“Hey—could you draw a tattoo on my cast? Like yours?” Rory asks, pointing to the tats visible in my short-sleeved T-shirt.

“Sure.”

Chelsea looks around. “I wonder what’s taking so long with the discharge papers? I’m going to go ask . . . oh, hey, Janet!”

A woman steps within the curtained area where we’re waiting. She’s a black woman, in her midthirties, with tightly cropped brown hair and a bright smile, wearing a beige suit and white blouse.

“Hi, Chelsea.” Her eyes fall to Rory, on the bed. “Hi, Rory, I heard you had an accident.”

Rory shrugs, his earlier smile replaced with a distrusting scowl.

Janet looks me over and I notice her gaze pause at the tattoos on my arms.

“Jake, this is Janet Morrison,” Chelsea says, introducing us. “She’s our social worker from CFSA. Janet, this is Jake Becker, my . . .”

She searches for the word. “Lawyer,” I supply, offering Janet my hand. “I’m with Adams and Williamson.”

Janet nods her head. “That’s right—you negotiated Rory’s release with probation after . . . the car incident.”

It might just be the nature of my job, but I’m not a big fan of government agencies—or their employees. Too much power, too many people—too many mistakes that can so easily be made without any accountability. That’s what has me asking, “So, Janet—did you just happen to be in the area?”

“No.” She glances at the open file in her hand. “Whenever a child in our system has an incident at school, at a hospital, or with the police, we’re automatically flagged.” She turns to Chelsea. “Do you mind if I ask you my questions now before you go?”

“Sure, that’s fine.”

“Great. The doctor said Rory fell out of a tree. Did you see him fall, Chelsea?”

And I suddenly get a bad fucking feeling about this. Chelsea doesn’t appear to share my concern.

“No. I actually wasn’t home when he fell out of the tree.”

This is news to Janet. “Where were you?”

Chelsea’s eyes slide my way. “I was . . . with Jake.”

“Your lawyer?”

“It was sort of a working breakfast meeting,” I explain smoothly.

“I see.” She writes something down on the file. “So who was with the children while you were at your meeting?”

“Jake’s mother,” Chelsea answers.

Pen poised, Janet asks me, “Your mother’s name and address?”

“Giovanna Becker.” Then I rattle off her phone number and address and tell Janet it’s fine to contact her whenever she wants to.

She closes her file. “That’s all I need from you right now, Chelsea. Is it all right if I speak with Rory alone for a few minutes?”

“He’s a minor,” I tell her.

“In cases like this it’s standard to speak with children alone.”

“Cases like this?” I ask, schooling my tone. “What kind of case do you think this is, exactly?”

Janet isn’t the backing-down type. “It’s a case where an injury has been sustained and abuse needs to be ruled out.”

“Abuse?” I half-laugh, half-choke. “You think she did this?” I point at Chelsea.

“No, Mr. Becker, I don’t. However, if she had, Rory would be much less likely to divulge that information with you both in the room.”

And I do actually see her point. I just don’t like it.

I look to Rory. “You up to talking, kid? It’s your call.”

Rory’s smart and I can see in his eyes that he senses this is something that needs to be dealt with now. “Yeah, I’ll talk to her, Jake. No big deal.”

I squeeze his shoulder. “We’ll be right outside.”

• • •

I guide Chelsea through the curtain and into the hall, out of Janet’s earshot.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks once we stop. “Why are you antagonizing Janet?”

I grasp her elbow. “I wasn’t antagonistic. But it’s important that she knows that you know your rights.”

She shakes her head, confusion gripping her features. “Janet is the nicest person I’ve met at CFSA. She’s my social worker. It’s her job to help me.”

“No, Chelsea, it’s not. Her job is to make sure you’re a stable guardian for the kids.”

For the first time she realizes the difference—the distinction—and her mouth turns tight with worry.

“Do you think . . . I mean . . . could I get in trouble for this? Are they going to give me a problem about Rory’s arm? About being with you last night?”

My hands move to her shoulders, squeezing and rubbing at the tension that stiffens them. “No—listen to me—it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong and they’re not gonna give you a hard time.” I pause then, wanting to make her understand without freaking her out. “But you need to think about how you phrase things. Sometimes how a statement reads in a report doesn’t represent the way things actually are.”

I see this often in my cases. Words like terroristic threats being applied to six-year-olds who shoot finger guns at classmates and claim they’re “dead.” Or a charge of “possession with intent to distribute” makes some moron sound like a member of a goddamn drug cartel, when in reality they’re a slacker fuckup who happened to get their hands on a big stash.

Words matter, and sometimes context can make all the difference in the world.