Sustained(17)

It’s just after noon when I leave their town house and head straight for the Brookside Retirement Home, like I do every Sunday. Because that crotchety old judge who pulled my fifteen-year-old ass out of the fire—who literally saved my life, straightened me out, and made me believe I could actually be a man of significance? That’s where he is.

I don’t like being beholden to anyone. I don’t have many debts. But the few I do owe, I gladly pay.

“Good afternoon, Jake.”

“Hi, Mildred.”

“Hey, Becker.”

“How’s it going, Jimmy?”

It’s important to stay in the good graces of the lower staff at any facility—be it a hospital, law firm, school, or retirement home. They’re the ones who do the actual work, and if shady shit is going down, they’ll be the ones who let the cat out of the bag, while the owner and upper-echelon administrators are focused on damage control. The staff at Brookside and I are on a first-name basis. I sign in at the front desk and greet the orderlies and nurses traveling down the hall, some carrying trays of medication to the private rooms, others pushing their feeble charges in wheelchairs to their physical therapy sessions, art classes, or daily afternoon bingo games.

I’ve played bingo with these senior citizens. They take that shit seriously. They might be old, but if you get I-22 when they were waiting for B-6? They’ll bust your fucking kneecaps as quick as any backstreet bookie, without an ounce of remorse.

Brookside is a private facility, top of the line. Its rooms are tasteful, generically comfortable, like a hotel chain. Its employees are educated and well compensated, so they treat the clients here with the respect, care, and dignity they deserve. Other places, for those on public assistance, those who don’t have pensions or family with the funds to pay, they’re . . . well . . . let’s just say there’s nothing golden about spending your “golden years” in a damn warehouse.

I step into the Judge’s sunlit room. He’s in a leather reading chair by the window, dressed in tan slacks and a burgundy sweater, brown loafers on his feet. His thick, gray hair is clean and combed neatly.

His name is Atticus Faulkner, but to me, he’s the Judge. He wasn’t always the way he is today. Ten years ago, he cut an imposing figure—tall, strong for his seventy years, and active, with green eyes that seemed to see straight into your soul. He was a living, breathing lie detector with a brilliantly intimidating legal mind.

And he was my hero.

Everything I wanted to be. Everything my real father never was.

But life’s a bitch sometimes. Six years ago, he was diagnosed with advanced Alzheimer’s. He’d done an impeccable job of covering the early signs. Little tricks—hidden notes and reminders—so no one could tell he didn’t know what day it was. Sometimes he’d walk home from the courthouse, but only because he couldn’t remember where he’d parked his car. Then, later, he’d spend hours in a coffee shop because he’d forgotten his address.

I was busy then—practically just out of law school—making my bones. I should’ve seen that something was off, but I missed it. So, eventually, when he didn’t have any other choice and told me what was going on, it felt like things went downhill really fast. And the hard-ass I knew, the man I feared in the best sense of the word, just . . . slipped away, practically overnight.

The Judge was a lifelong bachelor. Married to his work, respected and esteemed by friends and enemies alike. No children, just a string of “lady friends”—some younger than others, some smarter than others, but all of them gorgeous. And all of them casual. A good time.

Casual lady friends aren’t usually interested in visiting a man who no longer recognizes them, who can no longer keep them entertained with a handsome face, a sharp wit, and amusing stories. So I’m the Judge’s only regular guest. Which means come hell, high water, sweltering temperatures, or freak blizzard, I’m here, every single week.

I read him the paper—keep him up to speed on the intrigue and ridiculousness of Washington, DC. Sometimes I talk to him about my cases, the fucking lowlifes I keep out of prison. Most of the time he just listens, nods, tells me how interesting the story sounds without any real understanding. But every once in a while, there’s a spark, a glint of recognition in his eyes; sometimes it lasts a minute, sometimes ten, but for that brief time, he’s himself again. He remembers me. It’s good to know that even on the worst of days, he’s in there, somewhere.

Today he turns from gazing out the window when I walk in and watches as I pull up a chair from across the room and sit down. “Good afternoon, Judge. How’s it going?”