Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Acknowledgments
Epilogue
THE
CONVICTION
ONE
W
AKEFIELD
T
AYLOR
C
OURTHOUSE
M
ARTINEZ
, C
ALIFORNIA
D
avid Sloane stepped through the metal detector, grabbed his briefcase, and put on his coat while running toward a staircase, ignoring the elevators. On the second floor he slowed his pace, considering the letters above the tall wooden doors and the names on the clear plaques mounted to the wall. He entered the courtroom for the Hon. Irene Glazier as Judge Glazier scribbled final notes in a file and set it aside on her elevated desk. He had never met Lisa Lynch, a partner in Foster & Bane’s San Jose office—the law firm didn’t have a San Jose office when Sloane worked there, but he quickly deduced Lynch to be the blonde in a black suit standing and approaching counsel table as Judge Glazier called out the final case of the morning and the prosecutor shuffled through a stack of files at the adjacent table.
Sloane met Lynch as she set down her legal pad. “Good timing,” she said.
Ordinarily relaxed in the courtroom, today Sloane’s stomach churned. Lynch had sounded both competent and knowledgeable on the phone, but Sloane knew she too was working on the fly; neither of them had been provided with much in the way of details.
“Counsel.” Judge Glazier acknowledged them in a flat tone, face devoid of expression. African American, she pulled her hair back in a severe bun, accentuating high cheekbones.
“Marsha Gutierrez for the State,” the prosecutor said with a slight Hispanic accent.
“Good morning, Your Honor, Lisa Lynch for the defendant. Also present at counsel table is Mr. Carter’s stepfather, David Sloane.”
Glazier stopped the busy work and raised her eyes. The prosecutor had also turned in Sloane’s direction. After a series of high-profile legal cases, Sloane’s reputation preceded him.
“Mr. Sloane. Are you here this morning as an attorney or as a parent?” Glazier asked.
“A parent, Your Honor. And Jake’s biological father, Frank Carter, will also be joining us,” Sloane said. “He’s parking the car.” As if on cue, Frank Carter pulled open the courtroom door, fixing his hair as he made his way to Sloane’s side.
Judge Glazier folded her hands atop the legal file. “I want to talk with you before we bring in your son. This is Jake’s second arrest for public intoxication in less than six months, and this time it was accompanied by violent acts and significant property damage.”
All Sloane knew was Jake had been arrested stumbling down a street in Concord not far from the home of a friend where he had requested to spend the night.
“Jake’s file indicates his mother is deceased?”
Sloane answered. “That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“She was murdered?”
“Yes,” Sloane said, voice falling.
“And I understand from the counselor’s report that Jake witnessed that event.”
“He did.”
Glazier sat back, index finger sawing across her lower lip. “He’s no longer in counseling?”
Sloane looked to Frank. “He was, for about a year, but the counselor felt he didn’t need it anymore.”
“I’d say it’s time for a new counselor,” Glazier said.
“He was doing okay up until about nine months ago.”
“What happened nine months ago?”
“Nothing I can pinpoint,” Carter said. “Adolescence, I guess.”
“Nothing? Change of schools? New friends? Some change in the home?”
Carter shook his head. “No. None of those things.”
Glazier leaned forward and propped her elbows on her desk. “I’m concerned, gentlemen. Your son’s offending behavior is escalating. According to the police reports he was drinking vodka with a stimulant called Red Bull. Are you familiar with it?”
“Not in any detail, Your Honor,” Sloane said.
“The stimulant acts to impede the body’s natural ability to shut down and pass out when intoxicated. It can increase a person’s normal tolerance. Jake’s blood alcohol level was two and a half times the legal limit. Point two-five. He wasn’t far from an overdose.”
Lynch spoke. “Your Honor, we would certainly abide by any court recommendation that Jake enter a substance abuse program and that he also restart his grief counseling.”
Gutierrez jumped in. “Your Honor, completion of a substance abuse program was a condition of Mr. Carter’s
prior
release,” she said, holding up a multipage document. “According to his caseworker, he failed to complete that program, was frequently absent, and displayed disdain when he did attend.”
“Mr. Sloane, you reside in Seattle, do you not?” Glazier asked.
“I do, Judge.”
“So, Mr. Carter, you have primary care of Jake?”
“Sole care,” he said. “But I work. I thought he was going. When I found out, I talked to him about it. I grounded him. I took away the car, his iPod, Xbox. He told me he was going.”
“That’s a problem,” Glazier said. “If I release him pending successful completion of the program and he does not attend, and you have no ability to ensure he does, I’m left with little choice but to incarcerate him and have him complete an in-detention program.”
Sloane had thought much of this through on the plane from Seattle and he and Frank discussed it on the car ride from the airport. “Your Honor, I’d be willing to take Jake back to Seattle with me and ensure he attends both grief counseling and a substance abuse program.”
Glazier’s brow furrowed. “And what about your career, Mr. Sloane; how would you manage that?”
“I’d take a leave of absence, if necessary,” Sloane said.
Glazier folded her hands, thumbs twirling.
Gutierrez spoke. “Judge, releasing Mr. Carter might very well be enabling him, in a sense sending him a message that no matter what he does he can get away with it.”
“That’s an extreme statement,” Lynch said. “We don’t discount that the charges here are very serious, but under the prosecutor’s rationale the court would be enabling any child it did not confine. Jake has a substance abuse problem. The violence evolved out of that problem. He needs help.”
