But here he was, a presumably responsible adult, faced with a roomful of kids breaking the law in so many ways he didn't know where to start. That one of them was his own nephew was simply the icing on the cake.
So handle it.
"Go pour the beer down the sink in the kitchen," he said in a level tone as Chase, chugging from the can again, high-fived one of his relieved-looking friends. Another of the boys--older-looking, taller than Chase but still spindly in the way of teenage boys, with spiky black hair and a single earring--was already leaning down to retrieve his beer from the floor. Straightening with it in his hand, he met Scott's gaze. There was defiance in his eyes, but Scott thought that beneath it he detected a trace of uncertainty, too.
"All of you," Scott added firmly. "Go pour it out."
"Man, that 's a waste of good brew," the kid protested.
"Do it."
Chase shot him a challenging look. "Just because you're my uncle don't give you the right to tell me or my friends what to do."
"Then how 'bout just because I'm the Fayette County prosecutor with the power to throw all of you into juvie hall?" The smile he gave Chase was grim. Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he held it up for them to see. "I'm giving you all to the count of ten to go pour out the beer and get back in here or I call the cops. Oh, and you can put any pot or anything else illegal you have on you down there on that coffee table when you get back. You don't take this chance to come clean and I find it on you later, you're in big trouble. And anybody getting the bright idea of running for it, forget it. I took down your license-plate number before I came in."
The lie came easily to his lips.
"Is he for real?" the kid holding the beer asked Chase.
Chase shrugged, looking sullen. "Maybe."
"Yeah, I'm for real. Believe it. One. " Scott started to count, while his nephew cast him a look of loathing. "Two."
"Come on," Chase said in a sulky tone to his friends. Gathering up beers, shooting him angry looks, they trooped to the kitchen. Scott moved so that he could keep them in view. When they trudged back into the living room, Scott was on seven.
"Pot." He indicated the rickety faux-maple table that had occupied pride of place in front of the ancient green tweed couch for as long as he could remember. In a nice counterbalance to the differing shades of green offered by the couch and the curtains, the walls were a faded mustard and the only chair was a brown vinyl recliner. His dad 's pride and joy, an aging, console-type big-screen TV, stood in front of the closed curtains. A cheap landscape hung over the couch, and a rectangle of carpet remnant in a never-show-dirt shade of brown covered most of the floor.
"Satisfied?" Chase glared at him as his friends dropped a few joints on the coffee table.
" Nine. I'm telling you, this is your last chance." Scott glanced sternly around the group. One girl was plump, with long, dyed blond hair and too much eyeliner. The other was thin, with short, black hair and a ring through her nose. Both were about five-foot-five and wore tight tees--pink for the blonde, green for the brunette--over tiny little shorts. One of the boys had glasses and a blond buzz cut. Another had a sweep of brown hair carefully styled to cover one eye. All wore saggy jeans and tees. The kid with the sweeping hair grimaced and dug into a pocket of his jeans. He came up with a baggie, which he dropped on the table. In the baggie was a whole lot of what looked like crumbled grass. Pot, enough for maybe a dozen or more joints. Enough so that the idiot kid was looking at possession with intent to sell.
"What 's your name?" he asked the kid.
"Austin."
"Austin what?"
"Spicer."
"How old are you?"
"Sixteen."
"You dealing?" The amount of pot prompted the question.
"No! It's just for us."
The indignation on his face convinced Scott he was telling the truth. Which made the situation better but not a whole hell of a lot better.
Shit again .
So handle it.
"Go pour the beer down the sink in the kitchen," he said in a level tone as Chase, chugging from the can again, high-fived one of his relieved-looking friends. Another of the boys--older-looking, taller than Chase but still spindly in the way of teenage boys, with spiky black hair and a single earring--was already leaning down to retrieve his beer from the floor. Straightening with it in his hand, he met Scott's gaze. There was defiance in his eyes, but Scott thought that beneath it he detected a trace of uncertainty, too.
"All of you," Scott added firmly. "Go pour it out."
"Man, that 's a waste of good brew," the kid protested.
"Do it."
Chase shot him a challenging look. "Just because you're my uncle don't give you the right to tell me or my friends what to do."
"Then how 'bout just because I'm the Fayette County prosecutor with the power to throw all of you into juvie hall?" The smile he gave Chase was grim. Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he held it up for them to see. "I'm giving you all to the count of ten to go pour out the beer and get back in here or I call the cops. Oh, and you can put any pot or anything else illegal you have on you down there on that coffee table when you get back. You don't take this chance to come clean and I find it on you later, you're in big trouble. And anybody getting the bright idea of running for it, forget it. I took down your license-plate number before I came in."
The lie came easily to his lips.
"Is he for real?" the kid holding the beer asked Chase.
Chase shrugged, looking sullen. "Maybe."
"Yeah, I'm for real. Believe it. One. " Scott started to count, while his nephew cast him a look of loathing. "Two."
"Come on," Chase said in a sulky tone to his friends. Gathering up beers, shooting him angry looks, they trooped to the kitchen. Scott moved so that he could keep them in view. When they trudged back into the living room, Scott was on seven.
"Pot." He indicated the rickety faux-maple table that had occupied pride of place in front of the ancient green tweed couch for as long as he could remember. In a nice counterbalance to the differing shades of green offered by the couch and the curtains, the walls were a faded mustard and the only chair was a brown vinyl recliner. His dad 's pride and joy, an aging, console-type big-screen TV, stood in front of the closed curtains. A cheap landscape hung over the couch, and a rectangle of carpet remnant in a never-show-dirt shade of brown covered most of the floor.
"Satisfied?" Chase glared at him as his friends dropped a few joints on the coffee table.
" Nine. I'm telling you, this is your last chance." Scott glanced sternly around the group. One girl was plump, with long, dyed blond hair and too much eyeliner. The other was thin, with short, black hair and a ring through her nose. Both were about five-foot-five and wore tight tees--pink for the blonde, green for the brunette--over tiny little shorts. One of the boys had glasses and a blond buzz cut. Another had a sweep of brown hair carefully styled to cover one eye. All wore saggy jeans and tees. The kid with the sweeping hair grimaced and dug into a pocket of his jeans. He came up with a baggie, which he dropped on the table. In the baggie was a whole lot of what looked like crumbled grass. Pot, enough for maybe a dozen or more joints. Enough so that the idiot kid was looking at possession with intent to sell.
"What 's your name?" he asked the kid.
"Austin."
"Austin what?"
"Spicer."
"How old are you?"
"Sixteen."
"You dealing?" The amount of pot prompted the question.
"No! It's just for us."
The indignation on his face convinced Scott he was telling the truth. Which made the situation better but not a whole hell of a lot better.
Shit again .
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