Page 4 of Uproot

Charlie always had a problem with drugs from a young age, and it was no wonder considering his mother's affinity for popping pills like they were damn Tic Tac’s.

He started out by skimming off of her stash, before he and his stoner friends moved on to other drugs they would buy on their own. He was caught time, and time again with drugs, but the one thing he never was known for was dealing them.

I rub a hand down my face knowing that I can't ignore whatever is going on with him. I still don't plan on spending a penny to help his self-destructive ass, but I do need to get some more information before this gets out in the news.

"Can I speak to him?" I ask, regaining my composure.

"Yes, Sir. I can arrange for him to contact you if you give me about 10 minutes," Sheriff Vaughn responds.

"Right. I'll be here," I agree.

Ten minutes later, Helen puts through the call for me from the Upwood City Jail, and I stop pacing my office, sitting down to take the call.

"Beckett?" Charlie asks, his voice sounding hoarse.

I get straight to the point, not feeling like bullshitting with small talk right now, "How the hell did you get yourself into so much trouble living in a tiny mountain town in the middle of bumfuck nowhere?"

I did some quick research on Upwood and I can't even imagine how he ended up there. The last thing I heard was that he was in New Jersey trying to stay clean, and working some Warehouse job with his equally dysfunctional girlfriend, Maria Alton.

"I moved here last summer. Maria's dad lived here, and he got really sick, so we came to stay with him. We helped him out since she's his only kid, you know? But he passed away just two months after we got here. He left us his house, so we decided to stay here," he explains.

"So when he died you and Tweedledum decided to turn her inheritance into a fucking trap house?" I snap, not bothering to hide my disgust.

Charlie had always had a special way of taking something good that was just handed to him, and turning it to shit.

He has done the exact opposite of what I've done with the opportunities I was given. It was one of the main reasons I convinced my father not to give Charlie any stake in our family business when he got sick seven years ago from cancer. Charlie would have not only mismanaged what he was given, but he would have burned it all to ashes.

"Maria..she left me, Beckett," Charlie mutters. "She ran off with some friends one weekend last Fall saying she was going out to Florida for a week. Haven't heard a word from her since. She barely was here anyway. That's her, always in and out."

"Perfect pair," I mumble, tapping my pen on my desk, growing more agitated listening to this annoying retelling of his life the past few years. "The Sheriff says the D.A. there doesn't screw around with drug dealers. He can put you away for 15 years plus for what they found on you without breaking a sweat. The legal system has given you enough chances, and you only seem to be escalating things every time you get a break."

He goes quiet for a moment, before responding, "You don't understand Beckett. I thought-I-I just needed some quick cash! This guy down in Charlestown who I was buying from, he told me if I would keep his stash here that he would pay me-"

"I don't have the time or desire to sit here and listen to more excuses for your piss poor decision making, Charlie!" I roar, pounding my fist on my desk. "I'm done spending my money to put you in expensive rehabs, or bail you out of your stupid mistakes. You're 27 years old for God's sake, not seventeen! And nothing has changed with you in a decade."

He grows quiet, and I know he must be seething on the other end of the line. He hates my lectures, and I'm sure a big part of him even hatesme.

But one thing I've always done, and always will do is tell the truth.

"I'm..sorry," he grumbles, sounding like the word is painful to utter.

"Well we can agree on that," I say, sitting back in my seat.

"Listen, I know I don't deserve your help Beckett, but there's something I need to ask you. Something really important," he says, sounding strangely nervous.

My eyes narrow and I go to speak, but he cuts me off.

"It'snotbail money, or a lawyer! I know I've fucked up big time. I'm going to be a man and take what I have coming," he says, shocking me into silence.

I shake my head feeling genuinely confused. This is not how it usually goes with us.

He screws up and calls me so I can pay his bail money and get him a shark criminal defense attorney (that bills an outrageous hourly fee even for breathing) to help him. I then send him to a rehab that costs as much as some people make in a year, just for him to do well for a few months, before falling off the face of the earth again.

It got even worse after he met Maria, who was more than happy to blow through the rest of his inheritance with him. It's the same song and dance we've done for years.

For too long.

But now he isn't asking for my help with the same old thing?

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