Last Chance (15 page)

“Poor dog,” I murmured.

“Poor dog?” a voice said mockingly.

I whirled around. Antoine was standing behind me, holding a couple of folded blankets. He had his dog with him. It was straining on the leash that was wrapped around one of Antoine's wrists. Antoine tucked the blankets firmly under one arm and opened the door to a kennel on the other side of the aisle from Orion's.

“Easy, Jackie,” he said as his dog started to bark and pull on its leash, yanking Antoine's arm away from the door. “Come, Jackie.” He spoke in a calm, reassuring voice.

Jackie approached Antoine slowly.

“Good dog,” Antoine said. He stepped into the kennel. “Come, Jackie.”

The dog followed him inside. Antoine scooped up the blanket from the kennel floor and looked at me.

“You want to do something useful?” he said.

Before I could answer, he threw the blanket at me. While Antoine unfolded one of the clean blankets and laid it out on the floor for Jackie, I folded the old one and set it down on the floor. Antoine scratched the dog behind its ears and murmured something to him. It occurred to me then that Nick had been right, that Antoine had lashed out at the dog in frustration and that maybe it would never happen again. Watching him now, I could see that Antoine really liked the dog. He backed out of the kennel, closed the door, and slid the latch into place. He crossed to Orion's kennel.

“He didn't get out today,” he said. “I offered, but—” He shrugged, unlatched the door to Orion's kennel and stepped inside. Orion didn't move. “Hey, boy, what's the matter?” Antoine said, crouching down. “You must be really sick. Either that or you miss Nick.”

Antoine struggled to try to get Orion up off his blanket. When that didn't work, he wrestled the blanket out from under the big dog. He opened the kennel door and said, “Catch,” as he tossed it to me. The door clicked shut again, and he spread a fresh blanket on the floor for Orion. This time Orion got to his feet, moved the few paces to the clean blanket, and flopped down onto it.

I stood outside the kennel with another armful of doggie blanket that smelled, well, like doggie. And,
eeew,
what was that sticky stuff on my hand?
Please don't let it be what I think it is.
I pulled my hand away from the blanket. Double-
eeew.
There was a smear of sticky brown stuff on my hand with, wait a minute—some sticky
blue
stuff. Dogs and sticky brown stuff—that was understandable. But dogs and sticky blue stuff didn't go together. I sniffed my hand cautiously. The good news was that whatever was on my hand wasn't what I had thought it was. It didn't smell bad. Not even remotely. And now that I was looking at it, I saw a different kind of brown stuff—crumbly brown stuff—mixed in with it. I wiped the stuff off on the blanket and made a note to wash my hands a few dozen times on my way back to my office.

Antoine gave Orion a good, long scratch behind the ears before coming out of the kennel and latching the door. He scooped up the dirty blanket I had dropped and reached for the one I was still holding. I gave it to him.

“What did Nick do?” I said.

Antoine stared at me with contemptuous eyes. “Looking for some good gossip?” he said. “Well, get it someplace else.” He wheeled around and walked down the long corridor to the door, his sneakers silent on the tiled floor.

I stepped closer to Orion's cage and squatted down. He raised his head lethargically.

“Hey, Orion,” I said softly.

Orion lay on his blanket at the back of his kennel and looked at me with his sad black eyes. Then, before I knew what was happening, he sprang to his feet and rushed the door. He jammed his nose through the chain-link and let loose a loud, furious roar. I was so startled that I screamed and fell backward, my heart pounding. Orion barked again and kept on barking. I scuttled backward on my hands and feet like a crab. He can't get out, I told myself. He can't hurt me. Then, over Orion's insistent bark, I heard another sound coming from the end of the aisle. I turned and saw Antoine, his hand on the door that led into the rest of the animal wing. He was laughing at me.

 

. . .

My mother phoned as I was shutting down my computer.

“Marlyse just called,” she said. Marlyse Cosburn was a friend of my mother's. They'd met in law school. “She's referred a client to me. I won't be able to pick you up. And I haven't been able to reach your father.”

