Fire and Flint

by Andrew Grey

  “It will be all right. I’m not sure how, but I know it will be.” He had to stay as positive as he possibly could for his mom and for Jeremiah. He had no choice. That was part of being a parent, to take on the worries and troubles so Jeremiah didn’t have to. “Pierre is here with me, and he’s trying to help.”

  “Do they want Jeremiah there?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll be there too, and put the end of this bullsquirt. People don’t get to go around spreading lies and get away with it.” The tiger was making an appearance again, and Pierre tightened his hug. “And I know you always think you have to go it alone, but you don’t. I’m here for you.” And so was Pierre, judging by how tightly Jordan was being held.

  “I appreciate all the help and support,” Jordan told her. “Pierre just got here. Right now, I’m going to make some dinner. I’ll call you tomorrow. I need to leave a message for the lawyer.” It wasn’t as though he was going to be able to do this alone. And he wasn’t. Jordan was just beginning to realize that he was surrounded by people who cared. “I promise I’ll call if we hear anything more.”

  “Okay. I have lunch with my garden club tomorrow, but if you need me, I’ll be over. The ladies will understand. Give Jeremiah a hug for me.” She hung up, and Jordan pushed his phone back into his pocket with a fumbling hand.

  “How is your mom taking this?” Pierre whispered.

  “She’s worried.” He turned in Pierre’s embrace. “She’ll be there on Monday to provide support and another voice for the judge to hear. Will you be able to be there?” He felt almost adrift on a sea on insecurity and needed to reassure himself.

  “Of course I’ll be there.” Pierre kissed him. “I need to make a few phone calls to see if I can find out some more about what’s happening.” He gently patted Jordan on the shoulder. “The more we know, the more we’ll have in our arsenal to fight with.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can you give me an hour?” Pierre said, and Jordan nodded.

  “I’ll get some dinner.” He turned and went to the kitchen. Jordan needed something to do to keep his mind occupied, and cooking was as good as anything. “Jeremiah, do you want to help me?”

  “Yeah!” Jeremiah jumped up and raced over. “I’ll help!”

  Jordan wheeled a stool to the counter and lifted Jeremiah onto it. He opened the refrigerator to pull out some grapes and placed them in a bowl, intending to make a fruit salad. “Can you pull all these off the stems for me?” He ticked Jeremiah’s belly, giggles driving away the nagging worry.

  Jeremiah rolled his eyes. “Yes, Daddy. I’m not a baby.” He got to work, popping the first grape in his mouth. Jordan gave him a second bowl, and he started filling it.

  Jordan’s phone beeped with a message from Brad. How is it going?

  We’re hanging in there, he returned.

  Is Jeremiah feeling better? I’m sorry I’ve been traveling. I’m in Chicago now and I have another week away. We’ll have to get together so I can see you guys when I get back.

  Awesome. That sounds good. Travel safe.

  Jordan got flank steak out of the refrigerator, which he’d marinated with soy sauce and Worcestershire sauce, as well as garlic and onion. He got it ready to go on the broiler, then turned on the unit to heat and pulled out the other fruit.

  “If you could call him, I’d really appreciate it. I know you’re friends and this is really important,” Pierre said a little loudly from the living room. “I’ve met him, of course, but….”

  Jordan did his best to keep his attention on his cooking and not to worry about who Pierre was trying to get in touch with. He nearly cut his finger twice as he cored and cut his peaches for the salad.

  “Daddy,” Jeremiah scolded as Jordan set the knife down, swearing under his breath. “That’s not very nice.”

  “I know.” He counted to ten to settle his temper and to try to calm his jitteriness. What a difference a few hours could make. He’d been fine and happy, even excited for the weekend. Now he was a bundle of nerves. “You’re doing great.” He walked around and gave Jeremiah a gentle squeeze. He needed him close.

  “Thanks so much!” Pierre boomed as he came in. “I’ll wait to hear.” He set down the phone. “What can I do to help?”

  Jordan motioned to the nearest stool. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” He was dying of curiosity. “There’s no need for suspense.”

