Night Fever. Diana Palmer
had set. “He’s not a bad boy,” she pleaded. “It’s the company he’s keeping. Please, I’ll try to work with him...”
“Your father’s done a great job of that already,” Kilpatrick said, totally unaware of the real situation at home as he went for her throat with sickening ease, his dark brown eyes stabbing into hers as he leaned back with his cigar between his big fingers. “There’s no point in letting the boy back on the streets unless his home situation changes. He’ll just do the same thing again.”
Her hazel eyes met his dark ones. “Do you have a brother, Mr. Kilpatrick?”
“Not to my knowledge, Miss Cullen.”
“If you had one, you might understand how I feel. This is the first time he’s done anything like this. It’s like throwing out the baby with the bathwater.”
“This baby was in possession of illegal drugs. Cocaine, to be exact, and not just cocaine—crack.” He leaned forward, looking more Indian than ever, his level, unblinking stare faintly dangerous. “He needs guidance. You and your father quite obviously aren’t capable of giving it to him.”
“That was a low blow, Kilpatrick,” Bob Malcolm said tautly.
“It was an accurate one,” he returned without apology. “At this age, boys don’t change without help. He should have gotten that in the beginning, and it may be too late already.”
“But...!” Becky said.
“Your brother is damned lucky he didn’t get caught peddling any of that poison on the street!” he said shortly. “I hate drug pushers. I’ll go to any lengths to prosecute them.”
“But he isn’t a pusher,” Becky said huskily, her big hazel eyes wet with tears.
Kilpatrick hadn’t felt compassion in a long time, and he didn’t like it. He averted his eyes. “Not yet,” he agreed. He sighed angrily, glancing from Becky to Malcolm. “All right. Gillen, the magistrate, says he’ll go along with whatever I decide. The boy denies possession. He says that he didn’t know how it got in his jacket, and the only witnesses are the Harris boys. They, of course, back his story to the hilt,” he added with a cold smile.
“In other words,” Bob said with a faint smile, “you don’t have much of a case.”
“Chorus and verse,” Kilpatrick agreed. “This time,” Kilpatrick said with a meaningful glance at Becky. “I’ll drop the charges.”
Becky felt sick with relief. “Can I see him?” she asked huskily. She was too badly hurt to say any more, and this man hated her. She’d get no sympathy or help from him.
“Yes. I’ll want Brady at juvenile hall to talk to the boy, and there’ll be a condition for the release. Now, go away. I have work to do.”
“Okay, we’ll get out of the way,” Malcolm said, rising. “Thanks, Kilpatrick,” he said formally.
Kilpatrick got up, too. He stuck one hand in his pocket, staring at Rebecca’s tragic face with mixed emotions. He felt sorry for her, and he didn’t want to. He wondered why her father hadn’t come with her. She was very thin, and the sadness in her oval face was disturbing. It surprised him that it bothered him. These days, very little did. She wasn’t the cocky, amusing companion he’d had several elevator rides with. Not now. She looked totally without hope.
He saw them out the door and went back into his office without a word to his secretary.
“We’ll go over to juvenile hall,” Bob Malcolm was telling Becky as he put her into the elevator and pressed the sixth floor button. “Everything will be all right. If Kilpatrick can’t prove his case, he won’t pursue it. Clay can leave with us.”
“He wouldn’t even listen to me,” she said huskily.
“He’s a hard man. Probably the best D.A. this county’s had in a long time, but sometimes he can be inflexible. Not an easy man to face across a courtroom, either.”
“I can understand that.”
* * *
Becky went to juvenile hall to see her brother after work. She was ushered into a tiny meeting room to wait for him. Clay walked in fifteen minutes later, looking frightened and belligerent all at once.
“Hi, Becky,” he said with a cocky grin. “They didn’t beat me, so you don’t need to worry. They won’t send me to jail. I’ve talked with two other kids who know the ropes. They say juvenile hall is just a slap on the wrist because we’re underage. I’ll beat this rap sitting down.”
“Thank you,” she told him, stiff-lipped and cold-eyed. “Thank you for your generous consideration of your grandfather’s feelings and mine. It’s nice to know that you love us enough to become notorious on our behalf.”
Clay was wild, but he had a heart. He toned down instantly and dropped his eyes.
“Now, tell me what happened,” she said shortly, sitting down across from him after Mr. Brady, the juvenile officer on Clay’s case, joined them.
“Didn’t they tell you?” Clay asked.
“You tell me,” she countered.
He gave her a long look and shrugged. “I was drunk,” he muttered, twisting his hands over his jeans-clad legs. “They said let’s do some crack, and I just nodded. I flaked out in the back seat and didn’t come to until the police stopped us. My pockets were full of the stuff. I don’t know how it got there. Honest, Becky,” he added. His sister and brother and grandfather were the only people on earth he loved. He hated what he’d done, but he was too proud to admit it. “I sobered up real good after Kilpatrick talked to me.”
“Possession of illegal drugs alone could get you a prison term of up to ten years, if the D.A. decided to try you as an adult,” Mr. Brady interjected with a level glance. “And you may not be out of the woods yet. Mr. Kilpatrick, the district attorney, would very much like to nail you to the wall.”
“He can’t. I’m a juvenile.”
“Only for another year. And reform school wouldn’t appeal to you, young man. I can promise you that.”
Clay looked subdued, and a little less belligerent. He twisted his hands in his lap. “I won’t go to jail, will I?”
“Not this time,” the juvenile officer said. “But don’t underestimate Kilpatrick. Your father was pretty arrogant when he beat the robbery charge, and that didn’t endear your family to the D.A. He’s a very moral man. He doesn’t like lawbreakers. It would do you good to remember that. He still thinks your father threatened that victim to keep him from talking.”
“Dad was arrested?” Clay began.
“Never mind,” Becky said, stiffening her features.
He glanced at her, noticing reluctantly the strain in her face, the sadness. He felt a twinge of conscience.
“I’ll say this once,” Mr. Brady told Clay. “You’ve got a chance to keep your nose clean. If you throw it away, no one is going to be able to help you—not your sister or me. You may beat the rap for a while, as long as you’re a juvenile. But you’re seventeen. And if the crime is severe enough, the district attorney would be within his authority to have you prosecuted as an adult. If you keep messing around with drugs, inevitably you’ll serve time. I wish I could show you what that means. Our prisons are overcrowded, and even the best of them are hellholes for young offenders. If you don’t like being ordered around by your sister, you sure as hell aren’t going to like being some older boy’s imitation girlfriend.” He stared at Clay. “Do you understand what I mean, son? They’d pass you around like a new toy.”
Clay reddened. “They wouldn’t! I’d fight...!”
“You’d lose. Think about it. Meanwhile, you’re going to get some counseling,” the juvenile officer said. “We’ve set up