Burnished Gold

[redsox907]

burnish (v.) — to rub a surface until it is smooth and bright

The material is not changed. The fire, the friction, the pressure — these do not alter what something is made of. They only remove what was obscuring it.

[redsox907]

Tables of Contents

Season One

► Show Spoiler

Episode One - Ignacio Aurelio Ceniceros
Episode Two - A New Reckoning
Episode Three - Hell To Pay
Episode Four - Paying Penance
Episode Five - Next Stop, Arizona
Episode Six - Almost Free

[redsox907]

Year By Year / Career Statistics

[redsox907]

Season One, Episode One: Ignacio Aurelio Ceniceros

Two at a time. Grab. Pull. Stack. Spin. Repeat. In three motions he was done with the flat. In one quick motion he snatched it up by the front lip, splitting both corners in one pull, before spinning it in his hand to break down the other two corners, ripping the plastic off in the same motion.

They both went into the cart next to him, then he was ripping open the top of the next case, his fifth case in the stack of six, reaching into the slit down the face of the cardboard and ripping back. The plastic broke and came up in one piece, as if it were a solid lid attached to hinges in the back.

Grab. Pull. Stack. Spin. Repeat.

He thought about trying for three at a time, cutting his motions in half. But last time he did that he fumbled the second exchange, spilling the cans onto the floor and it cost him the race.

He looked up just enough to see Derek to his right opening his fourth case.

‘Good’ he thought in between motions, nearing the end of his case. He had a clean lead on Derek. He chanced a glance to his left, saw Tyler keeping pace with him, as if there was a mirror tracking his movement instead of his friend.

Tyler had won the race with the yogurt. He had given Tyler shit that he only won cause he had little girly hands, made it easier for him to sneak the small yogurts onto the shelf. He had blitzed them both stacking water, all his work in the gym making it easier to lift the water without slowing down.

Now was the final race, the can aisle. Winner take all.

He pushed the last of the cans of Del Monte green beans onto the shelf, spun the label forward, then once again broke the corners in a smooth motion. His cardboard and plastic hit the cart at the same time as Tyler’s.

If he was going to win the race, he had to make a move.

He took a risk, pulling the plastic free and grabbing a pair of cans in the same motion. For a split second he thought he fumbled them, that it was over. Then, he felt his fingers strain at the sudden addition of weight before catching and the cans were on the shelf, his hands moving in that practiced rhythm that was automatic, but not at the same time.

With two cans left in the flat, he popped the case in the air with his knee, the cans flying straight into the air. In one final motion, he grabbed a can in each hand, spun them in his hands, and deposited them into the final two spots on the shelf, catching the flat and plastic before it hit the floor and snapping the corners as he flicked it into the cart.

“Fuck,” Derek growled. He had dropped his final case as he looked up to see the grand finale, spilling the creamed corn in his stack across the aisle.

“Damnit,” hissed Tyler, “I thought I had you this time Iggy.”

Iggy grinned, blowing imaginary smoke off his pointer and middle finger.

“Gotta wake up pretty early to beat me in a stocking race, champ.”

Derek, who had finally corralled his creamed corn, pushed his shoulder from behind.

“I would have had you on the water if my case didn’t break.”

“Your case wouldn’t have broke if you were lifting them right, instead of grippin’ and rippin’” corrected Tyler as the two of them broke into laughter.

Steven Bercier, the closing manager, glared down the aisle at the trio as he walked by, clearly assuming they were goofing off instead of finishing their nightly stocking duties.

“Shit man, knock it off,” Derek whispered, moving to finish stocking his case after catching Steven’s glare.

Iggy and Tyler looked at each other for a moment before they shrugged and went back to stocking the rest of the product staged on the floor at a far less deliberate pace.

They worked like that for the next hour, methodically stocking the shelves in a practiced performance they’d perfected over the last year of working together. Tyler cut the boxes the same way Iggy had cut his staged stack for the race. Iggy went behind him, as he was the fastest, and put the product on the shelf. And Derek cleaned up the mess.

“You guys didn’t have to do that,” quietly remarked Iggy, breaking the silence of their routine. The bravado that had crept into his voice after winning their race was gone, replaced by something else entirely. The new register was softer, almost embarrassingly so, as if he didn’t know what to do with the emotion and it left him grasping at straws he fully didn’t understand.

Derek and Tyler had greeted him at work with an Apple Pie Cheesecake from Lorraine’s Kitchen, his favorite dessert from his favorite local spot. They’d both pitched in to buy the 18” cheesecake, then refused his overtures of paying them back for the grand gesture.

Iggy had bought his fair share of cheesecake from Lorraine’s and knew the price was not cheap. Yet, they insisted in honor of his birthday from the previous weekend.

“Bullshit we didn’t,” declared Derek, who was usually the more reserved of his two friends.

“No lie there,” Tyler added, slapping Iggy on the back as they started cleaning up the remaining unstocked freight on the aisle.

“We know Clay didn’t get you anything to celebrate. The whole weekend was about him and his birthday, wasn’t it?”

Iggy simply nodded. Clay’s birthday was three days before his own and the celebration always seeped its way into the day that should have been Iggy’s alone. It bothered him when he was a kid. Seven years old, thousands of miles away from the rest of his family, trying to understand why his day wasn’t his anymore.

