© Copyright 2012
All work is property of Leah Crichton, any duplication or reproduction of all or part of the work without explicit permission by the author is illegal.

Chapter Two

Aunt Gabby’s house was something straight from a Hollywood movie script. Rachel teased Alexa that she had a white picket fence upbringing, which was true, but the white picket fence was not literal. At Aunt Gabby’s house, it was.

                The house was a tiny craftsman home. It was grey with black shutters; the yard was small but adequate and exceptionally maintained. A large cherry blossom tree sprawled directly outside the guest room window and lilies and gerber daisies sprung from randomly placed planters.

                Alexa stopped for a moment to look at it, as she did every year and just like every year her admiration of the home was cut short by Thomas Edison, Aunt Gabby’s cat. The purr he possessed would rival a small engine and as the cat weaved himself through Alexa’s legs, she couldn’t help but giggle. She reached down and stroked his fur. “Thomas,” she said brightly, “I missed you.”

                “He’s missed you too.” Alexa heard her aunt but couldn’t quite find her, until the brim of a straw hat appeared from behind the cherry blossom tree. She had weeds in her hands which were sheathed in garden gloves. “We both have.” Alexa smiled as Gabby came toward her with arms wide open. “How you doing, kiddo?”

                “I’m great, Aunt Gabby,” she replied. “I’m really happy to be here.”

                “Thomas and I are glad to have you,” Gabby said. “Go on inside and get settled. I’ll come and make you some iced tea in a few minutes.”

                “Oh,” Alexa said. “That’s not necessary, I can make my own.”

                “Nonsense,” Gabby objected. “I enjoy playing hostess when you’re here.”

                “Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll see you inside in a few minutes.” With that, Alexa reached down and scooped Thomas Edison in her arms and pulled her suitcase up the walk behind her. The wheels to her luggage rolled across the pavement, but Thomas Edison was still louder.

                She made her way directly into the guestroom and set the cat down. He did a full circle, and flopped on the bed, resting his head on his paws and looking up at her. It took only minutes for her to have everything placed in the top two drawers of a dresser. Rachel was right. Her wardrobe was lacking.

                She grabbed the zebra print scarf and ran it through her fingers before securing it to a hook beside the window. Looking out at the neighborhood, Alexa smiled. She’d always felt like Gabby’s home was her own and she was genuinely happy to be there.

                A couple strolled by holding hands. They stopped, almost directly in front of her window and she shrunk back a little, wanting to remain unnoticed. The boy smiled. He must have said something funny, because the girl threw her head back in laughter and her free hand fluttered to her heart, like she’d hold his words there forever. He moved closer to her and kissed her.

                Alexa sighed and wondered what it might be like to have someone look at her that same way, like no one else in the world mattered. What it might feel like to belong to someone. She shook her head as if to dislodge the ridiculous thoughts. She needed to focus on school and nothing else. Her life was complicated enough without any distractions.

Fuckin’ handcuffs. Always with the bracelets. Sawyer twisted his wrists in an effort to loosen them. It was no use; he knew better. In his twenty years on the planet he was well acquainted with them. The damned things stuck like glue and there was no escape. The Bailiff had a death grip on his elbow and was steering him like cattle, it was really starting to piss him off.             

                He shuffled his feet reluctantly toward the table where John Cummings, legal eagle sat. He was shuffling papers trying to make himself busy. The paparazzo were having a field day from the gallery, their flashbulbs blinding not only Sawyer, but the judge. They hadn't missed a day in the short trial hoping to smear the tabloids with more garbage about him. He didn’t care. Let them. 

                Across from the defendants table sat the plaintiff. Guy's name was Dirk Chapman. Could have fooled Sawyer, guy looked more like a Dick Chapman. He was built like a brick wall and his 'broken' leg and beaten appearance was all for show. He wanted Sawyer's money. He’d just have to move to the end of the line.

                The trial didn't have a jury, just a judge. He'd thanked his lucky stars for that because she was a woman and therefore naturally inclined to be more compassionate. Besides, it's not like he'd robbed the guy. He was only dishing out exactly what the man deserved. If he hadn't been so nosy, no one would have gotten hurt.

                The same Bailiff who had a vice grip on Sawyer’s arm, cleared his throat. “Will the defendant please rise?”

                Sawyer stood tall, shooting a glance back to Lane, Robbie, Sebastian and Charlie. To Devin, he gave a reassuring wink. Her cast was more colorful that Dirk Chapman's and it boasted hundreds of signatures. He hadn’t signed it yet and had told her he was waiting for the right thing to say.

