Sustained(10)

Gotcha!

He squeaks in outrage, then twists and bucks like a fish on a hook, trying to dislodge my grip. But there’s no way that’s happening.

“Get off! Let me go!”

I shake him to get his attention and bark, “Cut it out!”

Small closed fists smack against my arm, push at my stomach. So I shake him again. “I said stop! Now.” And then in a lower voice, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

But he’s determined. “Help!” he shouts, trying to make eye contact with the curious faces glancing at us. Like most bystanders, they continue on their way, figuring someone else will intervene—but not them. Then the little bastard calls out the mantra drilled into children’s heads by overprotective parents and stranger-danger public service announcements.

“You’re not my father! I don’t know you! Help!”

I shake him harder now, rattling his teeth. Then I hiss, “You really want to bring attention to us with my wallet in your fucking backpack?”

That settles him down. Panting like a fox in a trap, he stops squirming. And he actually has the balls to glare at me, brows glued together with resentment.

“Is there a problem here?”

The question comes from the uniformed police officer who just stepped up to my right. He takes in the scene with an authoritative expression—until he looks at me, and his face melts into recognition.

“Hey, Becker.”

Most cops instinctually don’t like defense attorneys. I can understand their issue; they spend their days risking their lives to get scum off the street, and those in my profession bust their asses to get them back out, frequently Monday-morning quarterbacking the cop’s own actions—how they conducted the arrest, if they had probable cause—to find grounds to spring our clients. It’s a naturally antagonistic relationship. Oil and vinegar.

Personally, I like cops. Sure, they’re hard-asses and they can be authoritarian pricks, but by and large, they’re decent people trying to do a really difficult job.

Paul Noblecky is a beat cop who works out at the same gym as me. We’ve played basketball a few times and had a couple beers afterward.

“How’s it going, Noblecky?”

He cocks his head pleasantly. “Can’t complain.” He points to the kid I’m still holding by the scruff of his neck, like an errant puppy. “What’s this about?”

And before I can answer, the puppy says, “I was just messing around. Becker’s my babysitter. I told him I was faster than him and he said I wasn’t.”

My first instinct is to laugh, ’cause the kid definitely has a knack for bullshitting. Wonder if he’s ever considered a legal career—or a political one. My second impulse is to call him on it—rat him out—and toss him over to Noblecky. To walk away and wash my hands.

But something in his face . . . won’t let me. The look in his eyes—a mixture of desperation and bitterness. He’s hoping for my help, my mercy, but at the same time he hates that he needs it. And there’s an innocence about this boy that’s unlike the jagged exterior of true street kids. Something that tells me he’s still saveable.

And that he’s worth saving.

So I rub his head, messing up his hair, putting on a good show. “I told you I could take you.”

Noblecky laughs. “Someone actually let you watch their kid?” He glances at the boy. “My condolences.”

The kid flinches in response. It’s quick, almost unobservable. But I notice.

Noblecky nudges me with his elbow and says jokingly, “What do you charge?” He has a five-year-old at home. “If I don’t take Amy out to dinner soon, she’s going to divorce me.”

I shake my head. “It’s a one-shot deal. Kids aren’t my thing.”

He turns to go. “All right, see you around, Becker.”

“Take it easy,” I call as he walks away.

As soon as Noblecky is out of earshot I drag the kid across the sidewalk, closer to the wall of a building. I hold out my hand. “Give it back.”

He rolls his eyes, digs into his backpack, and slaps my wallet into my hand. I don’t think he had enough time to lift anything from it, but I check my cash and credit cards just to be sure.

Satisfied, I slide it into my pocket. “What’s your name?”

He glowers up at me. “You a cop?”

I shake my head. “Lawyer.”

“I’m Rory.”

“Rory what?”

“McQuaid.”

I look him over. White button-down shirt, beige pants—a private-school uniform. Add in the two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar sneakers and J.Crew backpack and I have to ask, “Why’d you steal my wallet, Rory McQuaid?”