saw them out the door and went back into his office without a word to his secretary.
“We’ll go over to juvenile hall,” Bob Malcolm was telling Becky as he put her into the elevator and pressed the sixth floor button. “Everything will be all right. If Kilpatrick can’t prove his case, he won’t pursue it. Clay can leave with us.”
“He wouldn’t even listen to me,” she said huskily.
“He’s a hard man. Probably the best D.A. this county’s had in a long time, but sometimes he can be inflexible. Not an easy man to face across a courtroom, either.”
“I can understand that.”
* * *
Becky went to juvenile hall to see her brother after work. She was ushered into a tiny meeting room to wait for him. Clay walked in fifteen minutes later, looking frightened and belligerent all at once.
“Hi, Becky,” he said with a cocky grin. “They didn’t beat me, so you don’t need to worry. They won’t send me to jail. I’ve talked with two other kids who know the ropes. They say juvenile hall is just a slap on the wrist because we’re underage. I’ll beat this rap sitting down.”
“Thank you,” she told him, stiff-lipped and cold-eyed. “Thank you for your generous consideration of your grandfather’s feelings and mine. It’s nice to know that you love us enough to become notorious on our behalf.”
Clay was wild, but he had a heart. He toned down instantly and dropped his eyes.
“Now, tell me what happened,” she said shortly, sitting down across from him after Mr. Brady, the juvenile officer on Clay’s case, joined them.
“Didn’t they tell you?” Clay asked.
“You tell me,” she countered.
He gave her a long look and shrugged. “I was drunk,” he muttered, twisting his hands over his jeans-clad legs. “They said let’s do some crack, and I just nodded. I flaked out in the back seat and didn’t come to until the police stopped us. My pockets were full of the stuff. I don’t know how it got there. Honest, Becky,” he added. His sister and brother and grandfather were the only people on earth he loved. He hated what he’d done, but he was too proud to admit it. “I sobered up real good after Kilpatrick talked to me.”
“Possession of illegal drugs alone could get you a prison term of up to ten years, if the D.A. decided to try you as an adult,” Mr. Brady interjected with a level glance. “And you may not be out of the woods yet. Mr. Kilpatrick, the district attorney, would very much like to nail you to the wall.”
“He can’t. I’m a juvenile.”
“Only for another year. And reform school wouldn’t appeal to you, young man. I can promise you that.”
Clay looked subdued, and a little less belligerent. He twisted his hands in his lap. “I won’t go to jail, will I?”
“Not this time,” the juvenile officer said. “But don’t underestimate Kilpatrick. Your father was pretty arrogant when he beat the robbery charge, and that didn’t endear your family to the D.A. He’s a very moral man. He doesn’t like lawbreakers. It would do you good to remember that. He still thinks your father threatened that victim to keep him from talking.”
“Dad was arrested?” Clay began.
“Never mind,” Becky said, stiffening her features.
He glanced at her, noticing reluctantly the strain in her face, the sadness. He felt a twinge of conscience.
“I’ll say this once,” Mr. Brady told Clay. “You’ve got a chance to keep your nose clean. If you throw it away, no one is going to be able to help you—not your sister or me. You may beat the rap for a while, as long as you’re a juvenile. But you’re seventeen. And if the crime is severe enough, the district attorney would be within his authority to have you prosecuted as an adult. If you keep messing around with drugs, inevitably you’ll serve time. I wish I could show you what that means. Our prisons are overcrowded, and even the best of them are hellholes for young offenders. If you don’t like being ordered around by your sister, you sure as hell aren’t going to like being some older boy’s imitation girlfriend.” He stared at Clay. “Do you understand what I mean, son? They’d pass you around like a new toy.”
Clay reddened. “They wouldn’t! I’d fight...!”
“You’d lose. Think about it. Meanwhile, you’re going to get some counseling,” the juvenile officer said. “We’ve set up appointments for you at the mental health clinic. You’ll be required to go. I hope you understand that this is Kilpatrick’s idea, and that he’ll check on you periodically. I wouldn’t advise you to miss a session.”
“Damn Kilpatrick,” Clay said harshly.
“That’s not a good attitude to take,” Brady warned quietly. “You’re in a lot of trouble. Kilpatrick can be your worst enemy or your best friend. You wouldn’t like him as an enemy.”
Clay muttered something and averted his eyes to the window. He looked as if he hated the whole world.
Becky knew exactly how he felt. She wanted to cry. She clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling.
“Okay, Clay, you can go with your sister for now. We’ll talk again.”
“All right,” Clay said tautly. He got up and reluctantly shook hands with the man. “Come on, Sis. Let’s go home.”
She didn’t speak. She walked to the car like a zombie and got in behind the wheel, barely waiting for Clay to shut his door before she drove away. Inside, she felt sick all the way to her soul.
“I’m sorry I got caught,” Clay said when they were halfway home. “I guess you’re having a pretty hard time of it, being stuck with Granddad and me and Mack.”
“I’m not stuck with it,” she lied. “I love you all.”
“Love shouldn’t make prisons of people’s lives,” Clay said. He glanced sideways at her, with a crafty look in his eyes that she didn’t see. “Really, Becky, I didn’t know what I was getting into.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” she said, forgiving him anything, just as she always had. She managed a smile. “I just don’t know what to do, how to cope. The district attorney was pretty rough.”
“That Kilpatrick man,” he muttered icily. “God, I hate him! He came to see me at that juvenile hall. He stared right through me and made me feel like a worm. He said I’d wind up just like Dad.”
“You won’t,” she said stubbornly. “He had no right to say such a thing!”
“He didn’t want to let me go,” Clay said hesitantly. “He tried to talk Mr. Brady into putting me in reform school. He got upset when he couldn’t get him to agree. He says anybody who fools with drugs deserves to go to jail.”
“Mr. Kilpatrick can go to hell,” she said fiercely. “We’ll get by.”
“Look,” he began. “I could get a job—after school, you know.
