by Diana Palmer
“That’s a deal,” Becky promised, and tried not to look too relieved.
She’d done the dishes and cleaned up the living room and washed two loads of clothes while Granddad and Mack watched television. Then she supervised Mack’s homework, got him to bed, settled Granddad, took a bath, and started to go to bed herself. Before she could, however, Clay staggered into the living room, giggling and reeking of beer.
The overpowering maltish smell made her sick. Nothing in her experience had prepared her to deal with this. She stared at him with helpless fury, hating the home life that had led him into such a trap. He was at the age where he needed a man to guide him, a man’s example to follow. He was looking for a measuring stick, and instead of using Granddad, he’d found the Harris brothers.
“Oh, Clay,” she said miserably. He looked so much like her, with his brown hair and slender build, but his eyes were pure green, not hazel like hers and Mack’s and his face had a ruddy look.
He grinned at her. “I won’t be sick, you know. I smoked a joint before I tanked up on beer.” He blinked. “I’m quitting school, Becky, because it’s for wimps and retards.”
“No, you aren’t,” she said shortly. “I’m not working myself to death to watch you become a professional bum.”
He glared at her dizzily. “You’re just my sister, Becky. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Stand and watch me,” she said. “I don’t want you hanging around with those Harris boys anymore. They’re leading you right into trouble.”
“They’re my friends, and I’ll hang out with them if I want to,” he informed her. He felt wild. He’d smoked some crack, as well, and his head was about to explode. The high had been beautiful, but now that it was wearing off, he felt more depressed than ever. “I hate being poor!” he announced.
Becky glared at him. “Then get a job,” she said coldly. “I did. I got one even before I graduated from high school. I worked at three before I found this one, and took night courses so that I could land it.”
“Here we go again, Saint Becky,” he said, slurring the words. “So you work. Big deal. What do we have to show for it?! We’re dirt poor, and now that Granddad’s ill, it’ll get worse!”
She felt herself getting sick inside. She knew that, but having Clay fling it in her face didn’t help. He was drunk, she tried to tell herself, he didn’t know what he was saying. It hurt all the same.
“You selfish little boy,” she said angrily. “You ungrateful brat! I’m working myself to death, and here you are complaining that we don’t have anything!”
He swayed, sat down heavily, and took a slow breath. She probably was right, but he was too stoned to care. “Leave me alone,” he muttered, stretching out on the couch. “Just leave me alone.”
“What have you had besides beer and marijuana?” she demanded.
“A little crack,” he said drowsily. “Everybody does it. Leave me alone—I’m sleepy.”
He sprawled and closed his eyes. He was asleep at once. Becky stood over him in stunned agony. Crack. She’d never seen it, but she knew very well what it was from the news—an illegal drug. She had to stop him somehow before he got in over his head. The first step was going to be keeping him away from those Harris boys. She didn’t know how she was going to manage it, but she’d have to find a way.
She covered him with a blanket, because it was simpler to let him sleep where he was than to cope with moving him. Clay was already almost six feet tall, and he weighed more than she did. She couldn’t lift him. Crack, of all things. She didn’t have to wonder how he’d gotten it, either. His friends had probably given it to him. Well, with any luck, it would only be this once and she’d stop him before he could do it again.
She went into her bedroom and lay down on the worn coverlet in her cotton gown, feeling old. Perhaps things would look better in the morning. She could ask Reverend Fox at church to talk to Clay—that might do a little good. Kids needed something to hold on to, to get them through the hard times. Drugs and religion were opposite ends of a security blanket, and religion was certainly preferable. Her own faith had taken her through some storms.
She closed her eyes and slept. The next morning, she got Mack off to school, but Clay wouldn’t get up.
“We’ll talk when I get home,” she told him firmly. “You aren’t going out with those boys again.”
“Want to bet?” he asked her, his eyes challenging. “Stop me. What can you do?”
“Wait and see,” she replied, mentally praying she could think of something.
She went to work worrying about it. She’d settled Granddad and asked him to talk to Clay, but he seemed to want to hide his head in the sand about Clay’s difficult behavior. Perhaps it was the fact that he’d failed so miserably with Scott, his son, and couldn’t admit that he was failing again with his grandson. The old man had a double dose of pride.
