Guilty as Charged

  GUILTY AS CHARGED

  BY HARLOW JAMES

  Copyright © 2020 Harlow James

  Guilty as Charged

  Cover Design: Pink Elephant Designs

  Edited by: That Bookish Brunette Literary Services

  All rights reserved. No parts of the book may be used or reproduced in any matter without written permission from the author, except for inclusion of brief quotations in a review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The eBook may not be re-sold or given away to another person except when loaned out per Amazon’s lending program. If you’re reading this book and you did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then it was pirated illegally. Please purchase a copy of your own and respect the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  To my sister, the inspiration behind Sydney and this story, and the lawyer in our family.

  I’m so proud of you and what you’ve accomplished, the uphill battle you had to climb when your life didn’t turn out the way you thought it would.

  But then you fell in love, and everything else fell into place.

  I love you.

  “Until we have seen someone’s darkness, we don’t really know who they are. Until we have forgiven someone’s darkness, we don’t really know what love is.”

  Marianne Williamson

  Prologue

  Javier

  Dark wood. Sleek lines. Fluorescent lighting.

  Seems all courtrooms look the same. The only comparison I have was to a time so long ago I’d nearly forgotten what to expect.

  My knee bounces up and down as I perch forward in my chair, hanging my head between slumped shoulders and clenched fists resting on my thighs.

  I knew this was coming. It just came faster than I thought. Between waiting for a court date and my attorney pushing for a trial before the court, only a few months had passed since that night—the night I beat the shit out of a man that more than fucking deserved it.

  “You could do less time. You know that, right?” John Russell, my court-appointed attorney turns to me as we wait for the judge to make his decision. One glance up at the bench and he’s back in my face.

  “I already told you. It’s not an option. So stop fucking bringing it up.”

  He throws his hands in the air, sinking back in his chair as he exhales in defeat. “I can’t believe you’re willing to give up more of your life when there is evidence that could keep you out of prison—hard pressed evidence that could get you off with six months max, plus maybe some community service.”

  The poisonous glare I flash him in warning is getting harder to control as the anger from within threatens to spill over. Of course it’s my penchant for anger that landed me in this chair to begin with, anticipating the decision from the man who holds my future in my hands. Although if you asked my attorney, I’m actually the one that’s in control of that.

  With one twist of my head over my shoulder, my eyes land on the reason I’m sitting in this chair, the golden eyes identical to mine staring back at me, shedding tears while silently thanking me for protecting her when I would do it all over again in a heartbeat. And even though my sister’s guilt is apparent as well and she begged me to reconsider, I assured her that her privacy and well-being was far more important to me than landing in prison.

  Which is exactly where I’m headed.

  “Alright, Mr. Montes,” the judge addresses the courtroom as he takes his seat again and shuffles papers across his desk, pulling the attention of both counsels to his bench. He glares at me over the rim of his black-rimmed glasses, the color almost identical to the hair on his head, except for a few grays sprinkled throughout. His tone is demanding and laced with irritation, like I’m making his day less enjoyable just by being in his presence. He furrows his brow further as he studies me from his position atop the room, much like most men of his power look at me—like I’m a parasite, an unwelcome visitor in his realm.

  I know what people see when they look at me—olive skin, dark hair, tattoos trailing up and down my arms. I look like a criminal to some, a man with a chip on his shoulder to most, a man that has been working to make something of himself but made a decision one night in the blink of an eye that just shoved him three steps backwards.

  And now I get to make the stereotype a reality.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to say in your defense? Perhaps a reason why you beat the victim within an inch of his life, causing permanent damage to his left ear among his other injuries? Or even that you regret what you did before I lay down your sentence?”

  I cast a death glare across the room at the prosecutor, wishing I were glaring at the victim of my actions, a man that I wish I had killed because that’s what he deserves for what he did. But the coward didn’t even have the balls to show up, claiming emotional distress to be in the same room with me. Rumor is Jesus skipped town after he was discharged from the hospital, but still had enough cojones to press assault charges against me, leaving a permanent mark on me and my sister.

  “No, Your Honor. I did what I did. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

  With a shake of his head, his jaw tenses and then he stares down at me with a glare of acceptance that maybe I am the man everyone pegs me to be—a criminal with anger issues and a man with no remorse.

  “Well, given that there is no evidence to support the reason for your assault on Jesus Gonzalez and your explanation informs me that you have no regrets for your behavior, I have no other choice but to sentence you to two years in prison for the aggravated assault of Mr. Gonzalez, which resulted in the loss of hearing in his left ear.”

  My attorney lets out a heavy sigh as he looks over at me and relays with his eyes, ‘I told you so.’

  “There will be no option for early release due to good behavior, and after you’ve completed your time, you will be subject to anger management classes and probation for one year. Is this clear, Mr. Montes?”

  I lock my eyes onto his, wishing there were another way to protect my sister, but knowing that the law has already been laid down. There’s no going back now.