                “Sawyer Dean West,” the judge spoke.

                “Yes, your honor.”

                “I have reviewed your case and I think your actions were clearly admirable.”

                Sawyer gave her a megawatt smile, “thank you, Your Honor.”

                “There's no doubt in my mind that Mr. Chapman had only one objective in mind and that was to line his pockets with your money.”

                Bingo.

                Judge was one smart chick.

                Her glasses slid down her nose as she shuffled papers much like John Cummings was doing moments ago. “That being said, Mr. West, I find your criminal history rather hard to ignore.”

                He stifled a laugh.

                “Is something funny, Mr. West?”

                He wiped the grin off his face. “Not at all your Honor, I just think maybe criminal history coins me as a mugger, robber or worse. I am not those things.”

                “Let's see,” the judge said.

                Shit. He shouldn't have said anything, now she was irritated.

                “Let's review your run-ins with the law in the last year, shall we?”

                He tried to charm her. “It's all pretty fresh in my mind.”

                “Let's remind those who may have forgotten.”

                Well fine, she was going to play it like that. Not much he could do except look at his shoes.

                “There was an incident with a firearm.”

                “It was a pellet gun. A toy.” 

                “What about the various assault charges? Surely not that many people are after your money, Mr. West.”

                He begged to differ.

                “The bouncer at the bar, Sub Zero.”

                “Guy had a big mouth and was hitting on a lady,” Sawyer replied.

                “What about Mr. Geoff Newman, the talk show host?”

                Right that guy. The one who called Lane a fag. He was a real gem.

                “Didn't know when to shut his pie hole.” Sawyer shrugged. “Figured I’d do it for him.”

                “The hotel room that was vandalized,” the judge said.

                 “Drunken debauchery. I paid for it and then some.”

                “And now Mr. Chapman.”

                “See that girl right there,” he nodded over his shoulder. “That cast is because of him. In fact, Devin, you should counter sue for negligence causing bodily harm.”

                Chapman coughed.

                “Is that true?” The judge asked Devin.

                “Yes,” Devin replied. “Mr. Chapman was trying to get close to Sebastian and my sister and he knocked me over and I fell down a flight of stairs. Sawyer was just defending me.”

                The judge nodded.

                Sawyer said a quick thanks be to Devin for helping him not look like a total asshole.

                “Well Mr. West it seems you have the best intentions.”

                “I try to Your Honor.”

                “Let us see how those good intentions translate to people you aren't so close to. As I said before your criminal history urges me to make an example this time, Mr. West.”

                Great. An example. He was going to jail.

                “Therefore,” the judge continued. “I hereby sentence you to five hundred hours of community service.”

                Five hundred hours? His eyes were bulging, he could tell. “Can't I just go to jail?” he asked. “That’s like two months and two and a half days, seven days a week, eight hours a day!”

                The judge gave him a forced smile. “A hero and a mathematician, Mr. West.”

                “Something like that, yeah,” he replied.

                “Good,” the judge said. “There's a dire need for volunteers, particularly smart ones at one of my favorite organizations. It's called Paper Planes. It’s a physiatric facility for youth, perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

                Sawyer slumped his shoulders. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve heard of it but I’m not going to work your community service hours there.”

                “You will,” the judge said. “This is not a request, Mr. West.”

                He shook his head. “I’m not going. Send me to jail.”

                “For every time you argue, I’ll tack an additional fifty hours on to your sentence. You’re presently at five hundred and fifty hours, Mr. West. That’s seven days a week for two months, one week, one and a half days at eight hours a day, would you like to aim for six hundred?”

                Sawyer rolled his eyes. “You don’t understand, your honor, I can’t work at the God damned looney bin. I’ll pick up litter on the side of the highway, I’ll work at some senior citizens home, please I cannot work there.”

                “I do understand. I understand your apprehension, Mr. West, but as I’ve stated before, none of this is open for discussion. Five hundred and fifty hours of community service. Are we clear?”

                ‘We’ weren’t clear on anything. The judge was obviously trying to ruin him. “You know I’m in a band, right?”

                “Are you trying to impress me, Mr. West?”

                “Depends, is it working?”

                The judge shook her head. Damn it.

                “I can’t let them down,” he said.

                “If your fans are truly your fans Mr. West, they will still be your fans five hundred and fifty hours from now.”

The woman must have been made from marble. She wasn’t budging. He sighed in resignation to his fate. Five hundred and fifty hours at the looney bin, how bad could it be?