Maggie glanced at her as she sat brooding at her desk. “Anything I can do?” she asked softly, so that nobody else could hear.
“No, but thank you,” Becky told her with a smile. “You’re a nice lady, Maggie.”
“Just a fellow human being,” the older woman corrected. “Life has storms, but they pass. Just hang on to the tree until the wind stops, that’s all you have to do. After all, Becky, no wind blows forever, good or bad.”
Becky laughed. “I’ll try to remember that.”
And she did. Right up until that afternoon when the call came from the magistrate’s office, informing her that Clay had been picked up for drug possession. Mr. Gillen, the magistrate, told her that he’d called the D.A. and they’d both talked to Clay, after which they’d sent him over to the juvenile detention center while they decided whether or not to book him. He had a pocketful of crack when he’d been picked up, drunk, in the company of the Harris boys outside town.
The decision to press charges for felony possession was up to the D.A., Mr. Gillen said, and Becky could bet that if Kilpatrick had enough evidence, he’d go for a conviction. He was very hard on people who dealt drugs.
Becky thanked Gillen for telephoning her personally and walked immediately into Bob Malcolm’s office to ask for advice.
Mr. Malcolm patted her absently on the shoulder after he’d closed the door, to spare her any scrutiny by people in the waiting room.
“What do I do? What can I do?” Becky asked him miserably. “They say he’s got over an ounce and a half on him. That it could mean a felony charge.”
“Becky, it’s your father who should do something,” he said firmly.
“He isn’t in town right now,” she said. Well, it was true. He hadn’t been in town for two years, and he hadn’t been responsible for his children ever. “And my grandfather isn’t well,” she added. “He has a bad heart.”
Bob Malcolm shook his head and sighed. He said, after a minute, “Okay. We’ll go see the D.A. and try to talk to him. I’ll phone and make an appointment. Maybe we can make a deal.”
“With Mr. Kilpatrick? I thought you said he didn’t make deals,” she said nervously.
“It depends on the severity of the charge, and how much evidence he has. He doesn’t like to waste the taxpayer’s money on a trial he can’t win. We’ll see.”
He spoke to the D.A.’s secretary and was told that Rourke Kilpatrick had a few minutes free right now.
“We’ll be right up,” he told her and hung up. “Let’s go, Becky.”
“I hope he’s in a good mood,” she said, and glanced in the mirror. Her hair was neatly in its bun, her face pale even with its hint of pastel makeup. But her red plaid wool skirt showed its three years, and her black shoes were scuffed and scratched. The cuffs on her long-sleeved white blouse were frayed, and her slender hands showed the ravages of the work she did on the farm. She was no lady of leisure and there were lines in her face that should never have been noticeable in a woman her age. She was afraid she wouldn’t make much of an impression on Mr. Kilpatrick. She looked what she was—an overworked, ov
erresponsible country woman with no sophistication at all. And maybe that would work in her favor. She couldn’t let Clay go to prison. She owed her mother that much. She’d failed him too many times already.
Mr. Kilpatrick’s secretary was tall and dark-haired and very professional. She greeted Mr. Malcolm and Becky warmly.
“He’s waiting for you,” she said, gesturing toward the closed office door. “You can go right in.”
“Thanks, Daphne,” Mr. Malcolm replied. “Come on, Becky, chin up.”
He knocked briefly at the door and opened it, letting Becky precede him. He shouldn’t have. She stopped dead at the face she met across the big wooden desk piled high with legal documents.
“You!” she exclaimed involuntarily.
He put down the thin black cigar he was smoking and stood up. He didn’t acknowledge the exclamation or smile or make any kind of attempt at a formal greeting. He looked just as intimidating as he had in the elevator, and just as cold.
“You didn’t need to bring your secretary to take notes,” he told Bob Malcolm. “If you want to plea bargain, I’ll stick to what I tell you after I hear the facts. Sit down.”
“It’s the Cullen case.”
