Justice Served

23 | Rhys Is Something That You Can Believe In

Chapter Twenty-Three
Jayce Mirella

I'm not quite sure where the bathroom is but I'm certain that I'd eventually end up finding it. I didn't need to use it, either way, I just needed to clear my head because it felt like I was bombarded with information left and right all at once without giving myself preparation for any of it.

It felt like everything that was occurring right now was so sudden, and unexpected. My arrest, Rhys Chandler becoming my lawyer, the impending trial. Soon my fate would be decided for me, and my chances of getting a favorable verdict were all in the hands of someone like Rhys Chandler. Though I give him a hard time and hate him with everything in me I can't help but feel the desire to leave all my eggs in his basket. I never imagined that I would be believing in someone again, especially that said someone being apart of law enforcement but something about him left me feeling hopeful.

Maybe I was imagining it or maybe I was just sick of always being so damn pessimistic, whatever it was I think it's worth a shot in the dark. The only hard part about it all is getting along with him.

I stop walking to gaze down into the bustling lobby, my fingers skimming over the cool metal bar that separates me from potentially falling more than ten feet down to my death with clear glass underneath the bar creating a barrier. The lawyers and attorneys talk on the phone with whomever while some are on their way out of the building probably going home to their family or to the bar to drink away their sorrows. They're always so busy with one thing or the other.

As I take in the sight before me, I begin to imagine my father's presence. If he were beside me, he'd be cracking jokes about how the people looked like ants from here. He'd say that 'these city folk don't know nuthin about what it feels like to come home to a nice meal, wholesome chatter about a good days work, or the importance of the warmth family provides.' Though, the nice meal was prepared by him because my mother was utterly useless.

He loved going on and on, complaining like the old fart he was about how minimalism, and finding comforts in the small things were beginning to lose its reign on the people of New York. He sure as hell loved acting like he was preaching, getting so into it that his eyes would begin to hold a little sparkle, his crow feet showing as he'd move his entire body with such animation, and life. I'd tease the life out of him, telling him that he was so old school, living in the 1970s with that mentality of his. That's when he'd start those old lectures of his, telling a tale of what his ma, and pops would do with him back when he was younger in New Orleans while he'd pull me onto his lap and tickle the life out of me until I conceded that he wasn't an old fart. I never showed it but his stories were always something to listen to. I loved them.

Sighing softly, I slowly look over to my right. Anchoring my head upwards as my imagination runs wild, I try to visualize how tall my father would have been if he were to stand right beside me. I recall him looking as big as a giant back when I was real little, but realistically my daddy was probably nothing more than six feet tall, maybe with his church shoes on, he'd be six foot two inches, something he took pride in. Considering my five-foot two-inch stature I'm sure that I'd still have to look up to see him since I wasn't blessed with the height my father had.

He would smile down at me with that toothy smile of his then let out that guffaw he'd emit that always made me belt out a laugh of my own; it was contagious. Knowing the situation I was in, those large arms of his would wrap around my shoulder in a tight embrace as he kept me close enough for me to take in his body heat, and smell that cheap cologne of his. I loved how he smelt.