For the Children Read online

  He got out of a Corvette. A 1965 mint-condition Corvette.

  “Unusual transportation for a crossing guard,” Valerie murmured. Stupid thing to say. But damn, there was a lot about this man that didn’t add up.

  “I haven’t always been a crossing guard.”

  No kidding. “What did you used to be?”

  “An unhappy member of the corporate world. Now I’m a happy crossing guard.”

  An explanation of sorts, if somewhat flippantly delivered. But no answer at all. How could someone with his drive and intelligence be satisfied not using his talents?

  “You’re going to be a crossing guard for the rest of your life?”

  “You have a problem with that?” Kirk’s tone was light.

  “No.” Maybe. It just seemed like such a waste.

  “It’s honorable work. And the kids—including your twins—deserve the best.”

  “Of course they do.” But it didn’t take a businessman successful enough to drive a mint-condition vintage Corvette to provide that at a low-traffic side street.

  Valerie knew, without another word being said, that this particular conversation was over.

  Dear Reader,

  I want to tell you about something that happened to me when I was writing this book. I discovered that I’ve spent my entire life ignorant of the judicial system, which has been serving me diligently every single day. Of course, I knew it existed. I’ve been in a courtroom, seen hundreds of trials on television. I knew all about being a judge—I thought. I knew so much I missed the fact that I didn’t know anything at all.

  Every day while we go about our business there are, in every county in the nation, people who carry the pressure of making life-determining decisions. As I was doing research for this book, I sat in a juvenile courtroom, to the side of the judge’s bench, and saw what she saw—the kids out there in front of her, the attorneys and parents and witnesses and victims. I saw the fear in the eyes of teenage offenders whose lives might be forever changed that day. And the hope felt by those who might be given another chance. And I saw us. You and me. Out living our lives. Taking for granted that the judge is going to look into the eyes of a sixteen-year-old, see the hope and the fear, and still make the decision that will keep us all safe. Including that kid…

  I could hardly handle a morning of that pressure. And I was experiencing it vicariously. I’ve always known that doctors did miraculous things—holding lives in their hands every day. And policemen. And firefighters and paramedics. I missed the fact that judges give their lives and hearts and minds to preserving all our lives. I, for one, will be aware and grateful that they’re in those courtrooms, taking this challenge upon themselves so that the rest of us can raise our children and send them off to school and grocery shop and go to church without worrying too much that the person next to us is a criminal. A heartfelt thank-you!

  I love to hear from readers. You can reach me at P.O. Box 15065, Scottsdale, AZ 85267 or visit me at www.tarataylorquinn.com.

  Tara Taylor Quinn

  For the Children

  Tara Taylor Quinn

  To Sherry. You’ve enriched my life beyond measure.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Heartfelt thanks to Judge Sherry Stephens and her staff for their generous assistance with technical aspects of this story. Any liberties taken—and all mistakes made—are mine.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  “TOUGH MORNING, Valerie?”

  The black silk robe flowing around her, Superior Court juvenile judge Valerie Simms smiled and nodded at Judge Hal Collins Wednesday morning. She stopped briefly in the hall on the short trek from the courtroom to her quiet high-ceilinged sanctuary. “How about you, Hal? A piece of cake as usual?”

  “It wasn’t bad,” he said, still smiling. With a little wave, he disappeared into his office.

  It wasn’t that Hal didn’t care about the kids they tried to help after parents and schools had failed to make a difference. But he didn’t let any of it get to him.

  Someday, when she grew up, she was going to be just like him.

  Trying to pretend she already was, Valerie shook off the Billings case and thought, instead, about the lunch date she had ahead of her—with her in-line skates and the new concrete jogging trail not far from the Mesa, Arizona, Juvenile Court Division. She’d have just enough time to get in ten miles and a quick shower before she was due back in court. She’d already reviewed her afternoon calendar, which left the entire hour-and-a-half lunch break free.

  “How’d it go?” Valerie’s supportive and energetic judicial assistant met her at the door of her office.

  Valerie grimaced. Unsnapped her robe.

  “That bad, huh?” Leah Carmichael followed her inside the large, peaceful room.

  “Not really.” Hanging up her robe, sinking into the plush maroon leather of her desk chair, Valerie continued, “I released Sam Marsden. I think he’s ready.”

  “He spent a lot of time on the report you asked him to write about his community service.”

  He had. She’d been pleased with his work. And, for this boy, she was honestly hopeful.

  Leah sat in one of the two maple chairs across from Valerie’s desk, crossing her legs as though settling in for a long chat. In her taupe slacks and jacket with perfectly matched shoes, she looked every bit the professional Valerie knew her to be.

  Attention to detail was among the many strong points Valerie appreciated about Leah. She’d chosen well when she’d hired her first J.A.

  “The Marcos kid was as unbending as ever. I told him that if I see him again, I’m going to detain him.”

