Chelsea sits on the opposite side, an empty chair between her and two very wealthy-looking—very pissed-off-looking—parents. The woman is blond, in a royal-blue suit and pearls, with long bloodred fingernails. The husband looks quieter, smaller—the remora to her shark.
“And you are?” the gray-haired guy—Principal Janovich—drones.
I hand him my card. “Jake Becker. I’m the family attorney.”
The blonde raises one scathing eyebrow. “I’m an attorney as well,” she tells me—like it’s a warning.
“I thought you might be,” I volley back.
Takes one to know one.
I sit beside Chelsea. She looks nervous, hands clasped on her lap tightly. “Where were we?”
“They want to expel Raymond,” she says in a strained voice.
I lean back and nod. “Interesting.”
Janovich clears his throat uncomfortably. “We have a zero-tolerance policy here for fighting, harassment of any kind. Raymond injured his classmate gravely.”
“Did he break his nose?” I ask casually.
The principal is a bit taken aback. “No . . .”
Too bad—better luck next time, kid.
“. . . but there was excessive bleeding. It was a frightening experience for all involved.”
Unable to stay silent any longer, the blond mother rises to her feet. “I do not pay thirty thousand dollars a year in tuition to have my child assaulted in the hallways. I demand this . . . delinquent be brought up on charges!”
“Let’s pull the tapes,” I suggest.
“The tapes?” Janovich asks, like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
“The tapes.” I nod. “I passed no less than nine hallway security cameras on my way in. There must be video of the altercation. And since it just occurred hours ago, surely the footage couldn’t have been recycled already.”
The principal’s eyes widen—and I almost expect him to say, Don’t call me Shirley.
“Unless . . . you’ve already seen the footage?” I narrow my eyes. “I see what’s going on now.” And it fucking pisses me off.
They won’t like me pissed off.
“What do you think you see, Mr. Becker?”
I address the blond viper. “You’re booster club people, aren’t you? Patrons? You donate money to the school on top of that thirty grand—for libraries, new wings, and things like that?”
The father at last finds his voice. “I don’t see how that has anything to do with this.”
My eyes swing back to the old man behind the desk. “It has everything to do with this is because Mr. Janovich here thought it’d be easier to hang this whole thing on Raymond—who has a legal guardian who may be too busy to put up a fight—rather than ruffle a benefactor’s feathers. Is that accurate?”
“It most certainly is not!” he chokes out. “I don’t appreciate what you’re implying.”
“I’m sure you don’t.”
He fiddles with his tie. “I have viewed the footage Mr. Becker is referring to. Although behavior on both sides was less than exemplary, I feel given the violence of Raymond’s assault, he does warrant harsher punishment.”
And now I’m laughing. “So because Raymond is the better fighter, you’re gonna come down harder on him?”
He starts to speak, but I wave him off. “Let’s put a tack in that for now and discuss your ‘zero-tolerance’ policy. Where was that policy when Raymond was being bullied since January?”
Chelsea’s head turns sharply to me. “What?”
I keep my focus on the principal, and my voice is deadly calm. “I have it on good authority that Jeremy has punched, pushed, tripped, and demeaned Raymond numerous times. Either you’ve chosen to ignore those instances, or you don’t know what’s going on in your building, Mr. Janovich. Either way, it doesn’t bode well for you.”
His face goes red, but I don’t let up. I lean forward. “And let me be perfectly clear on this point: if there are any further instances of harassment in any form against Raymond McQuaid from this day on, I will sue the ever-loving hell out of this school and you personally.” I tilt my head toward Chelsea. “By the time I’m done with you, she will own every building on these grounds—and your house.” I pin him to the wall with my stare. “I don’t make threats often, Mr. Janovich, and when I do . . . they are never idle.”
I turn my head to the seething blond shark. “That goes for you and your son, too.”
And the seething turns to a full boil. “You wait just a damn minute! My son is the victim here! He was—”