  “Do you understand the provisions of your sentence, Mr. Montes?” The judge’s voice rises as I stare off into space, swallowing the knife in my throat as I make a tally of that time in my mind—two years, 730 days, 17,520 hours.

  “Yes,” I grit out against the tightness of my jaw, my teeth grinding into each other from the pressure.

  “Good. Let this be a lesson to you, Mr. Montes. As the old adage goes, treat others how you want to be treated, and keep your hands to yourself.”

  Two and a Half Years Later

  Chapter 1

  Sydney

  “We agreed to every other weekend, Michael.”

  “Yeah, well, I changed my mind.”

  “Do you see? Do you see what this man does? This is why we’re getting divorced!” My client throws her hands in the air as the energy shifts in the room.

  I hate mediation—because no matter how hard you fight to keep it clean and calm, one outburst can derail the entire meeting.

  “Remember rule number one,” I mumble under my breath as I lean in closer to my client.

  “Yeah, yeah. Check your emotions at the door. But seriously, Sydney! The man just changed his mind once we got here! We agreed to this months ago!”

  “My client has the right to change his decision. They are his kids too.” Earl Brown glares at us fr
om across the table, the corner of his mouth rising as he celebrates the frazzled state of my client. His balding head and ring of hair around the shiny bowling ball he calls a head only services his unfortunate name.

  “Really? Now he’s worried about seeing them? He couldn’t care less when he was out on business trips and sleeping with everything with a vagina in the last two years. Tell me, Michael,” she spits, leaning forward across the table. “How many other kids do you have now? Have you lost count?”

  “Tabitha,” he barks, just as the mediating attorney puts an end to this nonsense.

  “Counsel, I suggest you both discuss appropriate behavior with your clients, otherwise the entire purpose of this meeting will be null and void and you’ll have to wait to appear before a judge.”

  Tabitha blows a huff of air up into her bangs before crossing her arms and slouching back in her chair, surveying the side of the room while she tries to get herself under control. Michael stews in his seat and Earl and I have a stare-off.

  “Earl, you and I both know that your client travels far too often to justify joint custody with half time spent with each parent. I think we can both agree that what is in the best interest of the kids is to stick with the original agreement when these proceedings began.”

  Earl turns to Michael, whispering something in his ear before I visibly see him relent. “Fine. Every other weekend.”

  Tabitha sits up in her chair as her eyes mist over, watching her soon-to-be ex-husband nod at her. “Thank you.”

  “Whatever,” he mumbles, and then the next order of business is brought forward.

  Sometimes I wonder why I dabble in family law from time to time when each case leaves me feeling like there’s a boulder resting in my stomach. I guess part of it is a subconscious decision to help children not end up in dysfunctional family relationships like my own.

  The funny thing is, if you looked at my family from the outside, you’d accuse me of being a big, fat liar for lack of a better term. My family is the quintessential all-American family, complete with the powerful stepdad, philanthropic mother, the older sister (that’s me), and two twin boys that attend Texas A & M University as seniors about to graduate in communications and marketing.

  On paper, we’re perfect, a notion that has haunted me my entire life to the point where other people perceived that about me too. “Perfect Sydney Matthews.”

  If I had a dollar every time that cliché nickname was thrown around in my adolescence, I probably could have paid for one whole year’s worth of tuition in college. The sad thing is though, I lived up to the expectation because that is exactly what I was told to do.

  I always had to consider my reputation, the disdain I would bring upon my family if I acted irrationally, even just a slip up like getting over-intoxicated in public could derail the status that my stepfather and mother have worked tirelessly to build. I wasn’t allowed to make mistakes or choices that were off the beaten path. And back in high school, it was more about getting straight As, never disrespecting my teachers or other students, and earning the title of valedictorian to bring the perfected and poised smiles to my parents’ faces.

  “Thank God it’s Friday,” I mutter to myself as I slump down into the driver’s seat of my convertible Mustang, the car I raced out to buy as soon as I landed my first big-girl job after law school. Of course, Byron Kennedy was just as eager to hire me once I was qualified since he knew my stepdad and my intent to become a lawyer well before I was finished with law school.

  The sleek black leather allows me to slide in easily as I fire up the engine, drop the top down, and take off for my best friend’s house in the quaint housing community where she lives with her husband and their own picture perfect family.

  As the humid air whips through my dark hair that I released from my bun before taking off, I inhale the thick moisture and with each exhale, release the tension from another long week of battling custody cases and dividing assets. Lucky for me, I don’t take too many custody cases on, most of my time focusing on estate planning and property settlements. But sometimes you get a week like mine that calls for a wide glass of red wine and conversation with my closest friend to unwind.

  “Auntie Sydney!” The high-pitched squeal of Taryn, my pseudo niece, rings through the doorway as soon as the knob turns.

  “Taryn the tornado! Did you grow again?”

