Marcus shrugs. "Not your fault, Mr. Carter. Thanks for all you did to try to help me."
But it is. I should have found a better argument. Pushed harder. Something.
I force my face into professional composure as they lead him away, nodding encouragement I have to pull from somewhere unknown. Only when the door closes behind him do my hands curl into fists so tight my knuckles blanch.
I grab my briefcase and stride out of the courtroom, past the murmuring bailiffs and clerks who know better than to offer sympathy. When I push through the heavy doors, the late-day sun hits me square in the eyes—hot, unrelenting, like it’s taking sides. The sting makes me squint and pisses me off even more.
“Fuck this day,” I mutter, loosening my tie as I head for Sullivan’s.
The bar's dim lighting swallows me as I push through the heavy wooden door. Familiar scents of whiskey, grease, and decades of spilled beer offer a strange comfort.
Two regulars hunch over their glasses at the far end, and Lou from the DA's office sits alone in a corner booth, his case files spread around him like fallen soldiers.
I drop onto a stool at the bar, my shoulders finally releasing their professional posture.
Vince, the bartender, slides a tumbler of amber liquid in front of me before I can speak.
"Tough one?"
I exhale deeply, picking up the glass and watching thewhiskey catch what little light filters through the grimy windows.
"Another kid lost to the system. I argued my heart out, didn't matter."
The whiskey burns perfectly down my throat. Vince wipes an already clean section of bar, giving me space to breathe.
"Harrington?"
"Who else? The man thinks probation is what you get when you cure cancer."
Vince nods, pouring himself a short one. It's his ritual when a regular comes in wearing defeat.
"You care. Most don't. That's the difference."
I shake my head, bitterness rising like bile.
“Caring doesn’t help the kid who’s been handed a life in this shitty system because he didn’t have a dad and his mom died when he was a minor.”
The kid who will be surrounded by predators worse than the ones he already knows. The kid whose mother died three years ago, leaving him with a grandmother too sick to keep up. The kid who just needed one goddamn adult to show up for him.
The silence stretches between us. I take another sip, but the whiskey isn’t numbing anything fast enough.
“I’ve been making the same mistake for years,” I admit, my voice lower now, almost to myself. “Standing on the sidelines. Waiting too long to step in. Letting other people decide who gets protected and who doesn’t.”
Marcus. My family, broken as they were.
Janie.
The silence stretches. I take another sip, but the whiskey isn’t numbing anything fast enough.
Vince tops off my drink without pushing the conversation.That's why I come here. No questions, just quiet company in the shadows.
As I reach for my wallet to pay, a newspaper headline on the counter catches my eye. The Palm Beach Journal's business section features a family photo at some charity gala.
CARTER INDUSTRIES ANNOUNCES MAJOR DOWNTOWN REVITALIZATION DONATION
My father stares back at me from the glossy newsprint, his smile triumphant beside my brother Charlie.
I stare at the newspaper photo, my father's silver hair perfectly swept back as always, his tailored suit announcing success without having to say a word. Charlie stands beside him, hand resting casually on our father's shoulder - the prodigal son returned to grace. My stomach knots.