  Pierre’s phone vibrated and he snatched it up, leaving the room. Jordan knew he had to trust that whatever Pierre was doing was to help, but he wanted to know and was seconds from following him, demanding an explanation. Instead, he concentrated on finishing dinner with Jeremiah’s help.

  “Okay, what’s happening?” Jordan asked when Pierre joined him again, this time smiling.

  “Well, we all have a lunch appointment tomorrow. I called Billy at Café Belgie, and he called Judge Fortier, who has agreed to meet with us tomorrow. Judge Fortier’s husband works for Billy’s husband. I’m going to tell him everything—what we’ve found and what we suspect. We can’t do this alone, without some sort of help, and we need advice. So we’re going to meet at the Café Belgie at a little after noon. There is only so much he can do to help us, but he said he’d listen.”

  “How much have you already told him?” Jordan asked nervously.

  “Enough that he was willing to listen.” Pierre wriggled his fingers across Jeremiah’s belly, and he nearly toppled the bowl of grapes, he giggled so much. “Are you gonna come with us and have some special french fries like we had before?”

  Jordan finally let go of some of the worry. At least they might have someone in their corner. “One of these days, you’re going to turn into a special french fry.” He snatched Jeremiah off the stool and twirled him around. He needed his son’s laughter right now to buoy his spirits.

  “Daddy, I’m hungry,” Jeremiah cried between fits of glee. Jordan set him back down on the stool, smiling. He knew everything was still up in the air, but they had friends… he hoped.

  “Then I need to get the meat in to cook so I can finish the salad. What else do you want?” Jordan asked Jeremiah.

  “Beans!”

  “Okay.” Jordan got a package of beans out of the freezer and put them in the steamer bowl. He added some minced onion and popped it in the microwave. “He loves his green beans almost as much as his french fries.” Jeremiah was a great eater; Jordan was very lucky in that regard.

  “You can help me set the table for your daddy,” Pierre said.

  They got the dishes and Jeremiah set the table. Very little ended up in the right place, but that didn’t matter. They were all working together, the way things had been when he was a kid. Sunday lunch was always about the family. Mom would cook or his dad would grill out, and it had been Jordan’s job to set the table. He smiled as Pierre explained to Jeremiah where each piece went, and Jeremiah moved everything around until he was happy.

  “You did a good job.” Jordan turned the meat, checking to make sure it wasn’t getting overdone, and set the oven door ajar again. The scent of broiling steak was heavenly, filling the condo, making him hungrier by the second. He continued fixing dinner, taking the meat out to rest and then cutting it on the diagonal before bringing everything to the table.

  The house smelled of rich food, and when Jordan sat down to eat, next to Pierre, a new yet familiar scent joined the rest—rich, warm… tantalizing. They ate and talked about surprisingly normal things. Pierre told him about his day and the people he’d interviewed. Jordan talked about how quiet things were at the courthouse since it was a Friday and everyone usually had things wrapped up. They avoided the real topic of the day in deference to Jeremiah. There was no need to worry him. Jordan was doing enough of that for the both of them.

  The idea of losing Jeremiah made his appetite run the other way. Jordan ate a few small bites and mostly moved the food around his plate. He turned to Jeremiah and forced a smile, getting a genuine one in return.
How could he ever say goodbye…? Completing that thought was a knife in his side. Jordan turned to Pierre and then back to Jeremiah, then back again. The two of them shared stories and laughed, Jeremiah talking a mile a minute, Pierre listening.

  Jordan pulled himself out of his thoughts. “You know, you can be a tree man if you want to.”

  “Grammy said there were no such things as half men, half trees,” Jeremiah responded seriously. “Grammy never lies.”

  “Not those kind of tree men.” Pierre set down his fork. “They’re called arborists and tree surgeons. They help trees grow healthy and take care of them when they’re sick. You could be one of those if you wanted.”

  Jeremiah seemed satisfied, and Pierre took Jordan’s hand under the table and squeezed it, showing he understood how difficult this was.

