kiddo.”
“What happened, Jay?” Ken persisted.
Patrick dropped his gaze. “With all due respect, I think he’d rather not talk about it. It sucked, but we’ve gotten past it, and making him talk about it again doesn’t do anyone any good.”
“If it’s the reason he keeps breaking the law, it’s something I need to know about.”
“Well, I disagree.”
“Look at me, Mr. Connelly,” Ken said quietly. “You need to understand my position here is about more than just making sure your son finishes his community service. Every JPC in Seattle, along with every childcare worker in the state of Washington, is what’s called a mandatory reporter. That means that if we see any kind of abusive behavior or any evidence of abusive behavior while working with the children on our caseloads, we are obligated by law to report it. You said your son was too old for a spanking. Have you ever struck your child in anger, Mr. Connelly?”
Patrick stiffened. He’d dealt with so many accusations and doubts during the custody battle. Being a single father tended to raise eyebrows at the best of times. Being a gay single father raised alarm bells and red flags, not just eyebrows. At six foot three, Patrick towered over his son and damn near everybody else, and far too often, people took one look at him and assumed he had to be an abusive asshole just because he was a big guy. Patrick had learned not to take it personally.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, asking something like that?” Jay shouted, stomping his feet onto the floorboards and sitting forward.
“Jay,” Patrick growled. “Language.”
Jay grabbed the front seats and leaned forward. “You know what? I don’t care who you think you are! You can’t accuse my pop of shit like that! He has never hurt me and he never would, which is more than I can say for everyone else in my life! You don’t know him! You don’t know me!”
“Okay, calm down for a second, Jay. It’s a question I’m required to ask. If you tell me he’s never struck you in anger, I’ll drop it, agreed?”
“He never has!”
“All right.” Ken nodded. “Who did?”
Jay curled back up on the seat as if Ken’s words stung. “My dad’s right. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Would you be willing to talk with a counselor? Somebody who’s trained to just listen and help you sort out what you’re feeling?”
“I said no!” Jay snapped.
“Okay, you don’t like the idea. I think an art class and the boxing program your dad mentioned would do you a lot of good. So we’ll make a deal. You do both of those for the full six weeks of the intensive supervision program, and I won’t require weekly therapy sessions. Agreed?”
“You can’t do that!”
“I can, actually. And if you fail to comply, I can report that failure to the court, and they will issue a warrant for contempt. If necessary, they can remand you to the juvenile detention center where they can, and will, escort you to each therapy session. What’s it going to be, Jay?”
“I do the classes and you’ll let the therapy bullshit go?”
“That’s right.”
“Deal.”
“Good. You’re parked in there?” Ken asked, nodding toward the employee parking lot beyond two sets of railroad tracks.
Beyond the fence, two crime scene vans and over twenty police personnel were hurrying about. Two news vans were parked outside the fence, cameramen taking constant video of the activity within. The white Chevy Silverado was the only civilian vehicle inside the fence.
“What the hell?” Patrick leaned forward, studying the scene. “Those lying motherfuckers! People already got hurt! Those assholes wasted four hours talking to me when they could have—”
“No,” Ken said quickly, then grimaced. He shut off the tape recorder and pulled to a stop in front of the gate. He shifted into park and sighed. “The victim led them to the others this morning, before the police even began talking to you. It was already
“What happened, Jay?” Ken persisted.
Patrick dropped his gaze. “With all due respect, I think he’d rather not talk about it. It sucked, but we’ve gotten past it, and making him talk about it again doesn’t do anyone any good.”
“If it’s the reason he keeps breaking the law, it’s something I need to know about.”
“Well, I disagree.”
“Look at me, Mr. Connelly,” Ken said quietly. “You need to understand my position here is about more than just making sure your son finishes his community service. Every JPC in Seattle, along with every childcare worker in the state of Washington, is what’s called a mandatory reporter. That means that if we see any kind of abusive behavior or any evidence of abusive behavior while working with the children on our caseloads, we are obligated by law to report it. You said your son was too old for a spanking. Have you ever struck your child in anger, Mr. Connelly?”
Patrick stiffened. He’d dealt with so many accusations and doubts during the custody battle. Being a single father tended to raise eyebrows at the best of times. Being a gay single father raised alarm bells and red flags, not just eyebrows. At six foot three, Patrick towered over his son and damn near everybody else, and far too often, people took one look at him and assumed he had to be an abusive asshole just because he was a big guy. Patrick had learned not to take it personally.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, asking something like that?” Jay shouted, stomping his feet onto the floorboards and sitting forward.
“Jay,” Patrick growled. “Language.”
Jay grabbed the front seats and leaned forward. “You know what? I don’t care who you think you are! You can’t accuse my pop of shit like that! He has never hurt me and he never would, which is more than I can say for everyone else in my life! You don’t know him! You don’t know me!”
“Okay, calm down for a second, Jay. It’s a question I’m required to ask. If you tell me he’s never struck you in anger, I’ll drop it, agreed?”
“He never has!”
“All right.” Ken nodded. “Who did?”
Jay curled back up on the seat as if Ken’s words stung. “My dad’s right. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Would you be willing to talk with a counselor? Somebody who’s trained to just listen and help you sort out what you’re feeling?”
“I said no!” Jay snapped.
“Okay, you don’t like the idea. I think an art class and the boxing program your dad mentioned would do you a lot of good. So we’ll make a deal. You do both of those for the full six weeks of the intensive supervision program, and I won’t require weekly therapy sessions. Agreed?”
“You can’t do that!”
“I can, actually. And if you fail to comply, I can report that failure to the court, and they will issue a warrant for contempt. If necessary, they can remand you to the juvenile detention center where they can, and will, escort you to each therapy session. What’s it going to be, Jay?”
“I do the classes and you’ll let the therapy bullshit go?”
“That’s right.”
“Deal.”
“Good. You’re parked in there?” Ken asked, nodding toward the employee parking lot beyond two sets of railroad tracks.
Beyond the fence, two crime scene vans and over twenty police personnel were hurrying about. Two news vans were parked outside the fence, cameramen taking constant video of the activity within. The white Chevy Silverado was the only civilian vehicle inside the fence.
“What the hell?” Patrick leaned forward, studying the scene. “Those lying motherfuckers! People already got hurt! Those assholes wasted four hours talking to me when they could have—”
“No,” Ken said quickly, then grimaced. He shut off the tape recorder and pulled to a stop in front of the gate. He shifted into park and sighed. “The victim led them to the others this morning, before the police even began talking to you. It was already
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