and worn look of the back of his suit don't do anything to build my confidence in him.
The prosecuting lawyer mirrors Dad's, the suit a dark grey, but the same pressed look, like these guys are hung up in a closet every night on hangers and pulled out every morning, factory made.
My fingers twitch. Should I tap the lawyer on the shoulder and whisper the truth about Dad working undercover? I'm about to when Mom clutches my hand, her fingers icy cold. She presses into my skin, gripping hard, as if begging that if we stand together, then Dad will be released. I can't bear to pull my hand away.
The judge enters, her black robes swishing around her ankles. Her glasses are perched on the end of her nose, and her mouth settles into a permanent scowl. Another factory-made professional.
Maybe if Mom passed around her famous chocolate chip scones, everyone would smile. I remember the day Mom opened the coffee shop. Dad said no to the idea at first, but Mom's like a stubborn tulip in April. She kept prodding and poking around for a chance in the way of cheap rent. And she found it, right under our apartment when the fortune telling/tattoo shop closed.
Back then, Mom started every day with a smile. She fretted over what to put on the walls and where to find tables. They found the tables when the bar down the road made room for billiards. And the day the shop opened, Mom and I found the framed paintings covering the walls. Dad scarfed them up from a yard sale on the other side of town. Mom had never been happier.
The sharp echo of the gavel brings me back to the cold room and the hard bench.
10:07 a.m.
The door opens again.
My stomach tightens up like Big D's fist. Mom squeezes my hand like I'm a toddler on the subway. It hurts. I bite on the side of my mouth and ignore the pain.
Soft footsteps fall. I swivel in my seat.
Dad definitely looks different than the guy from last night. A tweed coat hangs on him that appears to be from cousin Tommy too. Apart from the suit and the pale face, he smiles like he just strolled off a cruise ship. As he whisks by, he winks. In that one wink are a thousand words, except I can't make the translation. Does it mean I should speak up? Or not?
What happened to my dad from last night? Did he sneak back into jail? Or did I truly hallucinate?
Joseph Brodie always fills a room like royalty. His swagger and smile draw people toward him like a magnet. At family gatherings, he tells the most jokes. He shares the funniest stories. And people love him. Even Great Aunt Fiona, who doesn't like anyone.
Hopefully, the judge will see this man doesn't deserve to be in the slammer, but in his home, with his family.
Or, maybe, I need to make her see.
10:10 a.m.
The judge calls the room to order.
The words, the questions, the statements all become one big buzz.
My foot taps. I grip the bench in front of me. My heart pounds out the truth. Only I can help Dad. A decision. I'll know when. It has to be today. Soon.
The judge with her stone cold voice calls forth the evidence.
Like one of Big D's punches, I shoot up from the bench. My heart hammers, and my mouth is dry so my voice squeaks out. "No!"
The judge turns the icy glare of the judicial system on me.
Mom yanks on my arm.
"You have to know the truth!" My voice sounds small and insignificant.
Dad turns in his seat and places a finger to his lips.
I doubt. I teeter on the edge.
Maybe I'm wrong, and this isn't the right time. No one else in the courtroom is looking at Joseph Brodie. All eyes are riveted on his son. But I stare at Dad, searching, hoping for an answer.
Dad shakes his head back and forth.
No. This isn't the right time. This slight motion from Dad is a needle. The balloon bursts in my chest, and my breath whooshes out. I sink onto the bench. My face burns. Mom squeezes my shoulder.
After casting me a warning look, the judge calls forth the evidence again, this time with a touch of annoyance in her voice.
Pictures of diamonds.
Testimonies of the guards.
The security guard uniform worn by the thief.
The video camera tape.
Mom clutches her purse to her chest. Pins and needles sting my cheeks and my mouth fills with saliva. I sway, not sure if I'm dizzy from hitting my head or from the truth that chills the room. My stomach churns. I need to throw up. The same pictures, the same evidence, but somehow, four years later, the clues pile up and scream guilty.
The judge scowls as her gaze flicks back and forth between the evidence and Dad, whose shoulders are a bit more hunched.
Mom pinches my arm. "Go, Jack. Now. Wait in the hallway." She shoves crumpled dollar bills into my hand. "Get a snack at the vending machines."
