Dada: Chapter Three

    The rest of Wednesday night went on the usual way.  Dinner.  New comics.  Television.  Internet, as well as numerous text messages, email, and voice mail to everyone at work who had to be notified that I would be in late Thursday.  Not that any of it mattered that much.  Most of the people I messaged barely cared what I would be doing.  I didn't mention I was going to the courthouse, just that I would be facing some "unexpected business" that came up.  Whatever.
   Thursday morning was a breeze.  I picked out a short-sleeved dress shirt, even though it looked a little dorky, but I felt that I needed to look official and that meant wearing a tie.  Blue Homestead was officially 'business casual', but Tim usually let us go without ties.  The day was going to be hot, and I wanted to stay cool.  The drive would be short, as I was going almost straight there, but with a backstreet route.  Barely any traffic.
    The new courthouse was built during a period when the judicial system was building new courthouses wherever they could.  Sure, most were probably necessary, but there were a few outcries.  I remember reading about how one county got a new courthouse, even though the current one was barely twenty years old.  They said it didn't meet the needs that it was built for, too small and not up-to-date technologically.  To build the new one, they tore down a century old building, as well as the building housing the law offices of a frequent court candidate.  Hey, it wasn't my county. 
    Parking in the garage was easy, for once;  I was early enough to beat much of the usual rush.  I went to hide my phone in the console.  I didn't want to take it through the metal detector, not to mention I wanted a little connection with the office as possible.  It's a tough decision, but I make it.  At least I get a faster trip through the line.  Less than a minute, and I am in the elevator with a few others.  Ten minutes to spare.
   Judge Stanford's office is part of a whole suite of rooms dedicated to the family court.  They share a waiting area and a receptionist.  The man at the desk is looking bored as I walk up to him.
   "Hello.  I'm Christopher Burton.  I have an appointment with Judge Stanford at 8:30."
   "Yes.  I guess you're the reason we're in early.  Please take a seat over there, and the judge will see you shortly."  the receptionist nonchalantly waved to the chairs at the other side of the room.
   I took a seat a few doors down from the judge's office.  They don't have anything to do.  I should have brought my phone, even if the office could've reached me.  This is dull.  Just waiting.
   After about four minutes, the judge's door opens.  A woman of average build walks out.  She is wearing a beige pantsuit.  With a faint smile she leads a boy out of the office.  His head is down, but he looks like he is about as tall as the woman.  His navy suit is way too small for him.  The pant cuffs end well above his ankles, exposing light grey socks over his brown loafers.  His heels are pressing down on the backs of the shoes.  He isn't wearing a belt; the waist looks like it is about to burst.  His jacket cuffs leave about two inches of his sleeves exposed, but his shirt cuffs aren't even buttoned, barely folded at the wrists.  A badly knotted tie hangs loosely at his neck, showing a thread where his top button used to be, as if it couldn't contain his neck.  The jacket shoulders stretch thinly, threatening to come undone.  At least his dark brown hair is neat. 
   As they walk down the hall, the boy turns back around to face me.  A few red splotches ring his cheeks, the first signs of a pimple forming.  His eyes are red too, as if he had been crying.  His hazel eyes... No.  They are not going to play this on me. 
   "Sir.  You may go in now.  Judge Stanford will see you."  the receptionist directs me as the two people enter another room. I get up to enter the office.
   Behind the desk, Judge Stanford is standing, offering his hand.  Before he even has a chance to respond I rail into him.
  "I don't know what's going on here, but that kid can't be mine.  Sure, he has my eyes, maybe, and perhaps hair, but he isn't mine.  The oldest a kid of mine could be is seven, maybe almost eight.  That boy is at least thirteen, judging by his recent growth spurt.  Besides, I have kept in touch with most of my former partners, and none of them have ever been pregnant."
  "Calm down, and take a seat, Mr. Burton."  He forcefully shakes my hand as I take a seat.
  "You are quite correct.  Samuel there has just turned fourteen a few weeks ago, and he is most definitely not your son," he said.  I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding.
   "He is your brother.  Your half-brother on your father's side.  You have been asked down here because you are his only capable relative to take care of him.  Mr. Burton, you are being asked to become his guardian."
   "Wait.  My brother? Guardian?  What?!"  I stammer.