He got out of a Corvette. A 1965 mint-condition Corvette.

      “Unusual transportation for a crossing guard,” Valerie murmured. Stupid thing to say. But damn, there was a lot about this man that didn’t add up.

      “I haven’t always been a crossing guard.”

      No kidding. “What did you used to be?”

      “An unhappy member of the corporate world. Now I’m a happy crossing guard.”

      An explanation of sorts, if somewhat flippantly delivered. But no answer at all. How could someone with his drive and intelligence be satisfied not using his talents?

      “You’re going to be a crossing guard for the rest of your life?”

      “You have a problem with that?” Kirk’s tone was light.

      “No.” Maybe. It just seemed like such a waste.

      “It’s honorable work. And the kids—including your twins—deserve the best.”

      “Of course they do.” But it didn’t take a businessman successful enough to drive a mint-condition vintage Corvette to provide that at a low-traffic side street.

      Valerie knew, without another word being said, that this particular conversation was over.

      Dear Reader,

      I want to tell you about something that happened to me when I was writing this book. I discovered that I’ve spent my entire life ignorant of the judicial system, which has been serving me diligently every single day. Of course, I knew it existed. I’ve been in a courtroom, seen hundreds of trials on television. I knew all about being a judge—I thought. I knew so much I missed the fact that I didn’t know anything at all.

      Every day while we go about our business there are, in every county in the nation, people who carry the pressure of making life-determining decisions. As I was doing research for this book, I sat in a juvenile courtroom, to the side of the judge’s bench, and saw what she saw—the kids out there in front of her, the attorneys and parents and witnesses and victims. I saw the fear in the eyes of teenage offenders whose lives might be forever changed that day. And the hope felt by those who might be given another chance. And I saw us. You and me. Out living our lives. Taking for granted that the judge is going to look into the eyes of a sixteen-year-old, see the hope and the fear, and still make the decision that will keep us all safe. Including that kid…

      I could hardly handle a morning of that pressure. And I was experiencing it vicariously. I’ve always known that doctors did miraculous things—holding lives in their hands every day. And policemen. And firefighters and paramedics. I missed the fact that judges give their lives and hearts and minds to preserving all our lives. I, for one, will be aware and grateful that they’re in those courtrooms, taking this challenge upon themselves so that the rest of us can raise our children and send them off to school and grocery shop and go to church without worrying too much that the person next to us is a criminal. A heartfelt thank-you!

      I love to hear from readers. You can reach me at P.O. Box 15065, Scottsdale, AZ 85267 or visit me at www.tarataylorquinn.com.

      Tara Taylor Quinn

       For the Children

      Tara Taylor Quinn

      To Sherry. You’ve enriched my life beyond measure.

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      Heartfelt thanks to Judge Sherry Stephens and her staff for their generous assistance with technical aspects of this story. Any liberties taken—and all mistakes made—are mine.

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

       CHAPTER ONE

      “TOUGH MORNING, Valerie?”

      The black silk robe flowing around her, Superior Court juvenile judge Valerie Simms smiled and nodded at Judge Hal Collins Wednesday morning. She stopped briefly in the hall on the short trek from the courtroom to her quiet high-ceilinged sanctuary. “How about you, Hal? A piece of cake as usual?”

      “It wasn’t bad,” he said, still smiling. With a little wave, he disappeared into his office.

      It wasn’t that Hal didn’t care about the kids they tried to help after parents and schools had failed to make a difference. But he didn’t let any of it get to him.

      Someday, when she grew up, she was going to be just like him.

      Trying to pretend she already was, Valerie shook off the Billings case and thought, instead, about the lunch date she had ahead of her—with her in-line skates and the new concrete jogging trail not far from the Mesa, Arizona, Juvenile Court Division. She’d have just enough time to get in ten miles and a quick shower before she was due back in court. She’d already reviewed her afternoon calendar, which left the entire hour-and-a-half lunch break free.

      “How’d it go?” Valerie’s supportive and energetic judicial assistant met her at the door of her office.

      Valerie grimaced. Unsnapped her robe.

      “That bad, huh?” Leah Carmichael followed her inside the large, peaceful room.

      “Not really.” Hanging up her robe, sinking into the plush maroon leather of her desk chair, Valerie continued, “I released Sam Marsden. I think he’s ready.”

      “He spent a lot of time on the report you asked him to write about his community service.”

      He had. She’d been pleased with his work. And, for this boy, she was honestly hopeful.

      Leah sat in one of the two maple chairs across from Valerie’s desk, crossing her legs as though settling in for a long chat. In her taupe slacks and jacket with perfectly matched shoes, she looked every bit the professional Valerie knew her to be.

      Attention to detail was among the many strong points Valerie appreciated about Leah. She’d chosen well when she’d hired her first J.A.

      “The Marcos kid was as unbending as ever. I told him that if I see him again, I’m going to detain him.”

      Signing a request to issue a warrant for truancy, Valerie gave Leah a brief rundown on the rest of the morning’s calendar.

      “What about Abraham Billings?” Her assistant fingered a few strands of her light brown hair. The top of her head bore several intricate and perfectly ordered braids that day, with the rest of her hair hanging straight to midback. Val wondered how early Leah had to get up to achieve such an elaborate style. And whether or not she felt the result was worth the time and effort.

      “Judge Simms?”

      “I let him stay with his mom.”

      Leah