  “Yes! I growed! I growed up really tall!” The three-year-old lifts her hands as high as she can above her head to indicate her height.

  “You grew.” Ally comes up behind her with her son, Tanner, balanced on her hip. Her light brown hair is thrown up on her head, her dark purple shirt covered in stains skewed across her body as Tanner grabs at the neck, borderline exposing her breasts. She’s wearing black capri leggings and looks like she needs wine as badly as I do.

  “Hey, Mommas. How’s it going?” I step through the threshold as soon as the three of them move aside for me to enter.

  Ally lifts one brow and gestures around me with her hands, drawing attention to the state of her house as I take it in. Toys are scattered all across the hardwood, crumbs of snacks are spread along the floor like breadcrumbs Hansel and Gretel style, and the television is blaring a cartoon that as we draw closer to the sound, I can actually make out to be T.O.T.S. I may not have children of my own, but I’m over here enough to recognize a few of their obsessions, promoting me to professional auntie status.

  “Please tell me you have wine.” Ally moves around me in the kitchen as I set my duffle bag on her white and gray marble counters. I reach into the bag and extract the biggest bottle of red I could find.

  “You know I always come prepared.”

  “Thank God for friends like you. Collin should be home within the hour, finally granting me some peace.”

  “Hard day?” I ask while searching for the wine opener in the drawer I know it’s in. I locate the corkscrew and get to work on the cork in seconds.

  “Don’t get me started. Plus one of my favorite authors released a book today, so I had to make sure my photo and reviews were posted.”

  Ally is a stay-at-home mom right now, but in a few years she plans to go back to work as a lawyer as well. She barely started practicing law when she and Collin found out she was pregnant. To pass the time and give her something that brings her joy, she took up bookstagramming in the past year when she discovered romance novels and became sucked into the world. Now she has an Instagram account with over five thousand followers that look to her for recommendations and new authors to support.

  I peer into her office off the corner of the kitchen and see enough fake flowers and props scattered all over the floor to give Hobby Lobby a run for their money. “You need to tell me about this book later. I finished one last night and I think I’m in the mood for something forbidden.”

  The corner of her mouth tips up as she adjusts Tanner on her hip. “Oh, girl. I got you.”

  As I fill two glasses with red wine and check on Taryn parked right in front of the television, entranced by the cartoon, I turn to my best friend and hand her a drink. “And I’ve got you.”

  “God bless you, Sydney Matthews,” she says before taking a large gulp and then setting the glass down on the counter.

  “Let me go change and then we can sit down and chat.” I grab my bag and move down the hallway, itching to release my body from my pencil skirt and bra. Generally, I like dressing professionally for work, but by the end of the day on Friday, I’m desperate to strip out of these clothes.

  Comfortable in a sport bra, loose green tank, and black capris with my hair pulled back up in a messy bun, I make my way back to the family room as the tune of Pop Goes the Weasel filters through the front door.

  “Auntie Sydney! The ice cream man is here!” Taryn screams, sitting on the front entryway, frantically trying to put her shoes on.

  “Are we getting ice cream now?” I look to Ally as she slides her flip-flops on and grabs a stroller from the closet by the door, setting Ta
nner down inside and strapping him in. When she pops back up, her mouth is spread into a mischievous grin as she nods.

  “Oh, we’re getting ice cream alright, and a free show. Here,” she declares as she hands me a plastic cup with a lid and a straw. “I put your wine inside so we don’t look like alcoholics, even though it is after five on a Friday. Come on, we don’t want to miss him.” She bounces her eyebrows at me and then shoves the stroller out the door while placing sunglasses over her eyes, chasing after Taryn who’s already halfway down the driveway by now.

  I reach for my own glasses from my purse by the door, then close it behind me and race to catch up.

  “Apparently you three take your ice cream addiction very seriously.” I stroll in tow while sipping my red wine through a straw. It’s not the way I envisioned my drink in my hand tonight, but it does have its advantages. And now that I think about it, I wonder how many other moms walk around with these tumblers with alcohol inside? That’s actually pretty genius.

  “Oh, the kids do. But that’s not why the moms show up.” Ally juts her chin in the direction of the run-down van that I feel all ice cream men have to own, one that’s a borderline kidnapping cliché, as I see moms disperse from their houses with kids hauled behind them, almost more excited at the prospect of a delicious frozen treat than the children. One mom is about to rip the arm off her daughter as she power walks to the vehicle.

  “Am I missing something?”

  Ally just shakes her head as she hands Taryn a ten-dollar bill and she marches away to wait in line. “I can’t believe I haven’t told you about Jared yet.”

  “Jared? You’re on a first name basis with the ice cream man?”

  “Hell yeah I am. And this is why.” As we get closer to the van, the tanned and bare chest of the driver peeks through the open window as he stands to retrieve a treat for the little girl in front of him, giving us a view of his navy blue board shorts hanging low on his hips. And as he sits back down, Abercrombie blows up my phone asking for their model back.