Not anymore. He had accepted a long time ago that everything revolved around Clay, his schedule, his performance. That included him, and his mother, Cassie.

While Iggy was lost in thought, they had finished clearing the unstocked freight and started the mind-numbing task of full facing the rest of the untouched product on the aisle.

Without thinking, Iggy reached over and fixed Derek’s section when he missed turning out a label. He used to point them out to Derek, but all it did was get him riled up. At some point, he couldn’t remember when, Iggy just started doing them for him. It was easier than nagging him and ruining the little bit of camaraderie he had before another week of responsibilities.

“Derek and I are gonna hit The A tomorrow for some runs. You should swing by.” Tyler’s question sounded like ordinary teenage banter to anyone else passing by, but the trio of boys knew the weight behind it.

As if reading his mind, Derek pipped up for him.

“You know he can’t, Ty. He always has Sunday’s off because he’s doing so much stuff for his stepdad.”

“I still don’t understand how you get Sunday’s off.”

“Have since I started,” shrugged Iggy. He knew why he had them off, and it wasn’t by choice. But he wasn’t eager to rehash that topic unless Tyler pressed it. Which he would, he always did.

“Why is that again?” He was trying to keep his face straight, but Tyler’s emotions betrayed him as a grin split down the sides.

Iggy sighed.

“Because. I’ve got the gym first thing. Then church. Then mentorship. Then I’ve got to take Lottie to her horse lessons-“

“I don’t see why you gotta be the one to drive your sister to her lessons. Her pops or your mom should be doing that shit,” Tyler interjected before adding, “Or how the hell you got Randy to give you the busiest day of the week off to play errand boy.”

“Because Clay goes into the office after church on Sunday to make sure all the jobs are lined out. And Mom? She’s already two glasses in by the time horse lessons come around. She tried to take Lottie once and backed into the garage door because she forgot to open it before throwing her Caddy in reverse. So now it’s my job.”

“What about the Sunday thing? Not gonna lie, you my dude and all, but that still chaps my ass.”

“Pause,” squeaked Derek through a laugh on the rare occasion he was able to avoid being the brunt of the joke.

“My parents negotiated it when I got hired, I guess,” Iggy answered with a shrug, quickly turning back to the pickle jars in front of them, having left the canned vegetables neat and organized in the aisle behind them.

Iggy didn’t mention that Clay conveniently only started going into the office on Sunday’s after he’d signed Charlotte up for the horse lessons, or that he’d built Randy Media’s newest house and had called in a favor to the Store Director so Iggy could ‘perform his duties.’

He could explain that to them, of all the people he knew, Derek and Tyler would be the most understanding. But it was one of those things that Iggy had just grown accustomed to, and therefore, didn’t want to waste the effort complaining about something that wouldn’t change.

As he pulled and spun the last of the pickle jars in the section the overhead speaker cut through the usual noise inside Fred Meyer.

“Ignacio Ceniceros, you have a phone call on 1-8-3-1. Ignacio, 1-8-3-1. Thank you.”

Whoever made the page at the front counter forgot to end the call before putting the receiver down, the click ringing through the store as plastic met plastic before the switchhook initiated to end the connection.

“She better hope Randy ain’t still in the store, he hates that shit” remarked Tyler as he and Derek rounded the corner to the next aisle, tossing a wave over their shoulder as Iggy turned towards the front of the aisle and the stockroom beyond it.

He checked the Apple watch on his wrist—the one that looked to outsiders like a gift, but was really just another way for Clay to keep tabs on Iggy—as he walked briskly to the stockroom, and the employee phone bolted to the far wall. 9:38PM, It blinked back at him in the neon green hue he’d selected. It wasn’t late enough for Clay to question why he was still at work. Maybe some emergency had happened, and he’d be given a rare, but appreciated, night to himself, he thought wishfully as he reached the phone.

He dialed the number for the overhead line quickly, the numbers etched into his muscle memory over the last year from paging other associates, requesting assistance, or on the rare occasion they were in the store after close, pranking Derek and Tyler by playing the obnoxious Mr. Bill dog toy over the PA system.

“Thank you for calling your Lower Hillside Fred Meyer, Ignacio speaking, how can I help you?”

Laughter erupted from the other side, the hitch in breaths between the chuckles giving away the identity of the person on the other line.

“Dad?” Iggy whispered into the receiver, unaware of his sudden switch from professional to concerned. His Dad never called him anywhere but at the house, not even on Iggy’s cell phone, and definitely not without the supervision of Clay. That was the rule.

“Ay! Quiet, Ignacio,” Rodrigo hissed into the receiver on his end, as if his voice would carry to anyone listening on Ignacio’s side as well.

“Is there anyone there that would tell Clayton you’re talking to me?”

Iggy glanced around the small office the non-management Grocery employees used as a workstation. There were posters pinned to the exposed OSB without rhyme or reason, some old, others beginning to yellow with age. A few energy drinks sat on the maple butcher block counter that served as the desktop, the condensation forming rings on the surface. If they were still there in the morning, Randy would have a field day about disrespecting the office, but today it was abandoned save for Iggy himself.

“No,” he whispered, unsure as to why they were resorting to secrecy. It may be frowned upon for Iggy to take a private call while working, but that wouldn’t affect his father 3,000 miles away.