I can usually wheedle my way into extra allowance, or more television time, or having the guys over. This time is different. I stumble out of the room without so much as a second glance at Dad.
10:25 a.m.
Mom's words pound in my head. Get a snack. Get a snack.
But the very thought causes my stomach to churn. I sprint down one hallway and then another, the walls seem to narrow every turn. The air brushes my face and ripples my hair, whispering.
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
Memories flash in my mind. Of the beach. The smell of the salt air and cry of the seagulls. Dad and I playing catch with old gloves and a tennis ball. Peeling Mom away from her trashy romance novel for a game. She put up a fuss but ended up hitting homers. Body surfing in the crashing waves. Over and over again, the frothy water closing over our heads and washing us ashore. We popped up, shrieking, and headed back for more. The water was freezing and turned our legs and arms pink. We laughed.
As quick as the memory comes, it fades, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
My neck prickles. It's back.
I press against the wall, looking left and right. Someone's here. Someone's watching me. I feel it.
Black flashes down the hallway. Looks like a black jacket. Maybe a tuxedo jacket.
Maybe it's Dad. The dad from last night. Not the one in the courtroom. Or have I gone completely crazy? One person can't be in two places at the same time. And the last I knew, prison didn't have revolving doors. I have to find out the truth.
I sprint, arms pumping. I turn down hallways. But he's always one step ahead.
I turn a corner and he's dashing down a different one. Why won't he stop?
"Dad!" My voice bounces off the walls.
It's like I'm chasing a ghost. He flits in and out of my sight. I sprint down a third hall, then finally slow. My chest heaves.
He's gone.
The evidence stacked against my dad flashes through my mind. I can't stop them. Over and over. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
I press my hand over my mouth. A trashcan. The pressure builds in my stomach. I grip the black plastic, stick my head into the darkness, and puke. When my stomach stops convulsing, I lean against the concrete wall and slide to the floor. I wipe my mouth on the sleeve of Tommy's suit.
I drop my head to my knees and rub the lump on my head. More memories come, but not of sunshine and laughter.
Memories I never bothered with until now. Late night meetings. Dad and his buddies. Low voices. The clink of bottles.
Other nights, Mom's soft crying drifted over, through the laughter on the television. Raised voices. But I never heard words. Maybe Mom tried to convince Joseph Brodie to take a nine-to-five job at Waldo's Gas and Go.
If she did, he never listened.
Was my dad a thief or the respected self-employed businessman everyone loved?
10:35 a.m.
"Need help?"
I stare at the man and immediately dismiss him. My mind is back in the courtroom. The disapproving scowl and lowered eyebrows on Dad's face, the slight shake of his head when I tried to help. Of course I couldn't announce to the world my dad works undercover, but what else could I do? What the hell di
d Dad mean that I'm the only one who can help?
The man nods. "Name's Frank."
I focus. Another old man. Another wrinkled suit.
He leans comfortable and casual-like against the opposite wall, his lips forming a smirk, and his hat cocked forward like some gangster from the twenties. The smirk breaks into a smile that reflects happy times and a happy family. I already hate him.
Dad used to look and act confident and suave. A tiny spring of bitterness opens.
Frank puckers his lips and blows across his coffee. Steam curls into the air creating a misty cloud in front of his nose and eyes. "Nothing like a cup of hot coffee to start the day."
The urge to fling the man's cup across the room makes my fingers twitch and slowly curl into a fist.
"Appreciate your youth, son. And your keen mind, while you still got it."
"I'm not your son." I speak through clenched teeth.
"Oh, right." Frank's smirk turns into a sympathetic grin. "Sorry about that."
Mom is probably tapping her toes against the cold tiled floor, glancing at her watch, and searching the halls for me. "I gotta go-"
I stop. I blink. Everything else temporarily forgotten. Frank's in the middle of some lame joke, and his nose is sliding off his face.
I watch in fascination. I've seen many strange things at high school. The volunteer on Thursdays, who helps struggling readers wears a different wig each week, and one of the lunchroom ladies is completely bald. No one knows her story. But a story of a man with a sliding nose will beat them all.
"What do you think?" Frank asks.
"Um?"
Frank senses that a part of his face is falling off. "Damn steam." He dumps his coffee in the trash, then pushes
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