  “If I let myself, I can imagine we’re a family,” Jordan whispered. It was what he wanted, a family of his own. “But there’s a fourth member now.” He didn’t want to name it out loud, but fear had entered the room and sat in the other chair, staring back at him. He had black eyes, a sallow face, and radiated darkness in every direction. Of course, he was only a figment of Jordan’s dramatic imagination. There was no actual figure—it just felt like he’d taken up residence for the last few weeks, ever since Jordan had first found that fucking file.

  “Daddy, I’m done. Can I go play?” Jeremiah held up his empty plate. “It was really good.” He licked his lips, and Jordan excused him from the table.

  “I’m tired of being afraid,” Jordan told Pierre once Jeremiah had settled in the living room. He’d turned on the television, and the soundtrack of SpongeBob drifted in. Jordan hated that show, but kept his opinion to himself. There was nothing wrong with it, he guessed, but it drove him crazy.

  “Then don’t be.” Pierre stopped eating and took both Jordan’s hands in his. “In my job, fear can give you an edge and make you sharp. It keeps us on our toes. But if we let it take over, fear will force us to make bad decisions and put ourselves in danger.”

  “Platitudes,” Jordan said. “You’re really going to give me platitudes at a time like this?” His hand shook, so Pierre held it tighter.

  “It’s not. This is real. I know you’re scared, and I am too.” Pierre shifted his gaze to where Jeremiah sat cross-legged, looking at the television. “I don’t want anything to happen to either of you. But you can’t let fear stop you from thinking clearly.”

  Jordan took a deep breath to try to calm some of the rage that coursed through him. He took another and then turned back to Pierre. “What do we do?”

  “Part of it is done. We have lunch tomorrow with Judge Fortier, where we lay out what we have. I’m hoping he’ll tell us that we have enough to open an inquiry. That should give us some cover in the hearing if we need it. We can’t accuse Judge Crawford of anything directly, but we can refer to an inquiry that is being brought before the judicial review board. If the source of this hearing is Judge Crawford, then we should be able to cast some doubt on his motives.”

  Pierre’s plan did indeed sound good to him.

  “What I don’t understand is, why didn’t he just fire me?” Jordan asked. “He acts like nothing is happening.”

  Pierre let go of his hand and stood to clear the dishes. “Everything I’ve been able to gather about Judge Crawford indicates that he works in the shadows. Nothing is out in the open. Evidence just disappears or motions get approved. He always seems to have viable reasoning, but it doesn’t hold up later. However, it’s enough to get him what he wants.” Pierre set the dishes in the sink. “Firing you would be too visible, and too many people would ask why. You do have rights as an employee, and he would have to answer prying questions. Everyone knows you’re good at your job, so doing that would only bring more attention to him—something he doesn’t want.”

  Jordan had to agree with that. He never should have taken the job with the snake in the first place. It had been a good opportunity, or at least he’d thought so at the time. Now that decision was causing his worst nightmare. “But I never did anything except my job.”

  “I know that. He doesn’t.” Pierre returned to the table and sat back down. “Look at it from the perspective of a very guilty conscience. You find the file that he’s hidden there, and he isn’t sure if you’ve seen it or not because he sees you working with the old files. There are the letters he’s receiving, which freak him out because they could be related to his little side business. He sees us together out on what looks like a date, and what if you did find that file and tell me about it? To make matters worse, I’m digging to find the letter writer, and when I do, he freaks the hell out because his worst nightmare is coming true. He doesn’t press charges because he doesn’t want him talking to us. Then he hears through his cronies that I’ve been talking to a number of people… suddenly he’s scared shitless, and the only way he can get to both of us is through you.”

  It made sense in a strange, twisted sort of way. In Jordan’s experience, most judges observed courtroom procedures and commanded respect. It came with the job and was expected. In fact, many judges had worked a lot of years to earn their spot on the bench, so they were worth respecting. Judge Crawford used the bench as a power platform. Courtroom procedures were followed in a punitive, “lord it over others” way. That was completely different from keeping order and following the law and accepted practices.

  “But what will he do when this all falls apart? Because it will. I haven’t done anything to deserve this kind of treatment. Social workers, family, you—everyone can see that.”

