Page 12 of Tequila Tuesdays

I mentally rolled my eyes. If I had a nickel every time Pauley said one of my clients “wasn’t taking this seriously and never had,” I could die rich. They were teenagers, for God's sake. Most of them didn’t take anything seriously—except maybe their social media.

I tried not to let my annoyance show. “I don’t agree that a felony distribution charge is warranted. It was a small grow box, and according to the photos she only had three scraggly little plants.”

“She had a grow box in her closet. And lights,” Pauley countered.

“Darla didn’t have enough product, and it’s not reasonable to assume she planned to distribute.”

Pauley scoffed. “She’s growing marijuana in her closet.”

I fought not to grind my teeth. “Her drug of choice is—big surprise, marijuana. It’s reasonable to infer she was growing it for herself.”

Judge Perez cut in. “Does anyone have any suggestions or ideas? She can’t pay fines because her mother won’t allow her to work, and incarceration isn’t recommended.”

I thought about what devious punishment my dad would’ve come up with in these circumstances. He believed in natural consequences. I’d hated it while growing up, but neither my sister nor I had criminal records and we weren’t working a pole, so it must have been somewhat effective.

Turning to Judge Perez, I pointed at Darla’s report. “She wants to ‘garden’ so much, maybe that would be an appropriate sanction. She could mow lawns and landscape with her dad. Do a little manual labor.”

“She could also work to pay her dad back for the supplies he gave her. And maybe she could continue afterward and earn some money if it works out,” Wendy added.

Judge Perez smiled. “I like it.”

I walked out of the courtroom that afternoon with Wendy. Besides Darla’s grow box, my kids seemed to be doing well for the moment. Roland, my biggest repeat offender, had gotten another shoplifting charge. But in the scheme of things that was an improvement for him. Baby steps.

Someone called my name, and I looked up and saw Damien walking through the metal detectors. Butterflies erupted in my stomach. I needed to get this attraction or whatever it was under control.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked, gathering his things off the conveyor belt.

Wendy stopped next to me, blatantly eavesdropping. I loved the woman, but she was nosy, and she couldn’t understand why I didn’t date or even use Tinder, or Match, or whatever the newest hookup app was.

“Stuff,” I answered vaguely.

Wendy snickered.

“Okaaay. What kind of stuff?” Damien asked.

“Legal stuff.”

He smirked. “What kind of legal stuff?” He seemed to be enjoying our game.

“Boring legal stuff.”

Wendy broke in. “Lord, woman. It shouldn’t be this hard for you to have a normal conversation.” She turned to Damien and stuck out her hand.

“Hi, my name’s Wendy. And you are?”

He grinned and shook her hand. “Damien Andreasen, but Harley calls me Dimples.”

That asshole was purposefully giving Wendy the wrong idea. I glared at him.

Wendy smiled even wider. “Aw, that’s a cute endearment. And I can see why she calls you that. Nice to meet a friend of Harley’s.” She glanced at me. “She tries hard not to have any.”

“That’s not true—” I started to say.

She ran right over me. “She’s here today as the juvenile drug court public defender. And I’m the DCFS worker.”

Damien’s eyes swept down, and took in my dressy black heels and slim charcoal suit. I tugged a little at the pencil skirt. My sister gave me the suit last year for my birthday, and I thought I looked decent in it.

“Hello, Wendy. Any friend of Harley’s is a friend of mine.”

---