Shattered Glass(74)

I almost felt sorry for the them. Them being the FBI agents.

Catching Peter’s brief flicker of fear, I reached out and brushed my fingers against his just before he walked away. He fisted his hand, which was the only acknowledgement I got for the gesture. The last I saw of him was Darryl leaning over and whispering something in his ear.

“With everything happening all at once, the pressing question in the front of my mind is: Do you love him?”

“I met him a week and a half ago, Angel. Of course I don’t love him.” I laughed harshly.

The marathon-long talk with Angelica over the weekend had been cathartic, yes, but between us both, the level of melancholy that settled in over those sixteen hours was draining. Now it was as if that feeling was a physical being possessing me; and instantly the sadness and guilt enveloped me.

“Yet you’ll risk your job, me, your father, your friends for him?”

I shook my head, “No. I took a few risks because of him, but not for him.” How did I explain this weight to her? As succinctly as possible considering she had to go defend Cai soon. “Since I was sixteen there’s been this heaviness in my chest. The second I’d meet a woman who wanted to settle down, the pressure eased. As it got closer to the point of actually getting married or moving in together, the pressure would start bearing down again. So I’d fuck it up and find another one and another.”

I peeked into the courtroom to make sure we still had time—and maybe to gather myself. When I turned around she was leaning back against the wall, both hands wrapped around the handle of her carrying case resting against her thighs. “I didn’t have that with you, Angel. The pressure, I mean. Not in any unbearable way. Probably because you and I were something more than lovers. But last month it started to change. Right after that kid I told you about hung himself.” I took a place next to her, crossing my legs at the ankles while the wall supported me. “At first Peter was like that moment when the pressure eased, but it never quite lifted until I acknowledged I was gay.”

Saturday, during our long discussion, we had talked about her affair with my father. We talked about Jesse and Dave. I held her while she cried. But she didn’t ask about Peter. And we didn’t discuss my new found sexuality.

“Just like that?” She asked.

“As terrifying and painful as our breakup was, the pressure evaporated,” I snapped my fingers. “I wasn’t obsessed with, or in love with, or even enamored with Peter. It was that feeling of relief that I was chasing.” I wasn’t going to explain to her that it was more than that now. Things were too strained.

Neither of us would be over this soon. That much was clear by the awkwardness of our stances. While we were dating, and even before that, we would hold hands or I would wrap my arms around her shoulders, and she would lay her head against my arm. Now we stood shoulder-to-shoulder, both hurting and missing what we had, neither of us reaching out to comfort one another.

“This is a good case,” she said quietly.

“It is,” I agreed.

“After this I need time, Austin. It hurts to see you.”

It wounded to hear that. “Okay. I’m here. Always. Whenever you want.”

She took a deep breath and brushed her shoulder purposefully against mine, before pushing off the wall and stepping through the courtroom doors.





The Lying Onion

“He’s with me,” Angelica told the bailiff at the doors when he stopped my entrance behind her. I followed her in, acutely aware that I had just tried to open my jacket and flash my non-existent badge. I couldn’t remember the last time I had worn a suit and not had it, and my gun, weighing along my belt.

Inside, the courtroom was empty save the necessary people: myself, three at the defense table, two at the prosecutor’s, two bailiffs and a court reporter. The only person out of place sat primly on the bench behind the defense table.

Rosafa Strakosha, for that was who the woman behind the hijab had to be, sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Only part of her hair was covered, the black tresses matching neatly with the hijab’s silk material and appearing almost part of it. Like Cai, her nose was wide and long, her lips full and broad. I set her age at late thirties, early forties—and only because I did the math using her son’s age as a guideline. She could pass for thirty, easy. She turned red-rimmed eyes to me and then lowered them. Her reaction made me curious as to how we would mesh living together. A gay man and an Islamic woman. Something else to worry about, along with the plethora of other things.

I slid into the bench across from her. Not because she made me uncomfortable, or that I wanted to appear in favor of the prosecution, but so that I could read Cai’s face throughout the bond hearings. He wouldn’t be able to speak much, that was Angelica’s job, but I wanted every opportunity to judge him. In fact, the whole thing wouldn’t take longer than maybe ten to fifteen minutes—not enough time to get a superb read on the boy. Which reminded me—I twisted in my seat to check out the gallery. Why was the courtroom so empty?