Ain’t He Precious?

by Juliette Poe

  “Hello?” I answer as I pick up.

  “Hey, Trix,” a twangy yet sugary voice says on the other end. “It’s Kelsie.”

  “Hey, Kelsie,” I say back to the clerk of courts. She’s a good friend of mine and not just because she sends work my way. If someone gets arrested in this county and needs an attorney, she’ll call me over. But, more importantly, we like to hang out in Chesty’s to play darts and drink beer on the weekends. She’s as single as I am, and we know there aren’t any prospects in Pap’s bar, but it’s just what we do.

  “Listen… we’ve got a case here,” she says slowly.

  “I can’t,” I say quickly. I’ve got more important things to do like stare at Ry’s back and be here in case he needs to talk about the Ogletree case.

  Or about life in general, in which there would be no harm in throwing in a bit of harmless flirting if we were to do that, right?

  “It’s Lowe,” she says quietly, and that causes me to sit up ramrod straight in my chair.

  “What?” I snap into the phone.

  My brother Lowe?

  “He was just arrested for trespassing, assault, and destruction of private property,” she says softly into the phone. Almost apologetically. “He’s going to be appearing before Judge Bowe soon.”

  I shout a stream of four letter words into the phone, surging out of my chair.

  I vaguely hear Ry’s chair being scraped across the old wooden floors, and then he’s standing in my doorway, looking worried. I hate the sound of begging in my voice when I say to her, “Surely there’s a mistake.”

  “Sorry, Trix,” Kelsie says. “He apparently boarded up all the doors to the Mainer House and wouldn’t let the work crew in. He had a shotgun, thus the assault charge.”

  The assault charge is serious, and he didn’t even have to hurt another individual or lay a hand on them to get that charge thrown his way. All he had to do was brandish that gun in a threatening manner, and that would be assault according to the North Carolina law.

  “You’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” I growl, a wave of white-hot rage against my brother sweeping through me. “I told him to leave that shit alone.”

  “Trixie?” Ry says from the doorway. His tone is low and supportive but tinged with concern. My eyes cut to him, but I don’t answer.

  Instead, I say into the phone, “I’ll be right over.”

  Stabbing my finger viciously onto my phone screen to disconnect the call, I slap my other hand hard on my desk in anger and frustration.

  “What’s going on?” Ry asks as he steps into my office, walking up to the opposite side of my desk.

  My gaze rises and locks with his. “My stupid-ass brother, Lowe, just got arrested.”

  “For what?” he asks calmly.

  I take in three deep breaths before I tell Ry the story. It’s a story with roots, and I should have known this was coming. “You know my mom’s family are the Mainers, right?”

  He nods.

  “Well, there was a branch back in the early 1900s that decided they wanted to live in town versus out on the farm,” I tell him quickly as I start to pack up my briefcase that I’ll need to take across the street to the courthouse. “They built a huge, fancy house on the next block over. Occupied it for a few decades, but then they ended up moving away. They weren’t cut out for farming or small-town life. At any rate, we held the house in the family for a long time, but it sat empty, pretty much a drain on us. Property taxes, upkeep, etc. It’s a historical home and has been registered, but we ended up selling it. It just didn’t make financial sense to keep it when none of us lived in it.”

  “And what does that have to do with Lowe?”

  I shove three yellow pads, a highlighter, and two pens in my battered briefcase/satchel bag, and sling it over my shoulder. “He was bitterly opposed to selling the house. He felt it should stay in the family. He would have loved to buy it himself, and live there, but he doesn’t have that type of money.”

  “He was doing carpentry work back when you were in law school, right?” he asks. “He was what… two years younger than you?”

  I nod, amazed and deeply touched Ry remembers such details about my family. “He still does carpentry. Works on his own, odd jobs, and does amazingly beautiful woodwork. But it’s a modest living. No way he could have afforded that home, and while he understood why Mama and Daddy decided to sell it, he was not happy about it.”

  “Who bought it?”

  “Some woman from New York City,” I say offhandedly as I round my desk. “She buys fancy homes, guts them and remodels, decorates them, and then flips them. But I heard a rumor she was looking for a vacation home, so she might be living there part time.”

