Some people in this world have a Midas touch. Everything they set their hand to prospers and flourishes.
I seem to have the opposite effect. And I think the best thing I can probably do for my unborn daughter and her mother is stay away from them.
23
GIVEN THAT COLIN NEVER returned my call, I’m wondering if what I’m doing today is a really bad idea. He might hate me for this. And then I guess we’d be even… Except that I don’t hate him anymore. In fact, I’m so far fromhateat this point that I’m approaching something that scares me even more than the birth of our daughter that’s looming closer and closer every day.
And I guess all of that is why I’m doing this whether it’ll piss him off or not.
This particular courtroom is pretty typical of what I expected it to look like. Wood-paneled walls. A gilded-framed portrait of some historical figure that I can’t identify, who probably had something to do with the history of legal justice in New York. The American and New York state flags standing proudly front and center behind the judge’s bench. A bailiff and other court personnel linger on one side of the room next to an exit. People who appear to be lawyers are set up at tables in front of the bench. The gallery is made up of several wooden rows, and a sparse gathering of people wait in them. Colin, dressed in a classic black suit and black tie, is sitting on the second one from the front at the center-aisle side. I’m way at the back on a bench on the other side of the aisle so I can see part of his profile. He doesn’t know I’m here. And he won’t know I’m here until this is over.
The likelihood is high that Archer is going to be sentenced to at least a few years in prison, and that’s going to fuck Colin up, and that’s why I’m here.
Don’t get me wrong, Reader. I still don’t think it’s the best idea for Colin and I to try to betogether. My toxic parents are a glaring example of why you absolutelydo notget married or start a romantic relationship with someonejust becauseyou accidentally brought a baby into the equation. But I think we can and should be friends. And that’s what I’m here to be.
About twenty minutes pass before the exit door next to the bailiff swings outward, and a shackled, orange-jumpsuit-clad Archer is ushered by another officer into the courtroom. He keeps his head down, but Colin’s head snaps upward and to the left like a magnetic pull between him and his brother. A portly man in his fifties wearing a designer suit, who was seated next to Colin, stands up and crosses through the swinging door to approach Archer. He’s obviously Archer’s attorney, and after greeting him, he and someone I’m assuming is part of the prosecution team exchange a few words at the center of the room.
The judge is an elderly white woman who looks like she might actually have frigid, liquefied steel flowing through her veins. She shuffles through documents before tipping a small microphone toward her mouth. “Now hearing case number CA-20013008, New York County Court versus Archer Flannery on a felony charge of possession of four to two hundred grams of a schedule two narcotic with intent to distribute.” She glances up over the rim of her glasses. “Counselors, please approach.”
The two attorneys approach the bench and take turns addressing the judge in voices too low for me to hear. Archer remains next to the table, head still down, but with an otherwise straight posture. Colin still has his eyes trained on Archer, one elbow resting on the arm of the bench as he chews his thumbnail. This isn’t a trial; Archer’s attorney and the prosecution team have already reached an agreement in preliminary negotiations, so whatever the outcome is today, Colin and Archer already know. This is just a sentencing. And based on the uncharacteristic pallidness of Colin’s complexion, I already know it’s not going to be good.
It takes about ten minutes for the attorneys to go back and forth with each other and the judge, and I shift in my seat in an attempt to soothe my screaming back. Colin is now wringing his hands at the level of his chest, his eyes darting back and forth between Archer and the judge.
“Mr. Flannery,” the judge speaks up, “please approach the bench.”
The bailiff guides Archer with a hand wrapped around his upper arm. Colin follows them with wide eyes, the muscle in his jaw pulsing rapidly as though he’s repeatedly clenching and unclenching his teeth.
“Mr. Flannery, you understand the charges that have been brought against you?” the judge prompts.
Archer’s jaw does a single pulse that’s similar to the one still ticking in Colin’s. “Yes, your honor.”
“And you understand and accept the plea offer agreed upon by your counselor and the prosecutor?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“Very good.” She glances back down, and I can’t see much of what she’s doing, but she looks like she’s signing off on documents. After a second or two of that, she tilts the microphone toward her mouth again, as if she wants to make sure nobody misses what she’s about to say. “Archer Flannery, the court hereby sentences you to eight years in state prison, and you are ordered to pay thirty thousand dollars in restitution. You will be eligible to appeal for parole two years from today’s date, dependent upon the merit of good behavior.”
With that, she smacks the gavel, and Colin leaps up from his seat. He’s pacing in front of the bench like an alley cat on high alert while he lifts his hand in a gesture at Archer’s attorney as if trying to get his attention.
“Russell,” he says at a respectable decibel level, but loud enough to be heard. “Russell, can I—”
Russell gestures back at Colin with an open palm while speaking to the bailiff, who’s still holding Archer’s arm. They converse for a second before Russell steps aside and the bailiff walks Archer to the barrier that separates the gallery from the judge’s bench. Colin marches into the aisle toward them, clamps his hand around the back of Archer’s neck, and speaks quietly right into Archer’s ear.
I can’t hear any of it, but Colin’s eyes are blinking rapidly and his inaudible words are visibly clipped and intense. He only speaks for about three seconds before wrapping his opposite arm around Archer’s back to hug him tightly, scrubbing Archer’s grown-out hair, and then pressing a quick, firm kiss to the top of his head. Then he lets go, and the bailiff leads Archer away. And I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from breaking down into tears.
After Archer slips out of the courtroom, Colin and Russell speak for a couple of minutes, and then Russell offers his hand. Colin shakes with him, chin low, and Russell offers a few firm pats on the back. The two men part, and Colin slips his hands into his pockets as he makes his way down the aisle toward the exit.
His head is hung low, and I push my stiff, aching body off the bench and step right in his path.
“Colin,” I say when he’s about two arms’ length from me.
His feet still, and then he looks up at me through those blue eyes that I’m secretly hoping he passed on to our daughter. But right now, they don’t look like they ever have before. They’re red as hell, spilling over, and are like shattered windows to his injured soul.
And common sense dictates that Colin and I have no business trying to be in a romantic relationship just because we’re going to be co-parents in only a few short weeks. But seeing him like this causes soul-deep affection and empathy for him to surge through me, and I don’t know what he and I are going to be to each other. But I do know we need to be something.
I do know that Iwantus to be something.
Eight. Years.