“Okay, good. Listen, we’ve got to be quick. Has Cassie mentioned anything about a hearing coming up? Or anything about custody?”

Iggy racked his brain for a second, trying to remember the few conversations he’d had with his mother over the last month that wasn’t a direct quote from Clay.

“No.”

“Motherfucker,” Rodrigo immediately spat into the phone.

“I figured she didn’t, but still. He’s got her hook, line, and sinker then, eh?”

Rodrigo waited a brief moment to see if Iggy would pile on, then quickly barreling ahead when he was met with stony silence.

“The long and skinny of it is I’ve petitioned for a new custody agreement.”

Iggy’s heart leapt into his throat, suddenly beating harder and faster than it did when he ran wind sprints as punishment for making Lottie late to soccer the previous summer because he had to stop and get gas.

“It wouldn’t be for full time, with my record that’d be a stretch.”

Iggy’s heart dropped from his throat into the pit of his stomach.

“But it’ll be something. Clay’s fighting it tooth and nail. My lawyer thought we had a solid case with all of the rehabilitation groups I’ve helped with and my probation record, but now that Clay is throwing his money around it’s looking slim.”

“Unless you get involved.”

Rodrigo had paused for dramatic effect in between his lines, and it had worked. ‘Unless he got involved,’ Iggy’s mind repeated. But how? How could he get involved? If Clay was already attempting to block it, he would simply forbid Iggy from lending his assistance to his father. The shell of his mother would either be too drunk to notice the discontent painted across Iggy’s face or simply sit there in agreeable silence as Clay blocked another avenue towards his father.

“Dad, how? If Clay’s already got his lawyers on it, he ain’t gonna let me do anything to help.”

“That’s why you’ve got to do it now, at work. Don’t go home and get second thoughts, or struggle to find a way to send it without him knowing. Write it up, right now. I talked to a nice lady at the front desk a few days ago and she said anyone can send secured packages through the shipping department.”

It was clear Rodrigo had put some thought into this plan.

“Write the letter now and ship it before you get cold feet, or Clay finds out and tries to buy your silence.”

Do it now. No second thoughts. No sabotage from Clay. It almost sounded too good to be true to Iggy.

Derek’s head suddenly appeared around the door frame as he leaned his head in.

“Steven’s looking for you, man. We said you had to take a dump, but he stalked off towards the bathrooms to see for himself. I don’t know how much longer we can keep him distracted.”

Iggy nodded at Derek as he quietly slipped out of the doorway, presumably to go finish facing the store without him.

“Dad, I’ve got to go in a sec. Steven, my manager, is looking for me.”

“I’m as good as gone,” whispered Rodrigo on the other end, “Just don’t forget about that letter.”

“Wait!” Iggy had suddenly realized, he didn’t know what to write in the letter. His discontent at living under Clay’s roof. His burning desire to see his father again? How he missed his grand-parents?

“All of the above,” answered Rodrigo. Iggy couldn’t see his face, but knew his Dad was proudly brandishing a smirk on the other side, knowing he’d just laid some heavy, yet vague fatherly advice.

“Just write from the heart. About how you miss your family, not just me.”

“If all goes right, I’ll be seeing you this summer, mijo. Love you!”

And with that, the line went dead.

Iggy stood there in the empty office, receiver in his hand, cord wrapped gently around his wrist, staring at it.

Was there really a chance he’d finally get to see his Dad, after all these years?

The idea slowly melted into Iggy’s mind, like a hot coal tossed into the snow, carving out its own pocket of space as it changed the landscape around it to make room. Once the idea cooled, much like the coal, it simply settled as if it had always belonged there, a perfect fit.

Iggy returned to the aisle with Derek and Tyler, who had now moved onto the coffee aisle, the smell of 100 different coffee blends and beans combining into a nauseating mixture.

“Who was it,” they asked in unison.

“My Dad.”

Derek’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion and met in the middle. At the same time, his eyes narrowed as if he were deep in thought,

“Why would your Dad call here. Isn’t he like in Mexico or something.”

Tyler’s hand made contact with the back of Derek’s head in less than a second, the sound of skin slapping echoing briefly in the aisle before the only reminder was the hurt look stretched across Derek’s face as he yelled out “Hey!”

“Just cause he’s Mexican, doesn’t mean they from Mexico,” defended Tyler before pausing. He stole a quick glance towards Iggy, lowering his voice several octaves until it was barely above a whisper and added: “Right?”

Iggy just nodded at Tyler before recounting the story of his father’s sudden, and brief, phone call.

When he finished, Tyler was the first to speak up.

“Iight, what’s the excuse?”

This time, it was Derek and Iggy in unison. “What excuse?”

“The one that covers you for enough time to write that damn letter,” Tyler shot back with a grin, running his hand through his shaggy brown hair as he contemplated. “We all know that if you go home to think about it you’re going to get cold feet. So, like I said: What’s the excuse?”

“Can’t use the shitter,” reminded Derek, earning a quick nod of approval from Tyler.

“I got it,” Tyler proclaimed, dropping a loaf of bread onto the floor in his excitement, “You haven’t done your safety evals yet. Take them back there with you, but write up that letter instead. Derek and I got your back.”

Derek nodded in agreement, adding a thumbs up for good measure.

