The Advocate (The Advocate Series)
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
Note to Reader
TERESA BURRELL
________________________________
THE ADVOCATE
Silent Thunder Publishing
San Diego
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments,
organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and
are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue are drawn
from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Third edition 2012.
THE ADVOCATE. Copyright © 2011 by Teresa Burrell.
ISBN 978-1-938680-02-1
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without
written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles
and reviews.
Dedication
My deepest gratitude to my friends, Ron and Kim, for their strength, love, and encouragement;
To Marilee, my dear friend, for keeping me on track and for her never-ending words of wisdom;
To my good friend, Jeff Sherratt, for always being a step ahead of me and for his willingness to drag me along;
To my friend, Bob, for his unconventional humor that kept me sane while I practiced law at juvenile court;
To my friend, Patti Ann, for her passion and high expectations;
To my “de facto son,” Bobby, for his love and for always making me proud;
To my nieces and nephews for their devotion and admiration that continually drives me to set an example by meeting my goals;
To my brothers, Don, Gene, Byron, and Philip, for helping me learn life’s hard lessons;
And especially to my sisters, Sissy, Marjo, Madeline, and Lana, for always having my back, and for loving me, believing in me, and supporting me no matter what I do, because in a world of utter chaos, the power of their love, the depth of their loyalty, and the extent of their confidence provides the path for me to reach my dreams.
1
If I knew he was dead, maybe then I could let go.” Sabre Brown’s fingers slid up and down the side of her Styrofoam cup as she and her best friend, Bob, walked away from the coffee cart in front of the Juvenile Division of the San Diego Superior Court.
He put his arm around her tiny waist and pulled her closer to him. “I know how much you miss him.”
“Not knowing is the worst part. You’d think after five years, I’d quit expecting him to return.” She sighed and her voice softened. “The last time I talked to him, he called to wish me a happy birthday. He called me the night before because his plane was leaving early in the morning and he didn’t want to wake me. I teased him about growing up, since waking me in the middle of the night would generally bring him great pleasure.”
They stood in silence for a moment. Sabre turned to Bob. “You’re a lot like him, you know . . . the same crazy sense of humor, only you’re less of a prankster. Once he came to my office with silly putty or something hanging out of his nose, like a booger.” Sabre swallowed and cleared her throat. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you the past few years. You make it a little easier, you know.” She glanced at her watch.
“We have a few minutes yet before the vultures start to circle,” Bob said. “By the way, Happy Birthday.”
She attempted a smile. “You remembered.”
“Sure, kid. I couldn’t forget such an important day.”
“I wish I could.”
“I know.” He slipped his arm in hers. “We better get into court.” They walked arm in arm past the metal detector just as a teenage boy placed his belt on the conveyor, grabbing for his baggy pants as they fell to his knees, displaying his Taz boxer shorts and his warthog tattoo. They chuckled as they entered the crowded hallway.
“I need to talk to my ‘methamphetamine gazelle’ over there.” Bob nodded his head toward a woman with stringy, uncombed hair framing a face with skin spread thinly over her bones. Her missing teeth added a slight whistle to her high pitched voice. She paced up and down the short hallway, rubbing her hands together and complaining to anyone who would listen.
Sabre continued through the crowd in her well-pressed suit, J. Garcia tie, and Ariat shoes past one client after another, each with his or her own sad tale. Gang members, druggies of all ages, and men and women charged with all forms of child abuse filled the halls, many of them touched by poverty, others from gated communities. From wherever they hailed, the stories remained the same; only the package differed.
She spotted a client about twenty feet ahead in a clown suit. Her stomach gave a queasy twinge when she saw him. He had the perfect profession for his pedophilia and he flaunted it by wearing his clown costume whenever he came to court, red nose and all.
Not today
, she thought. Sabre squeezed her petite body through the crowd, ducked between two bikers, avoided eye contact with the clown, and stepped into a courtroom where he couldn’t follow.
By 11:30 a.m., Sabre had completed her morning calendar. As she stepped out into the hallway, she heard Bob call from across the room. “Hey, Sobs. Come here.”
Sobs, his nickname for her, came from Sabre Orin Brown. He had a lot of fun with her initials. When he wasn’t calling her Sobs, he called her his little S.O.B. They had started working at juvenile court about the same time and had had their first trial together. Neither of them knew exactly what they were doing, but together they figured it out.
Their first case had involved a five-year-old, who had what appeared to be five cigarette burns evenly placed around one of her ankles. Sabre represented the mother and Bob the father. The parents, adamant they had not hurt their little girl, could not offer good explanations for the little round, infected areas. The attorneys were unable to reconcile the fact that the burns were so evenly placed on the ankle. Neither the attorneys nor the judge bought the testimony from a medical expert who stated a five-year-old child could hold still for five perfectly placed cigarette burns, but no other explanation had been proffered.
After some serious research and investigation and a little luck, Bob found an article about flea bites and how the fleas get under elastic and leave a row of bites which are often in a perfect line. The little girl had been playing in a sandbox and had been wearing anklets with tight elastic at the top. With some help from a couple of medical professionals, he determined fleas had been the most likely cause of the infected area, not cigarette burns. The little girl had scratched them to the point of infection.
They had won their first jurisdictional case in juvenile court, a difficult feat even for a seasoned attorney, as they soon discovered. That began a beautiful friendship and their reign at “Kiddie Court.” There had never been anything romantic between them. He remained her best friend and confidante. They enjoyed each other’s company and completely trusted one another. Inseparable at court, and on the rare occasion when Sabre socialized, she usually did it with Bob and his wife, Marilee.
Sabre walked toward Bob, standing near the appointment desk. “Hi, honey. What’s up?”
“The clerk has a pretty nasty case–an eight-month-old baby with broken ribs, a broken femur, and a subdural hematoma. She’s tried to give the case away, but no one will take it. She said if we take it, she’ll give us one of those easy domestic violence cases,” Bob said.
“But I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry.”
“All right, let’s get it over with. I have the cards.”
Sabre removed three playing cards from her briefcase: a king, a queen, and a joker. “We don’t need the joker. Public Defender has the minor.”
Sabre put the joker back, shuffled the king and queen, and laid them face down on the table. Bob reached down, drew a card, and turned over the queen. “Sorry, Sobs, it looks like you got the dad. From what I’ve read, he’s the most likely perpetrator.”
“I’m sure he’s a real peach. What do I care anyway, except it’ll be more time consuming.”