I wonder how she handled Rory after I left—did she ground the little smartass? Make him do extra chores, maybe, like weeding the garden or mowing the lawn? I can say from experience, manual labor leaves a bitch of an impression on even the most stubborn punks. And their lawn was massive.
Grabbing my laptop, I Google Chelsea’s brother, Robert, for reasons I can’t explain. But the pull of information literally at my fingertips is too strong to resist.
Most lobbyists are bottom-feeders. Smarmy, self-important deal makers who are drunk on their power over the powerful—not unlike the pencil pushers who run the Department of Motor Vehicles. But, as I told his sister, Robert McQuaid had a reputation as a straight shooter. A good guy who genuinely cared about the cause he was paid to champion.
There’s a wealth of information about his career—and his death. He was at a charity dinner with his college sweetheart turned wife of seventeen years, Rachel. On their way home, a truck driver fell asleep at the wheel and veered into their lane, too quickly to avoid a head-on collision. His obituary lists his professional accomplishments and his survivors: six children, Riley, Rory, Raymond, Rosaleen, Regan, and Ronan, as well as a sister, Chelsea, of Berkeley, California. There are pictures—a few of the kids through the years, with their attractive parents at various family-friendly events around DC. And one of Chelsea, head bowed, in a black dress and large dark glasses, beside a double grave site. Looking tragically beautiful.
And very much alone.
Feeling like a fucking creeper, I end up closing my laptop and going to bed.
• • •
Like I said before, I’m a fan of routine. Strict time management and an impenetrable schedule. I spend Sunday morning at Sofia and Stanton’s, having a breakfast of coffee and delicious Brazilian cheese balls that she makes so very well. Brent jokes about popping my dating cherry and recounts our mutually sexless evening. Stanton mentions that Presley has a few days off from school next week and is coming for a visit.
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?”
“It’s going well, thank you. How are you?” His tone is hesitant and polite. The way you’d speak to a stranger—and right now, that’s what I am to him.
“I’m doing good.” I unfold the newspaper from under my arm. “The Supreme Court heard o
ral arguments on Thursday for that health care case. We talked about it last week, do you remember?”
His eyes squint and his finger presses against the lines surrounding his lips, his hand trembling slightly. “No, I can’t recall. Which case was it?”
I open to the front page. “I’ll read it to you. It’s a good article. Lays it all out.”
He leans forward attentively, and I begin to read.
• • •
After the newspaper, we kick back and watch the basketball game. The judge grew up on the south side of Boston, so he’s a die-hard Celtics fan. Or . . . he used to be. As the game winds down, I talk about my week—Milton Bradley and the epic-fail dinner with Camille. And then I tell him about Rory McQuaid.
“He gets halfway down the block, looks me right in the eyes, and gives me the finger.” I chuckle, because it seems a lot funnier now. “Little bastard.”
The Judge smiles. “I knew a boy like that once.”
My chuckles quiet and my smile slows. “Did you?”
His whole face lights up. “Oh yes! He was delightful. Smart and stubborn—a real tough nut to crack—with gray eyes like a storm cloud. He got into some trouble, and that young boy stood before my bench with his chin raised, just daring me to send him away. Like he was ready to spit in the devil’s face. But I could see, deep down, he was terrified.”
And I had been. For the first time in my life, I knew what real fear tasted like.
“There was something special about him, a diamond in the rough. So I had him serve his probation under my supervision. For three years, I owned that kid.”
Yep, three long years.
“I had to teach him to control his temper. He had a short fuse. So I started with the lawn. Each time he finished mowing, hot and sweaty, I’d go out and inspect his work.” He wags his finger. “And I always found spots that he missed. So I’d make him . . .” He starts to cackle, the son of a bitch. “I’d make him go back over the whole lawn with . . . with . . .”
“Garden shears,” I fill in for him.
“Yes! Garden shears.” He laughs loud. “Oh, he hated me those first few months. Probably thought of ten different ways to murder me.”
It was closer to twenty.
“After the yard work, I taught him how to organize, how to repair things around the house. It was good for him—channeling all that energy. And even though he was a very hard worker, I’d always say, ‘Do it right . . .’ ”
Or don’t bother.
“ ‘. . . or don’t bother.’ Then I started to teach him about the work I did. How to research, how to read the statutes. After his probation was up, I offered him a job. A paid intern.” The Judge taps his chin and shakes his head. “He could look at a page once and remember every word. So intuitive, great instincts.” He sighs.
Then he covers my hand with his age-spotted one. “Do you think . . . do you think you could find him for me?”
And I can’t breathe past the lump that clogs my throat.
“I’d like to make sure that boy’s all right. See if he needs anything.” His green eyes earnestly look into mine.
I clear my throat loudly. “Um . . . I, ah . . . I did find him for you. I checked up on him. He’s doing really well—you don’t have to worry. He’s on his way to making partner. And he . . . asked me to tell you how grateful he is, for everything you did for him. All the things you taught him.” I blink against the burn in my eyes. “He hopes . . . he wants to make you proud.”
The Judge gives me a peaceful, relieved smile. “I’m sure I would be proud. He was always a good boy.”
The two of us fall quiet again, watching the game. Until there’s a knock on the open bedroom door. And Marietta—one of the volunteers here—walks in with a smile and a tray of dinner for the Judge.
“Good evening, Mr. Atticus and Jake. How you are you two doin’ tonight?”