“I thought Marlyse was on maternity leave,” I said. The last time I'd seen her, Marlyse looked big enough to be carrying quintuplets.

“Exactly,” my mother said.

“No problem,” I said. “I'll take the bus.”

“Meet me at the office, Robyn. I'll take you out to supper as soon as I'm through. We'll go to Vittorio's.”

Vittorio's was my favorite Italian restaurant. It was on the same street as my mother's office.

“Sounds good,” I said. “If I get there early, I'll go shopping. I need some new shoes.”

I took the bus into the city and transferred to the subway. I still had some time to kill, so I wandered through a couple of stores. In one of them just two blocks from my mother's office, I found the perfect pair of sandals—except that they were one size too big.

“We're getting a new shipment in tomorrow,” the clerk told me. “If you want, I can hold a pair for you.”

“Great,” I said.“I'll pick them up after I get off work.”

A few minutes later, I was pushing open the front door to the converted Victorian house where my mother worked. Her office was on the second floor.

“Hey, Robyn,” said Tralee White, one of the assistants, glancing up from her computer screen for a moment. “Long time, no see. Enjoying your summer?”

“It's okay,” I said.“I'm supposed to meet my mother.”

“She stepped out for a few minutes,” Tralee said. Her printer began to spit out paper, which she retrieved and inserted into one of the file folders that were stacked on her desk. “She shouldn't be long. You can wait in her office if you'd like.”

“I'm okay. I'll wait here.”

I dropped down onto one of the comfy chairs in the reception area, picked up a magazine, and started to flip through it. Tralee reached for another file folder from the pile on her desk and let out a little cry of exasperation when the whole stack of them toppled to the floor.

“Should have seen that coming,” she muttered.

I jumped to my feet to help her.A lot of the paper had slid out of the folders and lay strewn all over the floor. I had spent plenty of time at the office since my mother had started working there. It was practically a reflex to want to help. I started scooping up file folders while Tralee gathered their scattered contents. That's when I saw it—a name on a file label: D'ANGELO, Nicholas. Tralee put out a hand and I gave her the folder.

“What's going on?” said a voice from the doorway. My mother.

“Landslide,” Tralee said. “Or should I say paperslide. Sorry, Patricia. I'll sort it all out before I leave.”

My mother shook her head and joined us. Fifteen minutes later, we had everything more or less back in order. “Come on, Robyn,” my mother said to me as she put the last file folder back onto Tralee's desk. “Ted is meeting us at the restaurant.”

We walked to the restaurant and were shown to a table on the patio out back. We settled in, and my mother ordered a glass of wine while we waited for Ted.

I ordered a Coke.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

My mother looked at me.

“One of the file folders I picked up said Nick D'Angelo on it.”

“Those were client files, Robyn.”

“I didn't see anything that was in the file. I just saw his name.”

“And?”

I hesitated. “And,” I said slowly, “I know someone named Nick D'Angelo. He's in a special program at the animal shelter for kids who have been involved in violent offenses. He just got arrested.”

My mother looked surprised. “You didn't tell me you knew any of the kids in that program.”

“So it's the same Nick D'Angelo?”

My mother gave me the same look she'd given me after my first day at the shelter—it was a mixture of worry and concern. “You're not working with those kids, are you?” she said.

I shook my head. “I've talked to him a couple of times,” I said. “Someone told me he stole a car.”

“Who stole a car?” a voice behind me said. Ted. He smiled at me, kissed my mother on the cheek, and sat down.

“Mom's defending someone I know,” I told Ted.

“Oh?” Ted said.

“He's one of Marlyse's clients,” my mother said.

“And this friend of yours stole a car, Robyn?” Ted said. He glanced at my mother to gauge her reaction.

“He's not exactly a friend,” I said.

There was that look again. “Actually,” my mother said, “the charge is joyriding.”

“Same thing,” I said. “Joyriding means taking a car that doesn't belong to you. It's the same as stealing, right?”

I should have known better. Lawyers tend to be precise, especially when it comes to the law. If my mother had meant stealing, she would have said so.

