Appealed (21 page)

He flinches. “No. I wasn't going to do anything with the money.”

“Then why did you take it?”

He shakes his head, looking truly bewildered. Lost—like the young boy he still is.

“I . . . I don't know. It was just . . . an accident. I didn't want any of this to happen.”

I let the words hang for several moments. A meaningful pause. Then I walk back behind the defense table. “No more questions for the moment, Your Honor.” I look to Kennedy. “He's all yours, Miss Randolph.”

She doesn't spare me a glance; her razor-sharp gaze is fully centered on Justin. Like a predator with a wounded gazelle just steps away.

“Miss Randolph,” the judge directs. “Proceed.”

And Kennedy can't charge forward fast enough. Her voice is almost unrecognizable. Sharp and clipped—slicing the air.

“It was an
acciden
t
? Did I hear that correctly? You stole $2.3 million from the retirement accounts of a dozen innocent, hardworking victims, by
acciden
t
?”

Kennedy's choosing her words carefully too. Both of us trying to paint the picture for the jury we want them to see.

Justin blinks. “Yes.”

Kennedy paces in front of him, looking aggressive, dangerous. If this wasn't such a pivotal moment, I'd definitely have a boner.

“How long did this ‘accident' take you?” She asks.

“I . . . I don't remember.”

“Longer than five minutes?”

“Yes.”

“Longer than ten?”

“Uh . . . yeah.”

“An hour?”

Justin fidgets. “An hour sounds right. It probably took that long.”

She nods. “An accident, Mr. Longhorn, is an unfortunate, unforeseen event. Like when someone trips and falls on the sidewalk. Do you know the difference between your actions and falling on the sidewalk?”

Justin's panicked eyes dart to me. “What?”

“It doesn't take an hour to fall. That amount of time requires thought—deliberate, purposeful action.”

She crosses her arms and changes tactics, like a boxer switching from a left hook to an uppercut. “Two point three million dollars is a lot of money, Mr. Longhorn.”

His head nods hesitantly. “I guess.”

“What could one do with $2.3 million?”

“I . . . I don't know. Almost anything, I guess.”

Kennedy's finger jabs at Justin. “That's right. Almost anything. That kind of money buys freedom. Power. And you wanted that power, didn't you?”

“No. That's not why—”

“You thought you were better than your victims, didn't you? You didn't have to work for that money. Or save it. You could just go in and take it, anytime you wanted, isn't that correct?”

“I . . .”

She's badgering him. I could object, but I don't. I just sit back and let her do exactly what I knew she would.

“How did it feel when you breached First Security's firewall, Mr. Longhorn?”

Justin's brow wrinkles. “I don't know.”

“Sure you do. Did it make you feel good?”

“I guess.”

“I guess isn't an answer. Yes or no?”

“Yes. It felt good.”

“And how did it feel to take all that money? To know your plan was successful?”

“It wasn't . . . I didn't—”

“Did you think about the people you were stealing from?”

“Not really.”

“Of course you did. No one's buying your stuttering charade, Mr. Longhorn. Because we know the truth. Cracking First Security's system made you feel smarter than the other hackers, didn't it?”

“Yeah, in a way . . .”

“And taking that money made you feel powerful. Those weren't just accounts—they were people. People who you knew would be terrified to see their life savings drained away. And that made you feel good too, didn't it?”

“No, I never meant—”

“You wanted to show them you were better. Smarter. You wanted to scare them. To hurt them. Innocent, helpless people like Mrs. Potter.” She points to the little old lady, who's frowning in the front row. “And you succeeded. Because when it's all said and done, you're a bully with a computer. A cyberterrorist.”

Justin's cheeks go bright pink, his eyes shiny with threatening tears.

“I'm sorry!”

“Yes, Mr. Longhorn, you certainly are. They never—”

“I just wanted someone to see me!” Justin yells. Kennedy's mouth snaps closed. “I just wanted someone to know I was
there
!”

And he bursts into tears.

He sobs into one hand, his words muffled but heartbreakingly clear.

