Page 1 of The Delivery

THE DELIVERY PART I CHAPTER 1

Janey pushes open my door and walks toward my desk with a dangerously large pile of case files.

“Don’t even think about giving those to me. There’s no way I can accommodate that many new clients.”

She hasn’t even bothered to shuffle them together so they look somewhat cohesive. Another pile to add to the one I only got halfway through from last week. Janey blows her bangs up and sighs as she plops them down on my desk.

“The air is out again on the records floor. I almost suffocated. My shirt is wet all the way through. If we don’t move away from paper soon, I’m setting that room on fire.”

“Oh sure, I’ll take care of that as soon as you secure us a grant for an IT department. Is there coffee?”

“Yeah, but you got an interview in the lobby already. Been here since Amir unlocked the front door. His file is on top.”

“Give me five and then send him in. Can you get me a coffee, though?” I ask, handing her my embarrassingly brown, coffee-stained mug.

I drink too much coffee on this job and eat too much crap food. I’m always trying to catch up but there are too many delinquents in the city of Los Angeles for a tiny non-profit like ours to manage. We’ve only been able to take the cases the county sends directly to us due to excess demand. I hate having to turn anyone away. In some ways, I wish we could do more preventative intervention, but then I tell myself this is preventative because our clients are still young, all eighteen and under. It’s not too late for them to turn their lives around.

I grab the first blue folder off the top of the pile and stare down at the name: Moisés Roberto Robles de la Cruz, DOB 11.21.96.

I open the file to his mug shot and date of arrest. Just two months ago, first major offense, attempted armed robbery, pled guilty, mandated to juvie, showed promise, sent to Pathways to Success. Same story, new face. Our job is to make sure it’s their first and last offense, steer them down another path, and try to prevent the next stop from being San Quentin.

I close his file and then try shuffling the files together so the loose papers hanging out appear more presentable. It doesn’t work, so I take to picking them up and shaking the folder until the individual documents fall into place. If it looks like garbage, it will make the kids feel like garbage. My job is to show them they have potential and they deserve success.

Janey comes in with my coffee. She is sweaty and her blouse is clinging to her, as are the wet, golden strands of hair around her face.

“I put a ton of that caramel creamer shit in it. I figured it was one of those days.”

“I’d thank you, but my diet just punched you in the kidneys.”

“Whatever, Lana. You’re ninety pounds with heels on. Can I send him in? You’ve got a line forming. The lobby is full already.”

“Whatever happened to the good kids? The one’s that came home in time for dinner and did their homework at the kitchen table? Does anybody grow up and go to college and start a nice little family anymore?”

“Well, if they did then we wouldn’t have jobs. Besides, they still exist. We just don’t see any of them in here. You want your first or should I still hold them off?”

“Send them in. I’ll take the last one at 11:45, and then that’s all we’ll have room for today.”

“Corrections already brought their load so the rest should just be walkins.”

I open his folder again and go over his stats. Six years old when he came to the States. No resident alien status, practically off the books until this arrest. Some foster care placement. Investigated for deportation twice but went underground both times. I sip my coffee that is sweeter than fuck and close the folder when there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

The door pushes open and in walks my first client of the day. He’s surprisingly big, probably close to six feet and has the shoulder spread of a wrestler. He’s wearing dark green, loose fit cargo pants and a black T-shirt. He’s got a black beanie on that completely obscures his hair. What strikes me most about him is the jewelry. There are piercings—which is sort of standard fare, an eyebrow and a lip—but this kid is adorned. Large, masculine silver rings decorate both hands, multiple bracelets on his wrists as well as pendants, everything in black leather or silver. His aesthetic is very bohemian. He looks like a gypsy, not a thug, which is what I’m most accustomed to, especially with my clients coming in from juvie.

“Come on in and have a seat, Moisés,” I say, glancing down at his file to make sure I got his name right.

He moves across the room and places a well-worn backpack by the chair. He’s got on heavy combat boots. Plopping down in the chair, he starts to crack his knuckles, all the while staring blankly at me.

I can’t quite put my finger on what it is about him, but he seems different than the hundreds of kids who tromp through here on a daily basis. It’s not just his style. He’s seems confident but not cocky. He has an almost distinguished vibe going on. He looks intelligent. I realize I’m staring.

“Is that what you go by, Moisés? I’m Lana Finch, but most of the kids call me Doc.”

He nods and rubs the stubble on his jaw with his thumb as he looks at me thoughtfully. He’s taking me in, sizing me up, probably wondering if he can trust me or if he should be on the offensive. They all do—it’s a defense mechanism. These are kids who have been through a whole hell of a lot. “What do I have to do?”

His voice is deep and melodious. Everything about him is surprising. I expected something more feminine, maybe a tenor, definitely not baritone.

“Oh!” This kid is throwing me off my game. It’s simply because I can’t read him, and I’m good at reading delinquents—no, I’m great at it. It’s what I do.

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