  Signing a request to issue a warrant for truancy, Valerie gave Leah a brief rundown on the rest of the morning’s calendar.

  “What about Abraham Billings?” Her assistant fingered a few strands of her light brown hair. The top of her head bore several intricate and perfectly ordered braids that day, with the rest of her hair hanging straight to midback. Val wondered how early Leah had to get up to achieve such an elaborate style. And whether or not she felt the result was worth the time and effort.

  “Judge Simms?”

  “I let him stay with his mom.”

  Leah stood. “Well if you think that’s where he should be then that’s good. I’ll bet he was happy.”

  “Yeah. He was.” She met Leah’s clear blue and damnably trusting eyes. “I wanted to remove him.”

  “You did?”

  She nodded.

  “Then why didn’t you?” Sinking back to the chair, Leah’s glistening lips hung open.

  “Diane Smith recommended removal. She’s a darn good probation officer. She’s been to the boy’s home. I haven’t.”

  And the boy’s mother…

  “You knew that before you went in.”

  Carla Billings, in spite of her many shortcomings, had been so in tune with her son she’d seemed to have felt every breath he took. A person had to be pretty insensitive to rent apart a bond that close.

  Valerie didn’t think she’d survive if Blake and Brian were ever taken away from her…

  “I did know it, you’re right,” Valerie answered belatedly when Le
ah continued to silently appraise her.

  “C.P.S. moved for removal.”

  And Diane had spent more time with the boy.

  “Abraham put up a good fight for himself. He was willing to do whatever he had to do to stay home.”

  “So what does he have to do?”

  “He’s on probation with community service.” It was the strongest penalty she could give for truancy.

  “I want to keep as close an eye on that boy as possible,” she said. “And I want him busy, out of his home participating in a good cause, for as many of his waking hours as we can manage.”

  She wanted him away from the mother she’d just allowed to retain custody. Though nothing had been proven yet, no official filing, Abraham’s mother was most likely prostituting out of her home—although there’d been a vague claim that she was some sort of bookkeeper.

  That was all speculation at this point, however. Right now, her biggest concern was Carla’s incorrigible twelve-year-old son. A young man who’d attended only nineteen of the first forty days of his seventh-grade year. The middle of October, and already the kid was in jeopardy of having to repeat the grade.

  A grade he’d barely reached due to absenteeism in his last year of elementary school.

  His probation required thirty-two hours of commitment weekly. And just as important, constant communication with a probation officer. It was a harsh disposition. And Abraham had signed the requisite contract without hesitation. Most of his thirty-two hours had to be fulfilled by attending his classes at Menlo Ranch Junior High.

  “They tried CUTS, right?” Leah asked, frowning, referring to the Court Unified Truancy Suppression program.

  Judicial assistants reviewed all files. Valerie’s J.A. remembered everything she read. “A requisite component of the program is parental participation.” The implication was clear.

  Valerie also remembered everything in the files she read. Including the name of Abraham’s school. Menlo Ranch. Which her own sons attended.

  “You want me to send your robe out for dry cleaning?” Leah got to her feet.

  Valerie shook her head. As her assistant left, closing the door behind her, she slouched back in her chair, hands linked across her stomach, and stared at the ceiling. Her job was to make decisions. She’d made one.

  So why was she doubting that she’d done her job?

  In her mind’s eye, she suddenly pictured a man. The new crossing guard at the boy’s school. He’d only been around since the start of the semester, replacing old Mr. Grimble who’d been working the corner in front of the elementary/junior-high complex since Blake and Brian had started kindergarten. The new guy wasn’t old—mid-thirties, Valerie guessed. Younger than her own thirty-seven years.

  He was about medium height for a man. Five-eleven maybe. And although he wasn’t skinny, he was slim. Clean-shaven. With brown hair cut in a businesslike style above his ears. But what Valerie remembered most about him was the way his mouth quirked to the right when he smiled.

  And he’d been smiling at her—and everyone else approaching his crosswalk—since the first day of school eight weeks before. Every morning when she dropped the boys at his corner. He waved, too. And she’d heard him call her boys by name—their right names. An unusual feat for someone who wasn’t intimately acquainted with them. Blake and Brian were identical twins.

  Standing, Valerie grabbed her clothes out of the canvas bag she carried back and forth to work, locked her office door and quickly changed. She’d never spoken to the crosswalk man. Didn’t even know his name. But thinking about him calmed her, anyway.

  She put on her in-line skates at the trunk of her car, skated a full twelve miles in less than an hour, showered, and still had time for a bowl of soup with crackers.

  By the time she was seated for her Wednesday-afternoon calendar, she felt whole again. Confident. Ready to determine new directions for the lives of her troubled kids.

  “HI, CINDY, got your lunch money today?” Kirk smiled at the pint-size redhead standing at the corner with him on the fourth Thursday in October.

  “Yep, see?” she said, holding it up for him.

