One Good Dog by Susan Wilson Read Free Book Online Page A

down his nose. Not as old or as godlike as he had seemed behind the bench.Adam suppresses a cleansing breath of relief; maybe he’s going to be more lenient now that the case is out from under the scrutiny of the public eye, no longer subject to the outrage of Sophie and her lawyer.
    “I’ve asked you in here to talk about your community service.” The judge drops into his big swivel chair and points to the visitor chairs opposite his desk, two more cold metal folding chairs. Once again barricaded by his status, the judge lets his momentary benignity evaporate. “I’m placing you myself.”
    Adam’s lawyer bleats a little protest. “We’ve discussed tutoring.”
    The judge sits forward, leaning on his desktop and peering at Adam over the top of his big glasses. The effect rucks up the skin of his plain, large forehead, making Adam think of Bozo the clown without whiteface. “March, you may think that you’ve gotten off lightly, I could have given you jail time. Probably should have. But I think that your biggest issue isn’t violence, but arrogance. I’ve seen the shrink’s report, know that you acted out of some sort of emotional self-defense, but the truth is, you’re one arrogant son of a bitch and you need to be taken down a peg.”
    Adam feels the sigh of relief contract into a choke. “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “It’s not that you don’t have a moral compass; I suppose you do. Despite the opposing lawyer’s contention that you’re a psychopath, you’re not. But your moral compass is way off true north. You’re lost, man. You need to eat a little humble pie, and I’m about to serve you a big bite.”
    Adam looks at Abramowitz, noticing for the first time that the man has a weak chin.
    “You will report to Bob Carmondy at the Fort Street Center Monday morning. You will do whatever he requires of you.”
    Adam nods. He waits for his lawyer to say something, to protest or agree, but the man and his weak chin just sit there.
    “Report back to me in six months.” The judge pushes himself back, making the giant swivel chair rock. They are dismissed.

Chapter Seven
     
    Ariel Carruthers March greets Adam in the riding school lounge still in tall boots, her helmet still on her head, her scowl reminding Adam of Sterling when she was young enough to permit herself facial expressions. “You don’t have to get here so early. You don’t have to watch.”
    The implication is that he never did before, that he always spent the time waiting for her on his laptop or his BlackBerry, so why does he have to stand and watch her now? This is more blatantly expressed by her posture; he is an embarrassment to her. Surely her riding friends know all about him, their parents discussing Adam March and his fall from grace at the dinner table. Adam knows this as certainly as if he were still invited to those dinner tables. Ariel is suffering from acute adolescent mortification. Here stands a father nobody else’s parents want to know.
    “I like to watch.” Neither one of them believes this.
    “I have to put Elegance away.”
    “Okay, hurry up, though.” Adam hates the cajoling tone inhis voice, a tone he has only just started using with Ariel, as if he’s become afraid of her.
    Ariel wrenches open the door that leads to the stalls, letting it slam behind her.
    Adam leans against the wall, hesitant to sink down on the tumorous couch or the fur-covered matching chair that serve parents as waiting-area accommodation. The lounge smells of an animal-induced fug, cat pee and wet dog. It doesn’t matter how much he spends on Ariel’s various training facilities, because to him they always smell bad. Usually, Adam just waits for Ariel in the car, preferring that to sitting in this room with its seventies furniture and stink. But he only gets to see her every other weekend now, and he’s taken to watching her interminable lessons simply to be able to see her as much as time permits on these Saturdays