Despite her scary appearance, Brenda is sweet. When she speaks, if you don’t look at her, you can almost imagine life before the streets. High school football games. Prom. College.
“Ow, that looks like it hurt,” Brenda says in her high-pitched voice, her eyes fixed on Chris’s palm as he pages through her file.
Chris places his hand flat on the table, concealing the half circle of three parallel grooves seared into his skin.
“Yeah, when I was a kid, I was screwing around and tripped and grabbed the stovetop trying to break the fall.”
He’s explained the scar so many times over the years, he almost doesn’t think of Rusty clutching his wrist, his face wrinkled with fury, spittle flying from his mouth, pressing Chris’s hand to the burner. But, really, Chris should’ve known better than to drink the last Coke in the fridge.
Brenda gives Chris a skeptical look. You don’t live on the streets selling yourself for drugs without knowing bullshit when you hear it. Without learning that scars like that don’t happen by accident. Without understanding the dark side of people—people who take pleasure in inflicting pain. But maybe Brenda isn’t skeptical, maybe the expression is one of pity.
Chris rubs his shoulder involuntarily. Whenever his thoughts drift to Rusty, no matter how hard he tries to fend them off, his hand always goes to the indentation on the ball of his shoulder. He can still feel the cigar like a cattle brand and smell the burning flesh. That time it hadn’t been for some trivial offense, like drinking the last soda. He’d been nine years old and was defending Mom, who lay bloody on the kitchen floor. Chris had been terrified. Vince normally was the brave one. But his big brother was out. Chris stepped between Rusty and Mom. And he paid for it. In his view, it had been one of his finest moments. Still the most courageous thing he’s ever done.
Where has that brave kid gone? Has Rusty stolen that from him too? He needs to find that bold side of himself: quit playing it safe. Leave this job. Start over. Do something to help kids like him, who’ve grown up victims by sheer chance. He supposes that, in a way, he’s doing that for Brenda. But for her, it isn’t a parent tearing her apart bit by bit. It’s a bag of white crystals.
He examines Brenda. She’s so damn thin.
“You hungry?”
“A Cherry Coke and chips would be nice.” She smiles, and he fights the urge to look away.
Chris has a rule never to buy vending-machine snacks for his clients. He’d made that mistake early in his career at the PD’s office and word had gotten around inside the jail. The characters in lockup started requesting him as their public defender simply for the food.
But Brenda is getting to him. He thinks of that first photo in her file. If only someone could’ve gotten through to that girl. It’s just so goddamned sad.
He stands, knocks on the door. The officer lets him out. He ventures to the vending machines and buys the drink and some Doritos.
Back in the room, they talk more about her options. He recommends a plea. They have her dead to rights on possession. He doesn’t tell her, but he’s going to call in a favor a prosecutor owes him to get her a good deal.
Brenda listens intently as she eats the Doritos, her fingers smeared in orange. She sips the Cherry Coke like it’s vintage cognac.
Ultimately, she agrees to let Chris broker a plea. Something with no jail time. Treatment.
He feels good about that. It’s worth calling in the favor. Maybe this time it will be different for her. Maybe she’ll escape. Get back with her family. Fix her teeth, get some meat on those bones. Live a nice life. Have kids. A family of her own.
“I think we can make this work, Brenda.” He smiles. “But before I approach the prosecutor, I want to make sure this is your decision, that you understand all the options. I’ll be by your side no matter what you decide. My job is to tell you the risks of each option, my views on the best choice, but it’s your decision.”
“I understand.”
“Great.” Chris scoops up the paperwork and puts it back in the folder. “Any other questions?”
“Just one,” Brenda says.
Chris nods for her to continue.
“If I suck your dick, will you get me another Cherry Coke?”
CHAPTER 25
KELLER
Keller pulls her Volvo into the lot of Workers Insurance Company headquarters next to Atticus’s tiny car. Atticus lifts his small frame out of the vintage MG. Vintage is being kind, since the vehicle’s a wreck. Blistering paint, a soft-top repaired with duct tape, a dented fender.