“The juvenile.” Kilpatrick nodded. “The boys he’s running with are scum. The younger Harris boy has been pushing drugs in the local high school between classes. His brother deals everything from crack to horse, and he’s already got one conviction for attempted robbery. That time he walked in and out of juvenile hall, but he’s of age now. If I catch him again, I’ll send him up.”
Becky had been sitting stock-still. “And the Cullen boy?” she asked in a husky whisper.
Kilpatrick gave her a cold glare. “I’m talking to Malcolm, not to you.”
“You don’t understand,” she said heavily. “Clay Cullen is my brother.”
His dark brown, almost black eyes narrowed and he gave her a look that made her feel half an inch high. “Cullen is a name I know. Another Cullen was in here a few years ago on a robbery charge. The victim refused to testify and he got off. I would have gone for a conviction without parole if I’d gotten him to trial. Any kin to you?”
She flinched. “My father.”
Kilpatrick didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His level stare told her exactly what he thought of her family. You’re wrong, she wanted to say. We’re not all like that. But before she could even speak, he turned back to Malcolm. “Am I right in assuming that you’re representing your secretary and her brother?”
“No,” Becky began, thinking of the legal fees she couldn’t afford to pay.
“Yes,” Bob Malcolm interrupted. “It’s a first offense, and the boy is a hardship case.”
“The boy is a sullen, uncooperative young brat,” he corrected. “I’ve already spoken to him. I don’t consider him a hardship case,” Kilpatrick said curtly.
Becky could imagine how Clay would react to a man like Kilpatrick. The boy had no respect at all for men—not with the example his father had set. “He’s not a bad boy,” she pleaded. “It’s the company he’s keeping. Please, I’ll try to work with him…”
“Your father’s done a great job of that already,” Kilpatrick said, totally unaware of the real situation at home as he went for her throat with sickening ease, his dark brown eyes stabbing into hers as he leaned back with his cigar between his big fingers. “There’s no point in letting the boy back on the streets unless his home situation changes. He’ll just do the same thing again.”
Her hazel eyes met his dark ones. “Do you have a brother, Mr. Kilpatrick?”
“Not to my knowledge, Miss Cullen.”
“If you had one, you might understand how I feel. This is the first time he’s done anything like this. It’s like throwing out the baby with the bathwater.”
“This baby was in possession of illegal drugs. Cocaine, to be exact, and not just cocaine—crack.” He leaned forward, looking more Indian than ever, his level, unblinking stare faintly dangerous. “He needs guidance. You and your father quite obviously aren’t capable of giving it to him.”
“That was a low blow, Kilpatrick,” Bob Malcolm said tautly.
“It was an accurate one,” he returned without apology. “At this age, boys don’t change without help. He should have gotten that in the beginning, and it may be too late already.”
“But…!” Becky said.
“Your brother is damned lucky he didn’t get caught peddling any of that poison on the street!” he said shortly. “I hate drug pushers. I’ll go to any lengths to prosecute them.”
“But he isn’t a pusher,” Becky said huskily, her big hazel eyes wet with tears.
Kilpatrick hadn’t felt compassion in a long time, and he didn’t like it. He averted his eyes. “Not yet,” he agreed. He sighed angrily, glancing from Becky to Malcolm. “All right. Gillen, the magistrate, says he’ll go along with whatever I decide. The boy denies possession. He says that he didn’t know how it got in his jacket, and the only witnesses are the Harris boys. They, of course, back his story to the hilt,” he added with a cold smile.
“In other words,” Bob said with a faint smile, “you don’t have much of a case.”
“Chorus and verse,” Kilpatrick agreed. “This time,” Kilpatrick said with a meaningful glance at Becky. “I’ll drop the charges.”
Becky felt sick with relief. “Can I see him?” she asked huskily. She was too badly hurt to say any more, and this man hated her. She’d get no sympathy or help from him.
“Yes. I’ll want Brady at juvenile hall to talk to the boy, and there’ll be a condition for the release. Now, go away. I have work to do.”
“Okay, we’ll get out of the way,” Malcolm said, rising. “Thanks, Kilpatrick,” he said formally.