“Stealing is when you take someone else's property with the intent to convert it to your own use either permanently or temporarily—when you take it to keep it or sell it and keep the money,” my mother said. See what I mean? “When a person goes joyriding, he doesn't intend to keep the vehicle. It's like the difference between taking something and borrowing it.”

“If you get a sympathetic cop, a sympathetic owner, or a sympathetic judge,” Ted said, “you can usually get away with maybe a fine or a promise to work for the owner for a couple of Saturdays to pay for what you did.”

My mother stared at him. “That sounds like the voice of experience, Ted.”

Beneath his thinning blond hair, Ted's face turned crimson. “I grew up in a small farming community,” he said, as if this were an explanation. But I didn't understand. Apparently neither did my mother. She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Everyone did it,” Ted said.

“Great defense,” my mother said.

“Tractors, mostly,” Ted said. “Around Halloween, mostly. No harm done.” He paused. “Mostly.”

My mother's face was stern for, oh, about two seconds. Then the corners of her mouth twitched and she said, “One of the things I love about you is that you're full of surprises.”

Love?
I looked at her looking at Ted.

Ted beamed.“The point is,” he said to me,“joyriding is a crime, but not a serious one.”

“So what's the big deal?” I said.

“Ted's right,” my mother said. “In and of itself, joyriding is a minor offense. Usually you get a fine, maybe community service, depending on what kind of trouble you've been in before.”

Nick had been in plenty of trouble, as my mother undoubtedly knew.

“But,” she said, looking directly at me, her face serious again, “this joyride included an accident.”

“Accident?”

“The car hit a cyclist,” my mother said.

I held my breath.

Ted shook his head. “Guns don't kill people—people kill people,” he said.

“The
driver
of the car hit a cyclist,” my mother amended. “Knocked the poor man right off his bike and then didn't stop or remain at the scene. Fortunately, the injuries aren't life-threatening.”

Thank goodness for that.

“So it's not that serious?” I said.

My mother gave me a sharp look. “The charges are very serious,” she said. “First of all, taking a car that doesn't belong to you without the owner's permission is an offense. So is driving without a license. Second, the cyclist broke his collarbone and a couple of ribs. So this boy is looking at criminal negligence—another offense. Third, the law requires drivers to stop when they are involved in an accident, to remain at the scene until the police arrive, and to offer assistance to any injured parties. An adult who doesn't stop can land in jail for up to five years. Finally, all of this happened while the boy was living in a group home as a result of a previous charge. He was given leave for the weekend on condition that he stay with his aunt at all times, which he failed to do. I can't even begin to imagine what was going through his head. He had less than three months left at the group home before he could go and live with his aunt permanently. He's thrown that away.”

“He's living in a group home?” Ted said. “Where are his parents?”

My mother hesitated for a moment. “You're not to repeat any of this,” she said finally, looking at me, even though it was Ted who had asked the question. “According to Marlyse, this boy is a textbook case. Unstable home life from an early age. Neglect. Probably physical abuse—you should see his file. He'd show up to school with all kinds of bruises and injuries, but his mother always denied that anything was going on. He was still underage when he started getting into trouble—little things at first, acting out, you know, shoplifting, petty theft. Then, sure enough, school yard fights—lots of them. He's a boy with a lot of problems, Robyn.” It sounded as if she was warning me. “The only real surprise is that this time he didn't try to deny what he'd done.”

“He didn't?” I said.

“He's pleading guilty.”

“Then why does he need a lawyer?”

“I'm representing him, not defending him,” my mother said. “He's a youth. My job is to make sure he understands what he's doing and that he gets the best disposition for someone in his situation.”

“What do you think will happen, Mom?”

She said
if
Nick were lucky and
if
he had an explanation for what he had done and
if
the judge believed that he hadn't stopped because he was scared and that he was now very sorry and
if
he could gather enough character witnesses who would say good things about him, assuming such witnesses existed, he might get another open custody disposition, maybe six months or a year. She said that would be pretty good. She said if he were an adult with the same record of offenses, a judge could be harsh and he could end up with a couple of years in prison. Then she said, “Exactly how well do you know this boy, Robyn?”