Free Angel's Advocate by Mary Stanton Page B

scratched her arm-pit unself-consciously. “Well, not me. And not Madison. But Lindsey . . .” She wiggled her hand in a “maybe so” gesture. “But she’s nutso, you know. Like, psychotic.”
    Bree considered this off-the-cuff diagnosis. Then she considered the source. “Can you back that up with any specifics, Hartley?”
    Hartley looked into her milk shake. “Not really. Not that I know about, anyways. What you should do is, you should talk to Madison.”
    “Boyfriends,” Bree said, a little helplessly. “Does Lindsey date anyone on a regular basis?”
    “Date.” Hartley frowned. “Well, there’s guys you hook up with, and guys you wouldn’t be seen dead with, but date? God. Lin’s had, like, nothing but bad luck with guys. You know what you should do? You should talk—”
    “—to Madison,” Bree said. “Right.” She picked up her briefcase and got to her feet. “Hartley, if you think of anything, anything at all that’s going to help me with Lindsey’s defense, will you call me at this number?” She held out one of her business cards. Hartley took it and squinted at it with absorbed attention.
    “Sure thing.” She looked up at Bree, her brown eyes sincere. “Anything to, like, help. You know? Because Lindsey’s one of my very best friends.”

Six
    There’s small choice in rotten apples.
    — Romeo and Juliet , William Shakespeare
     
    “What in the world were you thinking? Do you really believe you can get away with spitting in the eye of the law like that? What’s all this baloney about Los Angeles? Modeling contracts? You were let out on your own recognizance. You’ve still got to face these charges. Good grief, girl.” Bree was kind, but firm.
    Lindsey looked out the car window and shrugged. They were on their way back to the Chandler home on Tybee Island. It’d been a long day, getting Lindsey out of jail and back into her mother’s custody, and Bree was getting pretty tired of The Shrug. Quick sound bites of the endless hours of negotiations cycled through Bree’s brain.
    His Honor Juvenile Court Judge Tyree Washington: “Is there any reason why this court should believe you intend to stay within the confines of your home, Miss Chandler?”
    Lindsey: (Shrug.)
    District Attorney Cordelia Lucille Eastburn, Esquire: “Your Honor, I demand this unrepentant prisoner be equipped with an ankle bracelet until trial!”
    Lindsey: (Shrug.)
    Carrie-Alice Chandler: “Lindsey, your father’s spinning in his grave at this!”
    Lindsey: (Shrug.)
    Shirley Chavez, mother of the victim: “Your Honor, my daughter and I forgive Miss Chandler with all our hearts. We have no objection to an at-home remand. We are dropping the charges, Your Honor. No one was hurt, and my Sophie has the money back.”
    Lindsey: “Screw you.”
    Motherhood, Bree decided, was something she was going to put off for a long, long time.
    “Does it chafe a little?” Bree asked, not without sympathy.
    Lindsey looked down at the bracelet circling one tanned, smooth-shaven ankle and shrugged.
    “If you shrug one more time,” Bree said, “I’m going to scream. And if you tell me to fuck off, I’ll stop the car, get my grooming kit out of my gym bag, and wash your mouth out with soap.” She took her eyes off the road for a moment and smiled at her. “Just a friendly little warning.”
    Lindsey rolled her eyes, which made a change from shrugging, but she said, “Whatever.”
    Bree drove on in silence. Carrie-Alice followed close behind them. Her daughter had refused to get in the Buick with her, and Bree, exasperated to the point of shouting, shoved the girl into her own car and told Carrie-Alice to follow them.
    Lindsey chewed gum and stared out the window. An exasperated social worker had confiscated her iPod, and Bree had turned the radio off, but Lindsey bobbed her head back and forth, swaying to some internal music.
    “We were lucky that Sophie Chavez’s mother didn’t want to press charges,” Bree said.