Guilty as Charged

evidence to support the reason for your assault on Jesus Gonzalez and your explanation informs me that you have no regrets for your behavior, I have no other choice but to sentence you to two years in prison for the aggravated assault of Mr. Gonzalez, which resulted in the loss of hearing in his left ear.”
My attorney lets out a heavy sigh as he looks over at me and relays with his eyes, ‘I told you so.’
“There will be no option for early release due to good behavior, and after you’ve completed your time, you will be subject to anger management classes and probation for one year. Is this clear, Mr. Montes?”
I lock my eyes onto his, wishing there were another way to protect my sister, but knowing that the law has already been laid down. There’s no going back now.
“Do you understand the provisions of your sentence, Mr. Montes?” The judge’s voice rises as I stare off into space, swallowing the knife in my throat as I make a tally of that time in my mind—two years, 730 days, 17,520 hours.
“Yes,” I grit out against the tightness of my jaw, my teeth grinding into each other from the pressure.
“Good. Let this be a lesson to you, Mr. Montes. As the old adage goes, treat others how you want to be treated, and keep your hands to yourself.”

Two and a Half Years Later


Chapter 1
Sydney
“We agreed to every other weekend, Michael.”
“Yeah, well, I changed my mind.”
“Do you see? Do you see what this man does? This is why we’re getting divorced!”  My client throws her hands in the air as the energy shifts in the room.
I hate mediation—because no matter how hard you fight to keep it clean and calm, one outburst can derail the entire meeting.
“Remember rule number one,” I mumble under my breath as I lean in closer to my client.
“Yeah, yeah. Check your emotions at the door. But seriously, Sydney! The man just changed his mind once we got here! We agreed to this months ago!”
“My client has the right to change his decision. They are his kids too.”  Earl Brown glares at us from across the table, the corner of his mouth rising as he celebrates the frazzled state of my client.  His balding head and ring of hair around the shiny bowling ball he calls a head only services his unfortunate name.
“Really? Now he’s worried about seeing them? He couldn’t care less when he was out on business trips and sleeping with everything with a vagina in the last two years. Tell me, Michael,” she spits, leaning forward across the table.  “How many other kids do you have now? Have you lost count?”
“Tabitha,” he barks, just as the mediating attorney puts an end to this nonsense.
“Counsel, I suggest you both discuss appropriate behavior with your clients, otherwise the entire purpose of this meeting will be null and void and you’ll have to wait to appear before a judge.”
Tabitha blows a huff of air up into her bangs before crossing her arms and slouching back in her chair, surveying the side of the room while she tries to get herself under control.  Michael stews in his seat and Earl and I have a stare-off.
“Earl, you and I both know that your client travels far too often to justify joint custody with half time spent with each parent. I think we can both agree that what is in the best interest of the kids is to stick with the original agreement when these proceedings began.”
Earl turns to Michael, whispering something in his ear before I visibly see him relent.  “Fine. Every other weekend.”
Tabitha sits up in her chair as her eyes mist over, watching her soon-to-be ex-husband nod at her.  “Thank you.”
“Whatever,” he mumbles, and then the next order of business is brought forward.
Sometimes I wonder why I dabble in family law from time to time when each case leaves me feeling like there’s a boulder resting in my stomach. I guess part of it is a subconscious decision to help children not end up in dysfunctional family relationships like my own.
The funny thing is, if you looked at my family from the outside, you’d accuse me of being a big, fat liar for lack of a better term.  My family is the quintessential all-American family, complete with the powerful stepdad, philanthropic mother, the older sister (that’s me), and two twin boys that attend Texas A & M University as seniors about to graduate in communications and marketing.
On paper, we’re perfect, a notion that has haunted me my entire life to the point where other people perceived that about me too.  “Perfect Sydney Matthews.”
If I had a dollar every time that cliché nickname was thrown around in my adolescence, I probably could have paid for one whole year’s worth of tuition in college.  The sad thing is though, I lived up to the expectation because that is exactly what I was told to do.
I always had to consider my reputation, the disdain I would bring upon my family if I acted irrationally, even just a slip up like getting over-intoxicated in public could derail the status that my stepfather and mother have worked tirelessly to build.  I wasn’t allowed to make mistakes or choices that were off the beaten path.  And back in high school, it was more about getting straight As, never disrespecting my teachers or other students, and earning the title of valedictorian to bring the perfected and poised smiles to my parents’ faces.
“Thank God it’s Friday,” I mutter to myself as I slump down into the driver’s seat of my convertible Mustang, the car I raced out to buy as soon as I landed my first big-girl job after law school.  Of course, Byron Kennedy was just as eager to hire me once I was qualified since he knew my stepdad and my intent to become a lawyer well before I was finished with law school.
The sleek black leather allows me