Page 15 of Free to Judge
CHAPTER EIGHT
My hands reston the cold metal table in front of me. I can feel the chill seeping into my skin. The air is a strange blend of tattered paper, stale coffee, and the acrid sweat of exhaustion. I take a sharp inhale, clinging to a semblance of memory in that smell. Even as furious as I am—both with myself and with Declan for merely existing—a part of me yearns for the days when that smell lived in my brain.
It was a time when I dreamed of something more noble—like when I spent hours arguing about how the treaty written by Thomas Jefferson was a tangible piece of justice. I recall the hours I spent hashing out torts, and right now, a part of me longs for the ease of those days. I wouldn’t be in this mess, but that wish drifts away as quickly as it came.
I’m a Marshall. We, more than most, know life happens.
Besides, my current accommodation isn’t the Harvard Law Library, and I’m not cramming for a Constitutional Law final. I shift uneasily in my seat, crossing one leg over the other, trying in vain to find comfort in the unfamiliar surroundings. Despite coming from a family steeped in the intelligence and investigative fields, I’ve never been drawn to criminal law the way I was to contract law. Though I know every protocol by heart.
I admire the officer’s efficiency. If I had a way to rate them on Yelp, I’d be dishing out five stars—but my perusal of the holding room reassures me their rating would drop on decor that might send Uncle Phil into apoplexy. An ancient fluorescent light hovers overhead, its eerie glow making the coolness of the room all the more palpable.
The worst part is how utterly dirty I feel. Not just because of where I am but because of how seeing him again made me feel. Declan Conian. For years after my graduation, he starred in any number of my fantasies—those hypnotizing eyes, his challenging smile.
Then there’s his voice that raises the hair on my skin like he’s physically touching me.
It was like that even the first moment we interacted.
I can’t help but recall the way the air between us seemed to suck us into our own vortex. For just a moment, when his eyes met mine when he was prone on the floor, I’d swear there was a flicker of admiration in his dark eyes before he masked it.
But why?
Flexing my fingers still bound by cuffs, I give myself a single moment to wonder what would have happened if I had stayed that day in Cambridge. Would Declan have put his charm to good use? Plied me with sweet words and promises that meant nothing? Put his lips and hands on my body?
Would it have felt as good as I imagined? Or—I stretch my aching hand out to assess the damage—why did the way I touched him today make me feel so much more satisfaction?
Still, if I’d known I’d have only gotten in one punch, I’d have gone for the soft cartilage of his perfect nose.
Conflicted satisfaction bubbles up as I remember the flawless execution of my punch, my controlled fury that sent a clear message. There’s a part of me that relives the fantasy of landing blow after blow on his perfect jawline—a twisted retribution, to be sure. Admittedly, he’s just doing his job as a defense attorney, but because of him, my family can’t move past what happened.
With the thought of my family, a chilling realization hits. I now have to call someone to bail me out of my present situation. There are dozens, if not hundreds, of numbers I can dial but there’s really only one when it comes down to it. I dread placing the call, not because I fear him, but because I’ve always feared letting him down.
While Dad’s the one who can orchestrate an escape from this mess with minimal fuss, I still hesitate. My mother willcompletely understand my impulsiveness, but something of this magnitude will inevitably lead her to contact him anyway. I cringe at his reaction, unable to fathom what he’s going to say.
Before I spiral further into my thoughts, a uniformed officer—the baby-faced type who seems more suited to guarding our prom dress selection than deliveringMirandarights—enters the room and slides my cell phone across the table. “One call. Make it count.”
“He hasn’t dropped the charges?”
“He hasn’t decided.”
With a frustrated shake of my head, I pull up my father’s number. As the phone rings, I recall the time I was home from college, when my parents sat me down and unraveled our family’s true history. Despite the broken homes and past betrayals, Alison Freeman and Keene Marshall did everything they could to ensure me and my twin sisters never had the torment that touched their lives touch ours.
I’ll never forget the pride that surged through me when I finally understood why every adult in our family still carries a fragment of the Amaryllis legend inked on their skin. It’s not just about a flower or an arrow symbolizing resilience; it’s about our history flourishing against treachery and pain. Family first, family always—that’s our creed.
And exactly why Jon’s betrayal ignites my inner turmoil.
Within seconds, his calm voice answers. “Hey sweetheart.” There’s something low and steady in his tone—a surprising calm that makes me question everything I feel. I don’t hesitate. “Daddy, I was arrested.”
Clearly, I decided to throw privacy to the wind with my bold opening statement. I wonder if that was the best course of action since his bellow might echo beyond the observation window. “What the fuck do you mean you were arrested, Katherine Laura?”
I wince, my pride stung. “They arrested me for assault.” I almost stop there, but then I tack on, almost as a challenge, “For punching Declan Conian.”
I brace myself for the explosion of disappointment in his response. I expect a storm of fury. Instead, he locks his temper down before replying, “I see.”
Where’s the surprise? The anger? I know my father too well. Something in his voice today is off—a mix of resignation and something I can’t quite put my finger on. Unable to let it go, I press on, “I’m sorry.”Only about being caught,I tack on in my head.
The officer in front of me stiffens, as if trying to determine whether my words can be used as a confession. My heart pounds fiercely, chastising myself. As a lawyer, I know better than to give even an inch of leverage when charges are still officially pending. “Dad?—”
“Don’t say another fucking word, Kalie. I’m sending your godfather to bail you out.”