“Not every child has ‘the lawyer who does not lose’ as a stepfather,” Gutierrez said with noticeable bite. Before anyone could respond she added, “Your Honor, the officer’s report indicates Mr. Carter had an aluminum baseball bat in hand, and had left a trail of broken taillights and smashed headlights in his wake, along with landscape lights strewn across lawns. He then resisted arrest and when the officers finally subdued him, he spewed forth a string of profanities and taunted them that Mr. Sloane would, quote, ‘make them look like assholes when he got through with them.’”
“The boy was severely intoxicated,” Lynch said. “It’s unlikely he had any idea what he was saying or the gravity of his circumstances. His record does not warrant placement in a juvenile facility. We would again suggest Jake be given home confinement pending successful completion of a substance abuse program and grief counseling.”
“And you would be willing to take personal responsibility to ensure Jake completes both programs, Mr. Sloane?” Glazier asked.
“I would, Your Honor.”
“And what about you, Mr. Carter, would you be agreeable to Jake living with Mr. Sloane?”
“If that would be the best thing for Jake, sure, I’d do it.”
“It’s summer,” Lynch said. “The court could reschedule a hearing for early September.”
Glazier sat back, poker-faced, lips pursed. She spoke to her bailiff. “Bring him in.”
The bailiff returned with Jake. The boy’s appearance surprised Sloane. His hair had grown, nearly shoulder length, and he looked
two to three inches taller, approaching Sloane’s height. He also looked to have filled out since his wrestling season concluded. He’d been good enough to finish second in the state in his weight class, and his coach had told Sloane that Jake was naturally strong and could be even better if he were to apply himself. Sloane did the math in his head. It had been nine months since he’d flown to California to watch that final match—his last visit.
As Jake entered the courtroom the right side of his mouth pulled back in what was, under the circumstances, a most inappropriate smirk.
“Mr. Carter,” Judge Glazier said, “these are very serious charges I have before me. I’d suggest you lose that smug expression.”
Jake did.
“We were just discussing what to do about you; you were ordered to undergo a substance abuse program but I’m told you never completed it. Why not?”
Jake shrugged, a sixteen-year-old boy’s response to just about any question. “I couldn’t always get there after school.”
“So what option does that leave me now? If I can’t trust you to commit to an out-of-detention program my only option is to incarcerate you to make sure you complete the program. Is that what you want?”
“No,” Jake said.
“Do you think you have a problem with alcohol, Mr. Carter?”
“I don’t know. I guess so.”
“You guess so?”
“No, I mean… yes.”
“Do you realize, Mr. Carter, that you were about that far from possibly killing yourself?” Glazier held her thumb and index finger an inch apart. “Are you aware of what happens to your body when you mix an over-the-counter stimulant like Red Bull with alcohol?”
“Not really.”
“It allows you to drink more than you should. That’s how people overdose, Mr. Carter, by taking more of a drug—and alcohol is a drug—than their body can physically handle. Do you understand me?”
He nodded.
“Do you want to die?”
Jake shrugged. “No.”
Glazier glanced at Sloane before returning her attention to Jake. “What are we going to do about the damage to all those people’s cars and property? How do you intend to pay for that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you in any sports?”
“Not anymore.”
“Any activities? Drama? Band? Journalism? Debate?”
“No.”
She looked again to Sloane and Frank Carter. “Then there should be nothing to prevent you from completing a substance abuse program and getting a job to pay for all the damage you’ve caused. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because there will not be a third chance, Mr. Carter. You mess up again and I
will
incarcerate you. And let me make this perfectly clear. If I do, there is not a lawyer in this world”—her eyes again shifted to Sloane, two black pinpoints—“not even one who never loses, who will prevent me from doing just that.”
TWO
T
HREE
T
REE
P
OINT
B
URIEN
, W
ASHINGTON
S
loane parked the Cadillac diagonal to the laurel hedge beside Charles Jenkins’s Buick. If Jake recognized the car it did not elicit any response. Not much had. Jake didn’t utter a word on the flight back to Seattle, slipping on headphones and tuning out, eyes closed. Even on takeoff and landing, when the flight attendant instructed him to turn off the music, he kept the earphones in place, eyes closed. Sloane gave up trying and put his head back against the seat, but he did not sleep. It evaded him as it had the prior evening, his mind flooded with thoughts of Tina and how she had done such a great job raising Jake. Sloane had always been apprehensive about his ability to be a father, but each time he’d expressed doubt Tina had reassured him, serving as his parenting docent. Without her, he felt like a man at an art gallery pretending to understand all the nuances that had gone into a painting’s creation, but really not having a clue.
Robotically, Jake stepped from the car. A light breeze blew his hair off his face. The mist held the briny smell of the Puget Sound. Sloane popped the trunk and Jake retrieved his suitcase and lugged it up the porch steps. A lemony ammonia smell greeted Sloane as he stepped into the kitchen. Alex had cleaned while waiting, the blue marble counters spotless. Sloane asked her and Charlie to drive down from Camano Island and clear his house of alcohol, but the truth was he wanted them there for support when he brought Jake home.
At the sight of Jake, little CJ Jenkins wiggled from his father’s arms and ran on tiptoes from the living room into the kitchen, laughing and jabbering. The sight of the three-year-old boy brought the first genuine smile to Jake’s face. He slipped the headphones from his ears and picked him up as Charlie and Alex stood watching.
“Hey, CJ.”
CJ held up a purple stuffed animal. “I have a dragon.”
“I see that.”
“But he’s not real. What are those?”
“Headphones. You want to listen?”
Jake placed one of the headphones near CJ’s ear. CJ pulled away and pressed a palm to his ear. “Too loud.”