cop car is pulling off to the side of the road.
The light turns green, and I speed down the road. I keep my eyes trained on the scene ahead of me, watching as the cop gets out of his car and strolls over to the judge’s window. I press down on the gas as a light ahead of me turns yellow, desperate not to be caught behind another red light. When I am only a block away, I turn to the right and into a vacant parking lot. As I pull forward, I can see clearly what’s happening in the judge’s car. I roll down the window, my ears straining.
“How many times do I have to tell you—you should just let me go right now. I. Am. A. Judge.”
“I know that, Your Honor, but the law still requires me to ask for your license and registration. The sooner you let me look at it, the sooner we can all go home,” replies the cop patiently.
“Fine,” the judge sighs. He shifts inside the car.
There’s a moment of silence, presumably as the judge opens the glove compartment. I wonder if they’ve discovered the bottles of liquor I’ve left behind.
“Your Honor, I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the car,” says the cop in a suddenly stern voice.
Oh, yeah. They found it.
I can feel my cheeks pull wide into a triumphant grin.
“Your Honor, you realize that it smells like alcohol inside your vehicle, right?” says the policeman after a minute. He calls for backup.
I watch with relish as the cop discovers the open bottles in the backseat, and then in the pocket behind the driver’s seat. He reaches for the water bottle, eyeing it suspiciously, and then unscrews the top. He immediately winces at the odor.
“Your Honor, I’m sorry to say this, but you’re going to have to come with me,” says the cop. Another police car rolls to a stop behind them, its lights flashing.
“But those aren’t mine!” Judge Connelly protests.
The cop chuckles. “I’d think that, as a judge, you’d have heard that excuse enough times by now to not use it yourself.” He turns and takes a breathalyzer from his partner. “Blow into this, please.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Your Honor, your eyes are bloodshot and I can smell alcohol on your breath. You’re not fooling anyone.”
“No, no, no! I am not legally required to. You cannot force me.”
“That’s correct, Your Honor, but then we’re going to have to take you to the station. I think you already know that.”
Judge Connelly gives the cop the deepest, most vile expression of loathing that I’ve ever seen.
“You know, not only am I a judge, but I have powerful friends in this city. Ever heard of the Hawthornes? You’re going to regret this.”
I bring my hand to my mouth, hardly able to contain my excitement.
I watch as the second cop takes the judge by the arm and guides him into the back seat of the police car. The judge nearly bumps his head on the edge of the door. He unleashes a few slurred profanities at the policemen. To their credit, they ignore him.
Your powerful friends got you into this, I think to myself. And they’re not going to get you out.
10
According to Miranda, the best way to crash any private party is to join a small cluster of people as they head inside. Preferably around your age. If you keep pace with them and fix a smile on your face like you’re having a good time, it’ll look like you’re just one of the group.
I’m amazed to find that her trick actually works as I sneak into the Hawthornes’ famous Mardi Gras celebration. Their enormous plantation house sits at the end of an alley of tall, old oak trees. A dozen white columns, ridged and two stories high, support the deep balcony that wraps around the house. It looks vaguely familiar, like something I’ve seen from a magazine. It occurs to me that I may actually have seen it in one of those home and gardening magazines on the racks at the grocery store.
A man in a white tuxedo leads us around the side of the house, where crowds of immaculately dressed people have already begun to gather in the backyard. Dozens of linen-draped tables are scattered across the lawn, each bearing bouquets of flowers and strings of beads in shades of purple, green, and gold. Servers in purple vests float from
guest to guest, holding up trays of canapés and cocktails.
Clearly the Hawthornes leave no expense spared when it comes to their gatherings.
I grab a martini off the tray of the nearest server, so it looks a little more like I actually belong here. I flit between the crowds of people, scanning for the familiar pinched faces that belong to Barbara and Charles Hawthorne.
It’s an intimate party compared to the celebration at the country club—there are only about one hundred and fifty people here—so it doesn’t take long to find them.
They’re sitting at a table toward the center of the lawn, surrounded by a crowd of admirers. Charles is wearing an emerald-colored button-down shirt to match the party’s theme, while Barbara is half-hidden beneath an enormous, floppy-brimmed hat. She sips from her martini, pulling herself away occasionally to peel her lips back into a forced laugh.
From this distance, they seem like any other stuck-up rich couple—not the cruel manipulators that they really are.
Casting a few quick glances around me, I briefly wonder if Liam is somewhere among the guests. During our date at the jazz club, it seemed like he was leaning towards skipping the party—which would work in my favor. I’m not here for him today. The incident with the judge has whetted my appetite for vengeance. For immediate gratification.
Today, I thought I’d head straight into the lion’s den and see how far I can get.
Pretend like you belong there. They’ll ignore you if they sense weakness, echoes Miranda’s voice in the back of my head. She had given me a quick, urgent pep talk over the phone before I strolled onto the estate.
“They’re not tigers, Miranda,” I had told her.
“Yeah, I know,” Miranda had replied. “They’re worse.”
And so I thrust my chin into the air and walk purposefully toward the Hawthornes’ table. As I approach, it occurs to me that, although they’ve played such a huge role in my life, I’ve never actually met them. They always seemed larger-than-life to me, like something out of a myth. As a child, I always pictured their faces as huge and superhuman.
Hush Hush #1 Page 9