  “And what did Lowe do to get arrested?” he asks as he steps aside to let me pass, and then follows me into the lobby.

  “He apparently boarded up the doors, and when the work crew came to start this morning, he wouldn’t let them in. He defended it with a shotgun,” I grumble, and then add on. “Stupid idiot.”

  “And where are we going now?” Ry asks, and I stop just before I open the front door.

  Turning to look at him, I say, “I’m going to go bail him out. You don’t need to come.”

  “And miss the opportunity to see you in action, Trixie?” he asks with a grin. “I don’t think so.”

  I can’t help it. My lips curve in a slight smile. “Suit yourself.”

  “You going to go to court dressed like that?” he asks dubiously, his gaze raking down my body and back up again.

  “No choice,” I tell him as I turn back and swing the door open. “He’s getting ready to appear before Judge Bowe. The judge is a mean son of a bitch too. He might throw me in jail for coming into his courtroom like this, but it wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “You’ve been thrown in jail?” Ry asks incredulously as he steps out and I lock my office door.

  “Twice for contempt of court,” I say as I hurry toward the courthouse, which sits right across the street from my office. I check both ways, note no traffic coming, and trot across. “Both times by Judge Bowe.”

  “What did you do?” His voice sounds slightly hysterical as he trots alongside me.

  As my feet hit the opposite sidewalk, I give him the quick versions. “Once for arguing with him when he told me to stop, and I, well… didn’t stop. Even as the bailiff was leading me out of the courtroom, I just kept going. And the second time was when I showed up in court wearing jeans. He thought it was disrespectful.”

  “Jesus, Trixie,” he grumbles as we walk quickly across the grass to the front steps of the courthouse. “Do they accept credit cards for bail? Because I’m going to have to bail you out too, you know.”

  “I think it’s cash only,” I tell him completely not worried by the prospect. “But there’s an ATM machine in the courthouse.”

  “Jesus,” he mutters again.

  We enter the courthouse. It has that musty smell of old books and lead paint, yet it’s a scent I adore. It’s what the law smells like to me since I spend so much time here. The tile floors are dingy, the white paint on the walls is peeling somewhat, but the grandeur of the double-curved staircases flanking the main lobby that lead to the second floor can’t be ignored. This was a very beautiful courthouse back in its heyday, and I wish our county could raise enough money to help refurbish this old place and restore its dignity.

  I run up the staircase on the right, and Ry follows along. I turn right, push through a set of double swinging doors, and then take the first left into another set of swinging doors with a brass plaque on the outside that says:

  Courtroom One—Judge Winston Bowe

  Most of the courtrooms are the same. Four rows of wooden pew-style benches make up the gallery with forest-green carpeting underneath. There’s a paneled half wall separating the gallery from counsel tables and the judge’s bench. The jury box sits to the right, and to the left is a row of swivel chairs where attorneys sit, waiting for their cases to b
e called. Judge Bowe is on the bench. Two attorneys are standing before him, each at their own tables arguing what appears to be a motion since I don’t see any clients seated at the tables with them. A bailiff stands to the right of the bench, his hands clasped in front of his body and a bored look on his face.

  The gallery benches are dotted with a few people, and almost all heads turn our way as we stride in. Judge Bowe’s gaze flicks to us, back to the attorney who is currently talking to him, and then snap right back to me.

  He raises an arm, points a finger directly at me, and says, “Turn right around and march yourself out of here, Miss Mancinkus.”

  “But, Your Honor,” I say, continuing to stride down the aisle, Ry walking alongside me. “I have an important case coming before you—”

  “Yes, your brother,” Judge Bowe responds, and I’m not surprised he knows this. It’s a “small-town” thing. The judges Ry deals with in Boston wouldn’t know the details of any case until it was brought directly before him or her. “He’s in serious trouble, young lady.”