Once Steven had returned and found Iggy, merely checking in to make sure he wasn’t goofing around with Tori somewhere, Iggy slinked back to the Grocery office, still barren, to write the letter his father had requested.

Iggy grabbed a blank piece of printer paper from the machine, then after studying the paper for a few seconds returned it and sought out a binder of lined paper instead. He found the binder tucked in the back of the desk and flipped through the first half of the book that had formulas, order guides, and display notes scrawled across the pages at various levels of legibility before finding a blank page he could use. Then, he found the bundle of blank envelopes, banded together by a large rubber band in the same drawer he found the lined paper.

Iggy pulled out the worn office chair, the wheels catching once on a stray rock before Iggy gently corrected their course. The leather chair had seen better days. The back was split up the side, foam visible through the gap. The seat itself had several stains on it, lord knew how old they were, and had cracked on one part where someone’s box knife caught, tearing the seam open. Despite the near dilapidated state of the chair, it was the only refuge for someone looking to get off their feet for even a moment. Iggy lowered himself into the chair, then pulled himself back under the desk, careful to adjust the path to avoid another pebble on the linoleum floor.

Iggy wrote his name in clear, bold print across the top left corner of the envelope. He started to write his home address, then paused, the pen faltering between the I and T in the word Italy. He’d almost written 6412 Italy Circle, his home address.

Instead, he wrote the address for the store on the address line. Probably for the best this letter didn’t make it back to his house, in the scenario it was returned.

With the envelope done, his name in block print in the corner, his father’s in even larger scale block print across the center, he was ready to start putting pen to paper.

‘Writer’s block isn’t real,’ his 10th grade Language Arts teacher, Ms. Ardy, had told him. But sitting in the abandoned makeshift office, Iggy had never believed in writer’s block more than he did in those few minutes that seemed to stretch like hours. The printer sprang to life on the edge of the desk, display schedules for the week printed in hand drawn blocks to avoid any confusion.

‘Write from the heart,’ Rodrigo’s voice echoed in his head.

Iggy smirked. He knew what he would write—the truth.

He drew the paper close, leaning over the paper slightly to keep his hand steady as if his presence alone could force the lines to remain straight. His handwriting was usually marginal at best, but he knew the importance of the letter he was about to draft. He straightened the paper, smoothing the edges to keep them from curling at the corners.

Finally, he leaned over and wrote.

The pen moved across the paper in slow, steady strokes, a vast contrast to the rushed and loopy handwriting that littered every assignment he’d turned in over the last five years.

He paused here and there to think, pen coming up and resting on his lower lip in thought or checking his watch to make sure he still had time to finish the thought that had half formed in his head. Once, the printer hummed to life, spitting out display schedules in neat block letters inside the square boxes used to mark out the end cap of each aisle. He was thankful for the quiet hum of the machine working, the soft sound of paper being grabbed from the tray and brought through the printer, then ending with a small noise as it found its own place on top of the stack. It was almost calming, hearing the machine silently perform its only task.

Ten crucial minutes later and the letter was as good as it was going to get in Iggy’s eyes. He had never been good at pop-quizzes in school, he simply didn’t like surprises. He wanted to be prepared and ready to face whatever assignment was next. The letter was very much like a pop-quiz, a test sprung at the last possible minute that demanded his full attention. There simply was no mulligan on this one. It was for keeps, as Tyler often said.

Looking down at the paper, he couldn’t hide his surprise at the ease in which the page had filled with his own words. Once the dam of writer’s block had lifted, his thoughts had poured forth like they had been holding back Niagara Falls itself.

He re-read it one final time, thought about correcting the third sentence that started with ‘But’, a habit Ms. Ardy hounded him continuously about, then thought better of it and shoved it into the envelope before he could spot another flaw.

He pressed the seal flap flat, thought about licking the gum adhesive before opting for the tape on the desk, a decision he immediately regretted after discovering someone had lost the starting point, which now sat hidden along the roll of tape.

Iggy tossed the roll aside and opted for the packing tape, seated perfectly in its holder and ready for use. It was overkill, but Iggy knew he’d already burn crucial time and had to finish up before Steven came back here to review his safety evals himself.

With the letter signed and sealed, all that was left was the delivery.

He took one more glance at the front of the envelope, ensuring he’d filled out the names and address properly, then turned and made his way towards the shipping office.

When he returned home that night, Clay had waited up. Not out of concern, Iggy would never fool himself again that anything Clay did, at least regarding Iggy, was out of concern.

“You put in a solid eight hours, Ignacio?” Clay didn’t turn his gaze from the wall mounted 85” flat screen, where his favorite movie, The Dirty Dozen, was playing. They’d just locked the Nazi commanders in the bunker and were preparing to fill the air vents full of grenades to cause a grand explosion, before the remaining soldiers rode off into the sunset.

Iggy had stopped walking at the sound of Clay’s voice, knowing better than trying to answer over his shoulder as he walked past. That was disrespectful and if there was one thing you didn’t do, it was disrespect Clay in the house he built.

Well, his company built at least.