Kilpatrick got up, too. He stuck one hand in his pocket, staring at Rebecca’s tragic face with mixed emotions. He felt sorry for her, and he didn’t want to. He wondered why her father hadn’t come with her. She was very thin, and the sadness in her oval face was disturbing. It surprised him that it bothered him. These days, very little did. She wasn’t the cocky, amusing companion he’d had several elevator rides with. Not now. She looked totally without hope.
He saw them out the door and went back into his office without a word to his secretary.
“We’ll go over to juvenile hall,” Bob Malcolm was telling Becky as he put her into the elevator and pressed the sixth floor button. “Everything will be all right. If Kilpatrick can’t prove his case, he won’t pursue it. Clay can leave with us.”
“He wouldn’t even listen to me,” she said huskily.
“He’s a hard man. Probably the best D.A. this county’s had in a long time, but sometimes he can be inflexible. Not an easy man to face across a courtroom, either.”
“I can understand that.”
BECKY WENT TO JUVENILE HALL to see her brother after work. She was ushered into a tiny meeting room to wait for him. Clay walked in fifteen minutes later, looking frightened and belligerent all at once.
“Hi, Becky,” he said with a cocky grin. “They didn’t beat me, so you don’t need to worry. They won’t send me to jail. I’ve talked with two other kids who know the ropes. They say juvenile hall is just a slap on the wrist because we’re underage. I’ll beat this rap sitting down.”
“Thank you,” she told him, stiff-lipped and cold-eyed. “Thank you for your generous consideration of your grandfather’s feelings and mine. It’s nice to know that you love us enough to become notorious on our behalf.”
Clay was wild, but he had a heart. He toned down instantly and dropped his eyes.
“Now, tell me what happened,” she said shortly, sitting down across from him after Mr. Brady, the juvenile officer on Clay’s case, joined them.
“Didn’t they tell you?” Clay asked.
“You tell me,” she countered.
He gave her a long look and shrugged. “I was drunk,” he muttered, twisting his hands over his jeans-clad legs. “They said let’s do so
me crack, and I just nodded. I flaked out in the back seat and didn’t come to until the police stopped us. My pockets were full of the stuff. I don’t know how it got there. Honest, Becky,” he added. His sister and brother and grandfather were the only people on earth he loved. He hated what he’d done, but he was too proud to admit it. “I sobered up real good after Kilpatrick talked to me.”
“Possession of illegal drugs alone could get you a prison term of up to ten years, if the D.A. decided to try you as an adult,” Mr. Brady interjected with a level glance. “And you may not be out of the woods yet. Mr. Kilpatrick, the district attorney, would very much like to nail you to the wall.”
“He can’t. I’m a juvenile.”
“Only for another year. And reform school wouldn’t appeal to you, young man. I can promise you that.”
Clay looked subdued, and a little less belligerent. He twisted his hands in his lap. “I won’t go to jail, will I?”
“Not this time,” the juvenile officer said. “But don’t underestimate Kilpatrick. Your father was pretty arrogant when he beat the robbery charge, and that didn’t endear your family to the D.A. He’s a very moral man. He doesn’t like lawbreakers. It would do you good to remember that. He still thinks your father threatened that victim to keep him from talking.”
“Dad was arrested?” Clay began.
“Never mind,” Becky said, stiffening her features.
He glanced at her, noticing reluctantly the strain in her face, the sadness. He felt a twinge of conscience.
“I’ll say this once,” Mr. Brady told Clay. “You’ve got a chance to keep your nose clean. If you throw it away, no one is going to be able to help you—not your sister or me. You may beat the rap for a while, as long as you’re a juvenile. But you’re seventeen. And if the crime is severe enough, the district attorney would be within his authority to have you prosecuted as an adult. If you keep messing around with drugs, inevitably you’ll serve time. I wish I could show you what that means. Our prisons are overcrowded, and even the best of them are hellholes for young offenders. If you don’t like being ordered around by your sister, you sure as hell aren’t going to like being some older boy’s imitation girlfriend.” He stared at Clay. “Do you understand what I mean, son? They’d pass you around like a new toy.”