  “Yes, I understand,” I tell him undaunted as I come to a stop before the swinging door that leads through the half wall. Ry stands tall beside me. I hitch up my satchel a little higher on my shoulder and press forward with my argument. “But I swear I’ll stay on this side of the gallery, which won’t violate your dress code, make my appearance quick, and then I’ll be on my way—”

  Judge Bowe holds a hand up, palm out to face me—a clear indication to shut up. I know this because he’s used this move on me before. From the corner of my eye, I see Ry start to reach for his wallet, getting ready to nab his debit card for my bail money, no doubt.

  “Miss Mancinkus,” Judge Bowe says as he takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes tiredly. He then looks back to me and says, “You know it offends me when you show up in my courthouse dressed like a country bumpkin. We may be a small community, but we still have standards. I suggest you get yourself home and into appropriate attire before you address this court.”

  “But, Your Honor,” I implore.

  Judge Bowe turns to look at the bailiff. “Sgt. Cooke… if you could escort Miss Mancinkus out of my sight—”

  “Your Honor,” I say quickly, turning to grab Ry’s arm to pull him in closer beside me. “I’d like to make a very quick motion to admit Ryland Powers to the North Carolina Bar pro hoc vice. He can then enter an appearance for my brother, and I’ll just sit quietly in one of these benches. I won’t be a bother to you at all.”

  Judge Bowe’s eyes rise upward, perhaps asking God for grace, before his gaze cuts to Ry. “Mr. Powers… where are you admitted to practice?”

  “Massachusetts, New York, and Illinois,” he says calmly.

  “And your practice areas?”

  I’m genuinely surprised Judge Bowe is allowing this to go on, considering how he was ready to throw me out of here just a moment ago. But here’s a secret only I know… if anyone pays attention to the very slight curve of the judge’s lips, they’ll know he’s actually amused by my shenanigans. In fact, by the tiny sparkle in his eye, I’d say he’s enjoying this bit of excitement in what could be an otherwise dull day. He and I both know that when he throws me in jail, it’s secretly the highlight of his day.

  “Criminal and civil practice,” Ry tells him succinctly, and because he knows what the next questions will be because he’s been admitted pro hoc vice in plenty of other states, he adds on, “My bar license is in good standing with no censures or complaints. I’m a partner in the firm of Hayes Lockamy in Boston, and if it pleases the court, I’d be happy to accept the nomination to practice in your fine state.”

  Judge Bowe snorts at Ry’s blatant ass kissing, but that’s part of the game. He picks his gavel up, raps it sharply once, and says, “So be it. Motion granted. Welcome to the North Carolina Bar, Mr. Powers. Now, Miss Mancinkus… sit your butt down and don’t open your mouth the rest of the time you’re seated in here, okay?”

  “Absolutely, Your Honor,” I say with a grateful smile before sliding into the front row where I try not to let out the satisfied smirk that wants to break free.

  Judge Bowe turns back to the attorneys who were arguing before him and says, “My apologies for the disruption. Please continue.”

  Ry slides into the pew next to me, leans to the right slightly, and says in a very low voice, “Judge Bowe likes you a lot.”

  “I know,” I whisper, not bothering to veil the triumph in my voice. Ry is now privy to the secret that Judge Bowe really likes me. “He also likes me pushing at him. No one else in these parts has the balls to do it.”

  “He respects you.”

  I give a short nod of acknowledgment, but then I turn to look at Ry, trying not to sound too patronizing. “You’ve got this with my brother, right?”

  “I’ve got it,” he assures me with confidence. “Don’t worry your pretty little head.”

  My shoulders drop in relief as I lean a little closer to Ry. “It’s a shame you’re leaving tonight. I really owe you for this.”

  And that’s all I say. I let him make of it what he wants.

  I know what I want, but that isn’t up for consideration. I’ve opened the door to Ry to stay here rather than return to Boston, and I wonder what he’ll do with it. It was an impulsive move on my part, but I’ve always been the type to throw caution to the wind. Besides… we’re making a connection again. I can feel it, and I hope he does too so it induces him to stay another day so we can explore it.

  Pap would absolutely be rubbing my nose in it if he knew these thoughts I was having, so I’m going to make sure I don’t say a word to him about any of this.

  I turn to face the judge again, intently listening to the two attorneys arguing their motion.