He heard the faint clink of glass meeting glass somewhere deeper in the house and knew instinctively his mom had waited up as well. In the half second before he answered Clay, he stole a glance down the hallway that led from the spacious living room, with its vaulted ceilings and French windows, towards the dining room. Behind the mahogany door was where they spent every meal, with Iggy usually in a stoic silence as the rest of the family performed around him. Despite the use it received on a daily basis, the dining room looked as picture-perfect as the living room, as if they’d been designed for show, rather than comfort; its very design flaunting in the face of normalcy with its crystal chandelier perched delicately above the lustrous cherry wood dining table. Beyond the dining table, tucked into the back corner of the room, was a small bar top, its countertop featuring the same lustrous cherry as the table.

He knew without needing to see it, that was where his mom was. A bottle of Maker’s Mark perched on the edge of her rocks glass, tipped slightly towards the basin of the cup. There might be a mixer in her drink, whatever ‘low-calorie’ sparkling drink she was into this week, but with the late hour it was far more likely she was drinking the whiskey neat over ice.

“It was fun,” Iggy answered. Usually, the term fun was used loosely. It was the best way he could describe the friendly contests he participated in with Derek and Tyler, but today it carried a different weight. The cheesecake gesture from his friends was heartwarming, a description he would not share with anyone else save for Tori, but that wasn’t what made today different.

Today was different because he had a secret. Rodrigo had outsmarted Clay, found a way to break through the carefully crafted defenses designed to keep Iggy perfectly under Clay’s thumb. Clay would be infuriated when, not if, he found out. That was inevitable. But even that certainty couldn’t quell the cautious excitement that had settled in his chest after seeing the letter sorted into the outgoing mail at the Customer Service Desk, stamped and sealed. Iggy had a split second of hesitation as he handed the envelope to Rachel, the front desk clerk who’d paged him earlier, but before he could even re-think his rebellious decision, Rachel had already plucked the envelope out of his hand and unceremoniously flicked it into the outgoing mail bin.

“Time’s up, punk,” she had laughed, smacking her gum as she made her way over to the pair of men who’d been gawking at her from the other side of the counter. “Now scram, I’ve got shit to do.”

Clay’s humorless retort snapped him out of the memory from a few hours before, returning him to the home that never really felt like one.

“Work isn’t supposed to be fun, that’s why they call it work.” It was the same adage Clay repeated whenever Iggy chose the adjective fun, instead of tiring, or boring, or any other description that Clay felt was suitable for work.

Iggy didn’t answer, simply nodded in agreement, or maybe it was understanding. Either way, it was enough for Clay who dismissed Iggy with the wave of his hand.

Iggy took the stairs to the second floor two at a time, the smirk on his face growing with every step. The moment the bedroom door latched behind him, sealing off his own little world from the rest of Clay’s organized perfection, the smirk exploded into a shit-eating grin that stretched from ear to ear.

He knew that Clay would find out eventually. If he was fighting the court case, it would see the light eventually. But until then, Iggy had a secret. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he had hope.

And that was enough for now.

[Captain Canada]

My boy is back in the game

My God that was a monstrous first chapter

[The JZA]

Another dysfunctional family, the hallmark of DS chises.

Shall be following

[redsox907]

My boy is back in the game

My God that was a monstrous first chapter

back like we never left

ngl, I didn't even realize how thick (ayo) that first chapter was until I pasted it. It was necessary tho, but they ain't all gonna be the Great Wall of Text

Another dysfunctional family, the hallmark of DS chises.

Shall be following

is a functional family even real anymore?

appreciate it brodie

[redsox907]

Season One, Episode Two: A New Reckoning

It was only late April, but the heat of the summer was already in full swing. Women pranced around in barely-there tank-tops with shorts that could be mistaken for panties if you didn’t look close enough, men who were confident, and some who simply didn’t care, strode around shirtless, while kids ran around in whatever their parents allowed, some babies with only a diaper to combat the heat.

To say that Rodrigo Ceniceros stuck out in the crowd would be an understatement. As everyone else around him found ways to wear the least amount of clothing legally allowed, Rodrigo climbed the steps of the Central Court Building wearing black khakis with a black dress shirt, buttoned all the way to the collar, a glossy black tie hanging around his neck and a black trilby hat affixed slightly off-center atop his head, which of course featured a full head of thick, black hair that was neatly slicked back, just out of view.

As he entered the blissfully air conditioned revolving doors that lead to the lobby of the building, one could swear you’d see the steam billowing off his clothing at the sudden change in temperature. A few minutes later and Rodrigo was fully in the lobby, clear of the metal detectors and questioning court security officers, and with the cool breeze wafting around him, he finally stopped for a brief moment. He produced a small white handkerchief from his breast pocket, the only part of his wardrobe that was not black in fact, and mopped up the film of sweat that had formed along the brow of the hat.

With the matter of the sweat that had started streaking down his face settled, at least temporarily, he turned his attention to the directory in front of him, desperately searching for his name and the appointed court room.

“Rodrigo! Get over here,” hissed a voice to his right mere moments after Rodrigo himself found the directory. He looked down the hallway, past the Hispanic couple talking low, their Spanish practiced and clipped, and the two kids who couldn’t be older than his own son leaning against the wall with jewelry that was too bright and pants that hung too low, to find his lawyer, Julia Loretta, waving for him to hurry from a court room three doors down.

