Redeeming 6: Boys of Tommen #4

JOEY

CLAD in my BCS school uniform and rocking handcuffs, I was escorted by the Gards into a private waiting room at the back of the courthouse to meet my legal aid and await my turn before the judge.

The most shocking part of the whole ordeal was the well-dressed man waiting for me in said waiting room.

“Joey Lynch.” John Kavanagh looked up from the table he was sitting at and smiled. “We meet again.”

The fuck?

“What are you doing here?” I asked, sinking down on the chair opposite him. “You’re not my solicitor.“

“I am today,” he mused, combing through a stack of paperwork that I assumed contained my file. Shit, knowing my luck, the whole damn stack was dedicated to me. “If you’ll have me.”

“I’m broke,” I decided to throw out there. “And no offense, it’s pretty clear from the mansion you live in and the designer suit you’re wearing that you don’t work for free.”

“And I’m actually a barrister.”

“Even more expensive.” I shrugged, feeling at a loss. “Listen, John, I appreciate this, but I could work for a year and never be able to afford your services, so I’ll just take my chances with the free legal aid rep.”

“I’ll be requiring an urgent meeting with your superintendent to explain to me in grave detail why my client is displaying very clear physical evidence of excessive force at the hands of your colleagues,” he surprised me by saying, turning his steel blue eyes on the Garda lingering near the door. “Which, before you try to excuse away, I am more than willing to have a medical professional attest to.”

“Your client was arrested for fighting. He got those bruises from—”

“My client is an eighteen-year-old boy with a horrendous, detailed history of domestic violence. There are decades of reports of him being the victim of atrocious child abuse at the hands of his caregivers. That’s not to mention his even more troubling history of being let down by both the state and the Garda Siochana in this town,” John interjected coolly. “Quite frankly, I’m astounded your superiors had the nerve to take this boy before the judge. Once I’m finished making a spectacle of them, I’ll be turning my attention to the long list of Gards, social workers, and authority figures that failed my client and his family.” Leaning back in his chair, John rolled a pen between his fingers absentmindedly, while giving the officer a cool appraisal. “Now, when you’re ready, my client and I will have the room.”

Red-faced and fuming, the Gard turned on his heels and stalked out, leaving us alone in the room.

“Well shit,” I mused, begrudgingly impressed. “Flexing your muscles there, John?”

“It’s always good to practice.”

“I bet.”

He smirked. “So, am I representing you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not if you want to stay out of prison.”

“Fuck.” Reaching up with my still-cuffed hands to scratch my nose, I pointed to the stack of paperwork in front of him. “Is that all about me?”

“Every page,” he replied, pushing the stack towards me. “Front and back.”

Shoulders slumping in defeat, I leaned back in my chair and studied him. “Why are you helping me?”

“Why did you hit the Ryan boy?”

I shrugged. “He had it coming.”

“Try again.”

I met his unyielding stare, before blowing out a breath and mumbling, “You clearly already know why.”

“Indulge me.”

“Because if I didn’t, your son would have, and he has a hell of a lot more to lose than I have,” I came right out and told him. “Is that indulging enough for ya?”

He didn’t look one bit surprised by my admission.

Because this man was smart.

Hell, he was sharp as a razor.

“You protected my son’s future, and now I’m here to protect yours,” he finally said, folding his arms across his chest. “Sounds like a fair trade if you ask me.”

“Except that I don’t have one of those.”

“I’m sure my wife would argue that statement.” He smiled ruefully before adding, “You’ve won yourself a fan, Joey Lynch.”

“Your wife,” I deadpanned, repressing the urge to groan when a sudden pang of intense pain and hunger attacked my senses. Fuck, it was never going away. “Can’t see how when your wife doesn’t know shit about me.”

“And you clearly don’t know shit about her – excuse the term of phrase,” he replied with a smirk. “She has a feeling about you.”

I narrowed my eyes, instantly suspicious. “A feeling.”

He nodded. “She wants to help you.”

I stiffened. “I don’t want her help.”

“Ah, but do you need it?”

“Can you just get to the point?” I flat out asked him, feeling confused as fuck. “I don’t do beating around the bush. Just tell me what you want.”

“First, I’m going to get you out of this mess,” he said, rising to his feet. “And then we’ll talk.”