A short chapter. This occurs before 'that day'.
CSI: Miami
Horatio/oc
Disclaimer: I own nothing of CSI: Miami, I do not know anyone connected with the show or with CBS and they do not know me, all of which is a shame.
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The Bar:
Sitting beside Frank Tripp in the gloom of the bar, Horatio was silently thinking about the day. He toyed with the cup of coffee in front of him as he remembered the woman's words from that morning, making the same demands he'd heard over many years, now, in Miami, and back in New York. The musically Miami-Latin accent interchanged easily in his mind with a Brooklyn/Bronx drawls.
"I know right where he is. My son, the jerk! Go! Get him! Put him in jail! Maybe it'll teach him a lesson! No more of this filth in my house!" The woman had waved the glass bong and other drug paraphernalia in her hands, emphasizing her words.
Whether it was drugs or stolen property or any other illegal items, another mother had come in, turning in another child in as mothers had done, probably for centuries. Too few did this, but the police were always grateful to the ones who did.
"You going to turn me in, Ma?" He knew he was smirking insolently at her.
"I ought' a, you thief!" She shook the dress shirt at him. It was two sizes too large, still in its plastic covering with the price tags attached.
Straddling the broad arm of the sheet covered couch, he tried to look unconcerned. Bending forward, head hanging down, as if to examine the folds of material hanging in front, he said quietly, "Yeah, Ma, sure. You ought' a."
He never did know if he was scared she would or afraid she wouldn't. Both of them were sporting red-purple reminders from a few days ago. As usual, his father started on her and when he'd uncharacteristically yelled for the old man to stop, he'd gotten a cracked rib, among other things, for his trouble. He'd probably guessed she wouldn't reveal the horrid little family secret to the cops. Yeah, some secret when every hospital emergency room within six blocks of all the places he lived (moved ten times in fifteen years) knew the causes of the bruises on both of them, the displaced jaws, the defensive bone fractures and so on. This was before doctors were required to report suspected abuse.
But how else to stop this madness? If she turned him in, even if the bruises were ignored, then, at least, for a while, maybe he'd be safe, for once in his life. He couldn't turn her in for getting beat, that wouldn't make sense. And he sure wouldn't turn in his Dad! Jeez! He might as well just jump off the roof and just end it all that way as do that! Only, if she turned him in for stealing, he'd have a record! Jeez! That wouldn't be too good! Shit!
Throwing the package against the wall with a side sweep of her hand, she'd unexpectedly lunged at him, yelling, "What? You want I should steal from you? Maybe I should steal your precious boom box? How'd you like that? Your not so wonderful music tapes? Those god-awful noises by, what is it, those animals, those Pink Floyds? You bum!" She emphasized each sentence with slaps and pushes.
Hopping from the couch, bending over to protect his rib, his hands up, he'd allowed himself to be driven to the door and then out into the hallway until he hung over the balcony railing.
"I should tell your father!" She'd lowered her voice, as he knew she would. In the apartment, she'd yell, but the hall was public space and her business was nobody else's.
He'd also known then, she wasn't going to do anything at all. She wouldn't go to the cops and sure wouldn't say anything to his father. Both of them knew that if his father knew, he might not survive, and that she'd also suffer fallout.
A week later, he'd gone to the store with the shirt and other items he'd taken and confessed. Not taking legal action, the store demanded he work for them in the stock room for no pay. For two weeks, after school and weekends, he'd cleaned toilets, swept, picked up garbage, and moved boxes. If not for his father, who constantly called to check on him, they'd have hired him. In the end, they'd given him a new shirt, one that fit and a matching tie.
Horatio, personally, never resented the majority of mothers who denied their children's guilt. Tripp, of course, was from the other school, had come from a strict, righteous upbringing, and could never see any reason for a parent to uphold a child's guilt. The two had engaged in many a heated debate over this. Today, Horatio knew, would not be a day for a discussion on a parent's worth or lack there of, between he and the six-foot-four cop.
TBC to Chapter 5
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