  CHAPTER 8

  Ryland

  I’d brought two suits, a pair of jeans, a pair of shorts, a t-shirt, and three button-down shirts with me on this trip. Of course, dress shoes for the suits, loafers for the jeans, and tennis shoes for the shorts. It’s only Thursday. No way would those clothes last me through the weekend and into next week. The mediation is set for next Wednesday and while I could get my suits dry cleaned, I needed some more casual clothes and underwear. No way would I let Trixie’s mom wash my underwear—and I’m sure she’d totally offer since I’m staying.

  It may be a dumbass move, but I’m staying.

  “That will be $380.47,” the salesperson says as she finishes ringing up my clothes. Trixie drove us to Raleigh so I could do some quick shopping to hold me over for the next six days until the mediation, because Lady Marmalade’s vintage clothing on East Wilmington Street in Whynot was not going to have what I was looking for. The denim overalls that are in stock at Floyd’s Hardware Emporium are an absolute “no” for me as well.

  I hand my credit card over while Trixie mutters, “I can’t believe you’d spend that much on clothes just for a few days.”

  I suppress a laugh. Trixie would die if she saw what I spent every year on clothing. I should tease her at this point about her denim overalls or jeans with holes in the knees, but I can’t seem to as she looks completely gorgeous today in a summer dress she’d changed into of pale blue with sleeves that come to just above her elbows, a bit of a plunging neckline, and simple white ballet flats. Her dark hair is up in a ponytail with little tendrils framing her face. Her skin is lightly tanned, glowing, and her hazel eyes are shining, almost as if she’s happy to be out and about with me today.

  I suppose that’s only natural given what happened this morning with her brother’s arrest. The owner of the house that Lowe boarded up and defended with a shotgun—which, to be fair, he only sat on the top porch step with it laid harmlessly across his knees as he denied the workers access—was in court and demanding that every charge in the book be thrown at him.

  I stood at counsel table with Lowe beside me, and I could feel Trixie leveling death glares at the woman. Her name is Melinda Rothschild, and there is no doubt she’s from New York City. She wa
s dressed to the hilt in a designer suit with a handbag I’m betting cost more than all the handbags jointly owned by the women in the town of Whynot and the surrounding Scuppernong County population. Admittedly, she was amazingly well composed given the fact I doubt she was older than her late twenties, but in typical New York fashion, she wasn’t pulling any punches either.

  She pointed an elegant, polished finger across to Lowe and said, “Judge Bowe… this man is a dangerous thug, and he can’t be allowed to roam the streets. He should be thrown in jail for his miscreant deeds.”

  Luckily, Judge Bowe wasn’t all that swayed by this Yankee visitor coming into his courtroom and telling him how he should dispense justice. His tone was dry and brooked no nonsense. “The court has taken your thoughts into account, Miss Rothschild. I’m dismissing the assault and trespassing charges, because no real harm was done there, right?”

  Miss Rothschild gasped over Judge Bowe downplaying what Lowe did, and I had to suppress a smile because this was freaking fantastic. This was true home-cooking at its finest, something I never get the pleasure of in Boston. Too many judges, too many attorneys, and too many defendants for any bonds to be formed. But clearly, Judge Bowe is favoring a community resident here by throwing out the most serious charges.

  “I will, however, let the charge of destruction of private property stand,” he continued. “Mr. Powers, if your client wants to go ahead and enter a plea of guilty, I’ll sentence him to restitution and ten hours of community service.”

  Not about to pass up that offer, I leaned over to Lowe and whispered, “You need to take that. It won’t get any better, and there’s no jail time involved.”

  “Sounds good,” he said back in a low, grateful voice.

  “Your Honor,” I said as I stood with my back straight and faced the bench. “Mr. Mancinkus will enter a plea of guilty to the destruction of private property.”

  “That’s a smart move,” Judge Bowe compliments me, but come on… it was a no-brainer to accept that massive gift he handed us. “As for restitution, I order that it be done in the form of actual labor. Mr. Mancinkus… I don’t want you paying for the damages, but I want you to put your skills to use and fix what you destroyed. I think that’s certainly fitting. Hopefully, it will impart the lesson that you should keep your hands to yourself.”