“You were supposed to be here at 10 A.M, not 10:15,” she hissed again as he slipped into the court room quietly, falling in step behind her as they made their way past the worn wooden benches of the gallery, seats that had seen triumph and despair alike during their time, and quietly took their seats at the counselor’s table.

“I thought we were going to have to send out a search party,” mocked the lawyer across the walkway as he began organizing papers on the table. Unlike Julia, who had all her paperwork carefully clustered in front of her, the opposing lawyer had his spread the full length of the table, since his clients wouldn’t be joining in person.

“That’s Dean Sampson,” whispered Julia as she leaned into Rodrigo’s shoulder. “One of the best civil lawyers in the city.”

“And Cassie?”

“She, unlike you, was on-time. She called in one minute before 10 and is on-mute waiting for the Judge’s commencement.”

“And you should know, she’s not alone on the call.”

Rodrigo simply nodded. He knew that Clay would be involved, but expected him to be manipulating things from the shadows, like with hiring one of the best civil attorneys in the state, not present in the moment.

“I’ll object to his inclusion, but I’ll be honest, it’s doubtful the judge will sustain it.”

“Where’s the judge?” Rodrigo wasn’t happy about the surprise of Clay’s presence during the proceeding, but even his involvement couldn’t trump the ace in the hole Rodrigo and Julia had in their corner.

“Got delayed in his last sentencing, had to pull the parents into his chambers.”

“I guess the respondent threatened to kill petitioner or something,” she said with a shrug that declared she neither knew, nor cared, since it wasn’t her case of her client.

No sooner than Julia’s shoulders came back to their normal resting position did the bailiff announce “All rise for the honorable Judge Nick Melton.”

The sound of chairs scrapping briefly echoed through the court room as the judge quickly made his way to the bench.

“You may be seated.”

Again, the clatter of chairs as everyone followed the bailiffs command, then the rustling of papers as both lawyers and the judge started reviewing the documents one more time.

“Okay, sorry for the delay, ladies and gentlemen, and I thank you for your patience. Since we’re a little behind schedule, we’re going to try and move this one along quickly.”

“In the civil custody case regarding the matter of Ignacio Aurelio Ceniceros, Mr. Ceniceros has filed a petition requesting the restructuring of the previously established custody order, is that correct Ms. Loretta?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“And it is my understanding that Ms. Cantrell is attending via conference call, correct?” Judge Melton turned towards the bailiff as he asked the question.

“Yes, your honor. Ms. Cantrell called in the minutes early and has been on mute. We’ll patch her line in now.”

Instantly, the overhead speaker in the court room crackled with feedback as the gateway between its feed and the receiver wherever Cassie’s was at connected again.

“Ms. Cantrell, this is Judge Nick Melton. Are you on the line?”

“Yes, your honor,” said a small, almost frail voice through the phone. Then, as if reminded, she suddenly added: “I go Mrs. Gentry now, your honor. And my husband, Clayton Douglas Gentry, is on the call with me.”

“Objection, your honor,” Julia interjected immediately.

Judge Melton’s eyebrows furrowed slightly as he narrowed his gaze at nothing in particular, merely considering the new information before announcing his ruling.

“Overruled, Ms. Loretta. If Mr. Gentry is legally married to the former Ms. Cantrell, then he has every right to sit in this hearing as well.”

Before Julia could speak, Rodrigo moved as if he was ready to protest, his lips pressing together and his hand raising into the air. The sound of a shoe, or perhaps a heel tip, striking fabric came first, and as swiftly as he’d moved, Rodrigo was back in his seat, his hand sliding down his left leg and rubbing his ankle.

Judge Melton glanced towards Rodrigo, waiting for another outburst, before nodding once with finality.

“Okay, then. Let’s get started.”

“From what I’m reading here, Ms. Cantrell. I’m sorry, Mrs. Gentry, established custody a little over ten years ago while she was still Ms. Cantrell and Mr. Ceniceros was incarcerated at the Arizona State Prison Complex, where he was serving a fifteen year sentence for possession with intent to sell with gang modifiers. Is that correct, Mrs. Gentry?”

“Yes, your honor.”

There was a sound right after Cassie spoke, as if another voice had started to add more context, but it was cut-off when the mic was muted on Cassie’s end, the words dying in the air before they’d formed a discernable sound.

“Was there something else you wanted to add, Mr. or Mrs. Gentry?”

There was a longer than normal silence as the static hummed in the speaker, before Cassie’s voice quietly cut through the silence.

“No, your honor.”

“Alright, I think I’ve got most of the facts. Ms. Loretta, you and your client may present your case first as the petitioner.”

Julia gracefully rose from her seat with the kind of practice that disclosed this wasn’t her first time, nor her last, in this exact same situation.

Julia spoke for five minutes, pacing back and forth in front of the judge, turning to address him directly on the key points.

Rodrigo couldn’t help but smile. She was definitely a pro and he was glad to have her on his side. She’d been recommended by his parole officer, Hank Kittle, and she’d agreed to do the case pro-bono.

“The whole reason I got into being a family law attorney, was to help bring families back together,” she’d explained to Rodrigo on the day they’d met, where she had agreed to take on the case for free. Rodrigo had protested, not wanting to be a charity case, but Julia was insistent, almost alarmingly so.

“You can’t win this case with one of those pimple-faced, fresh out of college state appointed attorney’s you’ll get otherwise. You need me. This is what I do. Help families that deserve it. And you definitely deserve it, Rodrigo.”