“No one
sees
me! I don't have any friends. I walk down the halls at school, and I'm like a ghost. Like I don't even exist.”

He gestures to the empty seats behind me, where his parents should be. “My own parents aren't even here! They don't care.
No
one cares.” Another sob breaks through and the entire courtroom watches with stunned eyes.

Including Kennedy.

“I . . . that's . . .” she stutters, trying to regain her composure, but Justin's words roll right over her.

“I could go to jail for twenty years, or die tomorrow, and it wouldn't make any difference to anyone.” He looks at Mrs. Potter. “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted someone,
anyone
, to know I'm here.”

The courtroom is silent except for the sound of Justin crying.

Kennedy stares at him, a thousand emotions playing out behind her eyes. And probably a thousand memories.

I hold up my hand. “Recess, Judge?”

“Granted.” He bangs his gavel and the jury is ushered from the room.

I walk past Kennedy, who's standing stock-still, and meet Justin just outside the jury box. He wipes at his eyes and I tap his back.

“It's all right, buddy.”

As we head back toward the defense table, Mrs. Potter glares at Kennedy. “You should be ashamed of yourself! Berating this poor sweet boy like that!”

“I . . . I didn't . . .”

Mrs. Potter pushes forward to hug Justin, patting his back gently. “There, there. Come on now, I have some cookies in my pocketbook. Harold, get this boy a cookie!”

Since Justin looks like he's in good hands, I take Kennedy's unresisting arm and pull her out the door.

“Conference?”

I walk her down the hall to one of the small, empty conference rooms. There I gently guide her onto the folding chair at the table.

“Oh my god,” she says, still stunned.

“Breathe, Kennedy.”

“I . . . holy shit . . .”

“Kennedy.” I say it stronger, gaining her attention. “Breathe.”

Her eyes go to my face. “He completely fell apart in there.”

“Yeah.”

“He's . . . he's not a criminal . . . he's just a lonely little boy.”

“I know.”

She rubs her forehead. “Oh my god—and I broke him down.”

I nod. “Yep. You sure did.”

“Because it felt good, Brent.” She pats her chest. “It made me feel good. Strong.”

“Yeah . . . I got that.”

Her breath comes out quick and shocked. “I didn't want to ever feel weak again. So I went out of my way to rip into him. Because it made me feel powerful to make him feel bad.”

“I know,” I tell her softly.

And her voice rises, with horrible realization. “Brent—
I'm
the bully!”

Tears are imminent, and I put my hand on her shoulder. “Kennedy, it's okay.”

Her forehead drops to the table, banging it.

“Hey!” I put my hand on the table so she can't do it again. “Easy there. I happen to like what's in that head of yours, so let's not damage it, okay?”

Guilty, wet eyes gaze up at me.

I sit down across from her. “Okay—look—Justin's a good kid. A lonely kid, yes, but you didn't break him. He'll recover, believe me.” I hesitate, gauging just how freaked out she is. “I realize epiphanies are fucking exhausting—I've been there myself. But since we're kind of under the gun, time-wise, how do you feel about discussing a plea deal now?”

It only takes a moment for Kennedy's back to straighten and her chin to lift. And Federal Prosecutor K. S. Randolph stares back at me.

“What are you offering?”

“A guilty plea that stays on his juvenile record and won't follow him to adulthood. And a sentence of two years of probation, to be served under the computer tech division of the FBI or Homeland Security. With an agent who recognizes Justin's talents and wants him to use them for good.”

She leans back. “That's a . . . unique arrangement.”

I shrug. “A friend of mine had a similar setup when he was a young delinquent. It worked out really well for him. This way, Justin won't grow up into an evil cybergenius who hacks the nuclear codes because Mommy didn't love him. He'll have someone keeping an eye on him. He'll
matter
, Kennedy—and I think that's what all this was about in the first place.”

She taps her fingernail on the table, thinking it over. “Four years. I want him supervised until he's twenty-one. And no more banking ‘accidents.' He pulls anything like this again, he goes to prison.”