  He glanced quickly at the couple of dollars she held, returning his attention immediately to the goings-on around him. There would be no children in his street unless he said so. “Good,” he told the fourth-grader. “Now, be sure you put it someplace you can find it at lunchtime.”

  “I will.” The girl giggled, and skipped across the street as he stepped out, raising his sign to stop traffic.

  Several other kids had gathered, as well. Kirk greeted each of them by name as they passed. Steve and Kaitlin and little Jimmy Granger. Jake and Josh and Melissa and…

  The day, the job, continued. When school had started in August, he’d given himself a week to learn the names of the kids. Since then, he’d paid close attention to the children themselves.

  As soon as he stepped back to the curb, a car pulled up on the west corner. Abraham Billings. That made six days in a row.

  Kirk was impressed.

  Until the past week and a half, Abraham had missed school more often than he’d come. But when he did show, his mother always dropped him off. She kissed him on the cheek, then sat in her car watching until he’d disappeared inside the school.

  Kirk could imagine Susan there, doing the same with Alicia.

  “Hey, buddy,” Kirk said as the boy approached his corner.

  “Hi.” The word was barely uttered.

  At the moment Abraham was the only one waiting there to cross. Which meant that Kirk could hold him there for a second, have a chance to talk with him.

  “You okay?” Kirk had known for months that this agile young man had problems.

  “Yeah.”

  He waved to the boy’s mom, who waved back. Abraham scowled.

  “You mad at her?” Kirk asked.

  “No.” The tone was almost belligerent.

  Abraham was probably one of the best-looking kids in his class. Tanned and lithe, he had perfectly proportioned features and big brown eyes. He wasn’t looking particularly attractive at the moment, however.

  Deciding to leave well enough alone for that day, Kirk adjusted the edge of his bright orange vest and waited for enough kids to warrant stopping traffic. He didn’t see any children coming down the street. He’d wait another thirty seconds and then halt traffic anyway.

  “Do you hafta wave at her like that?” The question seemed to burst from Abraham.

  “Like what?”

  “Like she’s a piece of meat or something.”

  Whoa. Kirk frowned, framing his next words carefully around something he sensed was there but hadn’t yet identified.

  “I wave at all the mothers,” he said easily. “And fathers, too. Every day.”

  “Why?”

  “To let them know they can trust their kids to me.”

  “Oh.”

  Another car was approaching. The Smith boys. They were good kids. Kirk knew several Smiths, including the business professor in college who’d mentored him during his undergrad years and then grad school—and guided him through his first multimillion-dollar deal.

  Glad that Smith was such a common name, Kirk kept hoping that the more decent Smiths he knew, like his professor, the less pain he’d feel at the thought of the one bastard he’d never met—the Smith who’d changed his life forever.

  “That’s dumb.” Abraham was staring out at the street, but didn’t seem to be focusing on much.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, man, it just is.”

  The Smith boys had stopped halfway out of their car, apparently listening to some last-minute instruction from their mother. According to her sons, she had a different name—Simms. And apparently she was a juvenile court judge.

  “Basketball tryouts are next Tuesday,” Kirk said casually.

  “So?”

  “I’m the coach.” Steve McDonald, principal of Menlo Ranch and the one person who’d remained a friend to Ki
rk all his life, had included the coaching position in the package he’d presented last spring. It was intended to save Kirk from himself. And it seemed to be working.

  “So?”

  “I’d like you to try out.”

  “I’m too short.”

  “You’re quick. And I’ve seen you at lunch, tossing trash in the can from eight feet away. You never miss.”

  Kirk served as lunchroom monitor during the middle part of the day.

  Shoving his hands in the pockets of his freshly laundered jeans, Abraham shrugged his backpack higher on to his shoulders. “I don’t have time.”

  “It’s only for an hour or two after school.”

  “What is?”

  The Smith twins had arrived. Kirk looked up and waved as their classic blond beauty of a mother pulled past them. He waited for her to go and then stepped off the curb.

  “Basketball tryouts,” he answered Blake. “They’re next Tuesday.”

  Abraham had already left them.

  “Cool,” Brian said. “Can anyone try out?”

  “Of course.”

  The boys were walking slowly across the street, seemingly oblivious to the traffic they were holding up.

  “You coaching?” Blake asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ll be there,” Brian called as they raced the last few yards to the opposite curb.

  Kirk watched them go, his forehead creased.

  Something wasn’t quite right with Brian Smith. He shuffled when he walked. Like he was too lethargic to pick up his feet.

  That was as far as Kirk had gotten with his analysis, however. Those two were hard to get to know. They were cheerful and friendly on the surface, but didn’t reveal much about their inner thoughts and feelings. They covered for each other, looked out for each other—almost as though they didn’t need anyone else. As though they had one identity instead of two.

  Kirk was no psychiatrist, but he didn’t think that could be good for them.