“There’s one condition,” she’d warned, “If you screw it up by not following the rules, I’m done. And I’m charging you.”

He’d signed the representation agreement within minutes, telling her he’d screwed up a lot of things in his life, but this was where he drew the line. He was committed to doing whatever was necessary to mend the bridge that had been dismantled long ago.

“Rodrigo Ignacio Ceniceros has done everything the state has asked of him since the unfortunate decision that led him into their care to begin with. He was fully compliant with the ADCRR while incarcerated and attended regular mentorship programs as well. Since his release, his exemplary behavior has continued. He has never missed a drug test, or had one flag as dirty or altered. Never missed an appointment with his PO. Maintained a job, his sobriety. Everything the state has asked of him in exchange for his freedom, he has passed with flying colors.”

Here it was, the climax. The big sell. Rodrigo had it memorized by heart, but he still stared intently at Julia as she did her final dramatic pause, before turning to Judge Melton.

“How can we ask Rodrigo to abide by every rule he’s been given, then not reward him for that behavior. He is just a man, who is owning up to his mistakes and trying to make it right before his only son becomes a man who never truly knew his father.”

They had agreed before the court date not to bring Rodrigo onto the stand.

“Let the evidence and your hard work speak for itself,” Julia recommended. What Julia didn’t acknowledge—and to be truthful, she didn’t have to, Rodrigo knew deep down the truth—was that if Dean Sampson had the opportunity to cross-examine Rodrigo, it may end the hearing before he ever had a chance.

After Julia took her seat beside Rodrigo, giving his hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze at the same time, Judge Melton called upon Mr. Sampson for his opening remarks.

Predictably, Sampson described Rodrigo’s crime in full. Arrested with three grams of heroin. The known gang associates that led to the modifier. The young age both Cassie and Ignacio were when he was arrested.

“My clients have taken extensive measures to not only remove Ignacio from the environment that ultimately led to his father’s descent into crime, but have provided him a nurturing, loving, and most importantly, safe environment for him to grow and thrive in. They simply feel that sending Ignacio back to the same neighborhood, the same apartment complex, where Rodrigo lived while doing those illegal activities, is detrimental to his long-term mental and physical health.”

Rodrigo was awe struck, gaping at Mr. Sampson as he finished his opening address. He knew that deep down that declaration came from Clay, not Cassie, but nonetheless, the idea of her name being attached to those words stabbed him deep in his heart, the part that stayed hidden and protected from everything else.

The part that despite nearly twelve years apart, still loved his high school sweetheart, as ludicrous as the idea sounded out loud.

After Sampson had retaken his seat the judge sat in silence, the only sound in the court room the steady hum of the air conditioning and the shuffle of papers from the bench.

Finally, Judge Melton removed his half-rimmed glasses and addressed the court.

“Since neither side has elected to call a witness, I will have to make my deliberation off your opening statements alone.”

Just as Judge Melton cleared his throat to begin announcing his decision, Julia’s hand shot into the air.

“Judge, if I may?”

Judge Melton nodded and waved his hand signaling to Julia to carry on.

Julia stood from the counselors table and carefully walked around the table, her heels clicking on the floor until she came to a stop directly in front of Judge Melton, a letter clutched in her right hand that she held into the air as she spoke.

“Your honor, I'd like to submit this as a statement of the minor's expressed preference for the court's consideration, with the understanding that it is not being offered as formal evidence."

“It is a letter from Ignacio Ceniceros himself, expressing his preference regarding this modification.”

“OBJECTION!” Hollered Mr. Sampson from his table. “This is hearsay your honor, surely you’re not going to take this into consideration? Without granting me the opportunity to cross-exam?!”

Judge Melton fiercely banged his gavel at Sampson’s outburst, a fiery disposition igniting in his eyes as he surveyed the hot-shot lawyer. The moment seemed suspended in silence for a moment. Melton staring down Sampson, everyone else breathlessly waiting the next word. The only sound in the court room was the occasional footsteps heard outside the door, and the steady hum of the AC working tirelessly, and thanklessly, in the background.

“Obviously, I can’t do that,” declared Judge Melton finally.

“But, what I can do is examine the contents of the letter and take them into consideration. A child’s request regarding his placement holds weight and I would be remiss not to consider his request, although I wish to remind both parties, that Ignacio’s request does not have determinative weight.”

Suddenly, another voice boomed into the room, echoing off the polished walls and the lone picture-frame window against the wall.

“WHAT IN THE BACKWATER COURT IS THIS?! YOU CAN’T ALLOW EVIDENCE SUBMITTED WITHOUT DISCLOSURE! AND ON TOP OF THAT, HOW THE HELL DID HE WRITE A LETTER WHEN HE DIDN’T EVEN KNOW ABOUT IT! HE MUST-”

An audible click stopped the voice mid roar. It seemed to have come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, then suddenly disappeared without a trace, save for the venom still hanging in the air long after the sound had died down.

“Well I understand your frustration, Mr. Gentry, another outburst like that will land you in contempt. Do you understand?”

When there was no answer from the Gentry’s connection, Judge Melton turned towards the court clerk. “Are they still no the line?”