I grin. “That vengeful streak is definitely sexy.”

She smirks at me, then holds out her hand.

And I shake it. “You've got yourself a deal, Counselor.”

Kennedy moves to stand, but I hold on to her hand—'cause I'm not done yet.

“I had something delivered to your house today. It'll be there when you get home. I want you to wear it tonight, when you come to my place at seven sharp.”

I squeeze her hand. “Please say yes.”

She does me one better. She leans over the table and kisses me.

Then
she says yes.

•  •  •

After all the formalities are taken care of, I walk Justin out of the courthouse into the warm, sunny day. He's got Mrs. Potter's number in his pocket and a bocce date at the park with Harold this weekend. Since he needs a ride home, we head down the steps toward the corner where Harrison will pick us up.

Halfway down, Kennedy walks out of the courthouse to head back to her office for the afternoon. Two federal marshals in civilian clothes trail a few feet behind her when she's approached by a reporter in a yellow pantsuit with a notepad in her hand.

“Miss Randolph, what are your thoughts on the upcoming retrial of Gino Moriotti?”

Kennedy's tone is confident. Cocky.

It's pretty hot.

“Our case is every bit as solid as it was the first time around. I see no reason why the outcome won't be identical. Conviction on all counts.”

“And how do you feel about the rumored contract that Mr. Moriotti has put on you? Are you concerned about your safety as the case moves forward?”

“Gino Moriotti has made a lifelong career of intimidating people, of getting his way through violence and fear. In this case, he should prepare for disappointment.”

And as I watch the tiny blond badass practically strut away, I think proudly,
that's my girlfriend.

T
his time, Kennedy shows up: at seven sharp there's a knock on the door. I wait in the backyard while Harrison goes to open it. The whole afternoon, my energy level was buzzing even higher than usual. I tried to get some work done, but I kept wondering when Kennedy would get home.

And what her expression would be when she opened the box I'd had delivered to her—a big white box with a red bow. Large enough for the dress, shoes, and purse that were inside it.

My mother has a personal shopper she's worked with for years. With the amount of time my hands have spent on Kennedy's body, I know her dimensions pretty frigging well. Well enough to describe the perfect dress that'll fit her like a custom-tailored glove.

And I'm every bit as good as I thought I was.

Because when Kennedy steps onto the back patio, she knocks the breath out of me. Her flawless neck and dainty arms are bare in the white strapless dress—practically glistening in the moonlight. The soft, shiny fabric hugs her breasts, pushing them up and together, creating a tasty cleavage line that I want to dip my tongue into. The dress cinches at her tiny waist, then flares just a bit, the gauzy chiffon fluttering slightly with the light breeze, just above her knees.

The dress is lovely. Sexy but elegant. Something a woman would wear on a special night out . . . or a girl would wear to her prom.

Her hair falls loose and curled around her delicate shoulders, her lips are shiny with a touch of gloss. And her smile—it's all hope and wonder and amazement. My heart pounds in my chest—because I was able to give that to her.

Kennedy looks around the yard, at the twinkling lights strewn through the trees and bushes, at the candles glowing softly on the table set for two. “Kiss Me” by Sixpence None the Richer plays out of the speakers—they were a big hit in the nineties. When those stunning eyes fall on me, I know she gets it. She understands what I'm trying to do.

I shrug. “You didn't get to go to the senior dance . . . I figured it's time to rectify that.”

“Brent . . .” She sighs. “This is . . . wow.”

I bite my bottom lip with a nod. “Oh, there's more.” I open the small box on the table and step up to her.

“You got me a corsage?” There's laughter in her voice.

“Yep.” I start to pin on the small red rosebuds. “When I was seventeen, I probably would've gotten you a wristlet—because I would've been too intimidated to pin this here.” My fingers graze her soft skin beneath the top of her dress. “But I'm all man now, so this corsage is no match for me.” Once it's on, my hand skims down her arm, making her shiver. “And I got to touch your boob, so—bonus.”