  Pierre blew out air through his lips. “I don’t know, and I wonder if he’s becoming unbalanced. Though I tend to think he knows exactly what he’s doing.” Pierre gathered the last of the plates. “You cooked, so I’ll take care of the dishes. You’ll need to help me put them away, but I’ll clean them.”

  “That isn’t necessary.” Jordan smiled as he sat back. It was nice having someone do the simple things for him. “But I appreciate it.”

  Pierre turned, smiled, and came back over to stand behind him, stroking his shoulders before leaning over. “I never really appreciated the little things before.”

  Jordan looked up and kissed him. “You’re going to have to explain that one to me.”

  Pierre massaged his shoulders. “I had a boyfriend a couple years ago. It didn’t last long. He was all about the grand gesture—going away for a weekend to a big fancy hotel in New York, or a week in a luxury beach house. At first it was fun. But I can’t afford things like that, and Barty expected me to reciprocate. I tried, but I didn’t make what he did, and when he realized I couldn’t keep up, he moved on to someone else.” Pierre shook his head. “I got over him pretty quickly, but I really learned something. The people you love and who love you don’t need the grand gesture. It’s the simple things that matter, like making dinner or doing the dishes.” He cupped Jordan’s cheek, and Jordan leaned into the warmth.

  “We never had a lot growing up, so Mom and I were always about the little things. The settlement money only went so far, and she wanted to make sure I could go to college. I guess I never thought about the grand gesture because I never had that. I don’t need it either.” Jordan turned. “But I think I’m getting it anyway.” He reached up. “Most guys would run the other way with everything going on. Why aren’t you?”

  Pierre chuckled. “It takes more than a rogue judge, threats, and possible incarceration to scare me off.” He leaned closer, wrapping his arms around Jordan. “I need to get started on these dishes. Why don’t you go in and spend some time with Jeremiah? I’ll join you as soon as I can.” Pierre squeezed him and then backed away, heading to the sink.

  Jordan took his advice, sitting on the floor next to Jeremiah. Once the program ended, he turned off the television, and Jeremiah hauled out a puzzle, which the two of them started to put together. Jordan let Jeremiah put the pieces down, offering vocal help, but nothing more.

  “Who’s that going to
be?” Pierre asked when they were about halfway done.

  “BB-8,” Jeremiah answered without looking up.

  “One of the kids at school brought in one of the robot toys, and Jeremiah got to play with it. So now he likes BB-8. He hasn’t seen the movie yet.” Jordan was worried it was too violent.

  Pierre sat down on the sofa, and when they had finished the puzzle, it was bath time, and then Jeremiah got into his pj’s. He watched one more cartoon before Jordan put him to bed, read him a story, and then joined Pierre on the sofa.

  “He’s sound asleep.” Jordan sat down, and Pierre tugged him close. “I was reading him his story and kept wondering what I was going to do if I couldn’t do that anymore.” Jordan turned, burying his face in Pierre’s shirt. He didn’t want him to see him cry, but he was too scared to do anything else. “I knew it was going to be difficult enough as a single gay man adopting a kid. I knew it. But I was so close and everything had been going fine until….” He clenched Pierre’s shirt.

  “None of this is your fault. You’re a good, loving parent. I can see that, and so can the people who know you.” Pierre held him, carding his fingers through his hair. “We’ll fight whatever happens with everything we have.” Pierre held him tighter. “I’m going to go into the station in the morning. There are a few more people I want to try to speak with. I’ll meet you at the restaurant at noon.”

  “More possible victims?”

  “Yes. I’m putting together a pretty good picture of what’s been happening, but everything is nibbling around the edge and could be argued away as innocent. And unfortunately that’s what the judge is going to do. I’ll keep looking to build the case.”

  He sighed, and Jordan clung to him. He needed this to be over and for the whole situation to come to an end so he could concentrate on his family. Jordan hoped more than anything that when this was truly over, Pierre would want to be part of that family. He knew he had to try to trust that things would work out.

  Chapter 7