The court clerk nodded with a thumbs up sign, indicating that the Gentry’s connection was still live and active.

Judge Melton turned his attention back to Sampson, who couldn’t do anything but raise his arms in confusion.

Before Sampson was forced to answer for his clients, Cassie’s quiet voice once again rang through.

“Sorry, your honor. We were having, uh, technical difficulties. There will be no more outbursts on our end.”

Again, there sounded like a moment where another voice was about to pile onto Cassie’s sentence, but the line cut out before anything concrete made it’s way through the speaker.

“Very well,” nodded Melton

The courtroom fell back into silence, save for the continued humming of the AC, as Judge Melton read the letter once, then again.

“It appears to me that the younger Mr. Ceniceros is requesting not only visitation to see his father, but also, his paternal grand-parents. Has Mr. Ceniceros been back to Arizona since the initial move, Mrs. Gentry?”

“No,” came the voice from the speaker. Compared to the roar of the previous speaker, Cassie’s voice sounded quieter than a field mouse.

Judge Melton nodded to nobody in particular, holding his chin in his hand, thumb moving slowly along his jaw line as he remained deep in thought. While Judge Melton deliberated, the AC humming in the background as it circulated cool air into the suddenly charged court room remained the only sound, save for the occasional shuffling of paper from Dean Sampson, or the cough of the record keeper.

For the first time since they’d walked into the court room, Dean Sampson looked uncomfortable and flustered. Clearly he hadn’t expected a letter to show up unannounced. And definitely hadn’t banked on the Judge being sympathetic to Rodrigo’s plea.

“Very well,” stated Judge Melton finally, shattering the silence. “Under Arizona Family Law A.R.S S25-403, I must consider the wishes of a child if they are old enough and mature enough. The younger Ceniceros just turned 17 a few weeks ago, correct?”

Rodrigo nodded in acknowledgement while Cassie, 3,000 miles away and unseen in the court room, nodded as well, trying to remain hidden in the corner, hoping Clay couldn’t see the acknowledgement and mistake its meaning.

“Mr. Ceniceros, your record on probation is exemplary, and your dedication to rehabilitation has not gone unnoticed. But ten years? That’s a lifetime. You are a stranger to your son, for all intents and purposes. Which is why I can’t fully grant your petition.”

Rodrigo’s face dropped, the glimmer of hope sitting right under the surface collapsing as if the skin itself had simply ceased supporting the rest of its frame.

Judge Melton clocked it and simply raised a single hand, urging Rodrigo to wait for his outburst of defiance.

“You will see your son this summer, Mr. Ceniceros. But there will be stipulations. You will be granted a temporary modification for this summer alone. That order will stay temporary for the entire summer. We will schedule a continuation hearing for August, let’s say the 17th, to address permanently revising the order.”

Judge Melton made an extra effort to address Rodrigo specifically during the next part of his speech, leaning forward slightly and putting all of his weight on his arms that were crossed across the bench in front of him. His light blue eyes that looked tired, perhaps from seeing this heartbreaking scene play out day after day over the course of years, locked directly onto Rodrigos soft brown eyes. It wasn’t a menacing look, not in the slightest. It was a look meant to underscore his next statement, to ensure Rodrigo understood the gravity in the words.

“Let me be very clear, Mr. Ceniceros. This decision is influenced heavily by Ignacio’s personal request and your exemplary behavior since your early dismissal. Should those circumstances change, the court reserves the right to immediately rescind this temporary order with prejudice”

Rodrigo held Judge Melton’s eyes, never wavering as he spoke. There may have been a handful of other people inside the court room, but as far as Rodrigo was concerned, it was him and Judge Melton. Two men who somehow had an understanding of each other despite having only met minutes before.

When Melton finished speaking, Rodrigo gave one, solitary nod before giving his solemn answer.

“Yes, your honor.”

Melton let a small smile slip, it crept at the corners of his mouth for less than a millisecond before he forced his face back to its natural neutral position. It was a minuscule movement, but Rodrigo clocked it nonetheless. He didn’t acknowledge it, but he understood.

Judge Melton continued.

“Once the current school year concludes, you may make arrangements for Ignacio to join you in Tolleson. Your lawyer must submit the dates to Mr. And Mrs. Gentry’s lawyer two weeks before the scheduled departure time and as the party requesting a modification to the custody agreement, you will be responsible for all of the transportation costs.”

“And Mr. Sampson,” Judge Melton said, craning his neck towards the responding lawyer, “you will ensure that your clients return the requested dates within three business days, with either an approval of Mr. Ceniceros requested times, or a suggestion for rescheduled times. Regardless, Ignacio will spend no less than six weeks at his father’s home in Tolleson, and no more than eight weeks away from Anchorage.”

“Is that understood, Mrs. Gentry?”

Instead of the feeble, mouse-like answer from Cassie, or the fuming retort from Clay, there was one audible click, and then silence.

“Uh, my client had to take another business call,” muttered Sampson. “They understand the terms of your ruling, your honor.”

“And Ms. Loretta?”

“Yes, your honor, we agree.”

And with that, Judge Melton rapped his gavel against the wood of his desk and it was done.

Rodrigo had his son back, even if it was only temporary.

[Caesar]

Princess Diaries ass name.

Criminal in the making. We see the vibes.

[Agent]

Sox can't be stopped