Andi is due in court in ten minutes. She’s standing in her office downtown, sliding a suit jacket over her shoulders, when her email pings. A note from Cameron’s German teacher.
Bad news from school is the last thing she ought to put in her head right now. Today, a judge has finally agreed to hear arguments about whether to compel the ICE contractor accused of raping and impregnating Andi’s client Abha to submit to a DNA test.
It doesn’t help Abha’s credibility that the baby was born last week with jet-black hair and eyes when her alleged father is fair and blond. Nor does it matter to the contractor that they hired the man despite the domestic assault conviction on his record.
When it comes to the law, past is not always prologue.
Andi stares at her computer monitor. Following up on Cameron’s progress reads the subject line.
Don’t open it.
Even if she weren’t heading to court, she’s desperate to cling to the quiet, lingering détente she’s felt since last night. She’d been reading on the couch. Cam walked out of his room and curled right up next to her. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t stay for more than a minute or two. Just long enough for her to reach around and ruffle his beautiful curls, to smell his Cameron-ness, body wash and the sweet slick of sweat.
If only she knew the conditions required for her son to show up for himself, she’d manufacture them a thousand times over. And a thousand times after that.
Despite her better instincts, she hovers a finger over the mouse. And clicks.
Just a quick note to let you know that Cameron has caught up on his missing assignments and stayed on track this week. I appreciate your partnership. Whatever you’re doing at home, keep it up. —Frau Mueller.
Halle.frickin.lujah.
The relief is almost enough to blunt the shock and frustration thirty minutes later when the judge rules to block her motion.
Not quite enough. But almost.