Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 6
The Choice

The courtroom was smaller than Ash had expected. He'd seen courtrooms on TV—grand, imposing spaces with high ceilings and dark wood paneling. This was just a room. Fluorescent lights. Beige walls. Rows of benches that could have been from any church or DMV waiting area.

Judge Helena Morrison presided from her bench, a woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair pulled into a severe bun and reading glasses perched on her nose. She'd been reviewing Ash's file for the past ten minutes while the courtroom sat in tense silence.

Ash sat at the defense table in clothes his mother had picked out—dress pants, button-up shirt, tie that felt like it was strangling him. His public defender, a tired-looking man named Robert Chen, sat beside him shuffling papers. Behind him, Ash could feel his parents' presence like a physical weight.

Finally, Judge Morrison looked up.

"Mr. Walsh," she said. "Please stand."

Ash stood. His legs felt unsteady. Robert Chen stood beside him.

"I've reviewed your file thoroughly," the judge continued. "Multiple drug possession charges. Theft. Probation violations. Three separate overdoses requiring emergency medical intervention. And now this—violating the terms of your house arrest to visit a known drug user's residence, resulting in another overdose." She set down the file. "Do you have anything to say before I deliver my sentence?"

Robert Chen touched Ash's arm, but Ash spoke before his lawyer could.

"It wasn't my fault," he said. His voice came out steadier than he felt. "This last time. Jordan Reeves shot me up while I was unconscious. I didn't use voluntarily. I was trying to stay clean."

Judge Morrison's expression didn't change. "Mr. Reeves gave a statement to the police. He indicated that you requested drugs from him. That you wanted to use."

"He's lying."

"And you have evidence of this?"

"I—no. But I'm telling the truth. I was clean for twenty-six days. I was doing everything right. He drugged me while I was asleep."

"You chose to go to his residence. You chose to stay there. You chose to put yourself in a situation where this could occur, whether by your own hand or someone else's." Judge Morrison leaned forward. "Mr. Walsh, I've been on this bench for eighteen years. I've heard every excuse, every explanation, every variation of 'it wasn't my fault' that exists. And I've learned that the truth usually lies not in one incident, but in the pattern."

She picked up his file again.

"Your pattern shows multiple violations dating back to age twenty. Each time, you received leniency. Each time, the charges were reduced or alternative sentencing was offered. Each time, you were given another chance." She looked at him over her reading glasses. "Two charges ago, Mr. Walsh, you should have received mandatory minimum sentencing. The law required it. But your attorney—" she glanced at the file, "—arguing on your behalf, convinced the court that house arrest with rehabilitative services would be sufficient. That decision appears to have been an error in judgment."

Ash felt his stomach drop.

"One charge ago, you again should have received mandatory minimum sentencing. Again, leniency was granted based on your parents' willingness to assume custody and responsibility. Again, that appears to have been an error."

Judge Morrison set down the file with a decisive thud.

"I've been informed that you qualify for the Fresh Start Regression Program. Is that correct?"

"Yes," Robert Chen said quickly. "Your Honor, my client is twenty-four years old, well within the eligibility window. His parents have expressed willingness to participate. The program would offer comprehensive rehabilitation and—"

"Has your client expressed willingness to participate?"

Silence.

"Mr. Walsh?" Judge Morrison looked directly at Ash. "Are you requesting enrollment in the Fresh Start Initiative as an alternative to incarceration?"

Every eye in the courtroom was on him. His parents behind him. The court reporter. The bailiff. Judge Morrison waiting for his answer.

This was it. His last chance to change his mind. To choose the program. To choose sixteen years as a toddler over—

Over what, exactly?

"No," Ash said. "I'm not requesting that. I'll do the time. However long. I'll go to prison."

Behind him, he heard his mother make a sound. A sob quickly stifled.

Judge Morrison studied him for a long moment. "You understand that given your age and the pattern of violations, you're facing significant incarceration time?"

"Yes."

"You understand that the Fresh Start Program offers you an alternative that, while extreme, provides actual rehabilitation and a chance at a future?"

"I understand. I don't want it."

"Why not?"

The question caught Ash off guard. "I—what?"

"Why don't you want it? Explain to me why you would choose potentially decades in state prison over a program designed specifically for young offenders like yourself."

Ash's mouth opened. Closed. How did he explain it? How did he articulate that he'd rather die as himself than be erased and rebuilt? That autonomy mattered more than survival? That he couldn't—wouldn't—spend sixteen years in diapers being spoon-fed and disciplined like he was actually two years old?

"I want to be an adult," he said finally. "Even if that means going to prison. I want to face the consequences as an adult."

"Noble," Judge Morrison said dryly. "Foolish, but noble." She opened his file again. "Let me tell you what facing consequences as an adult looks like, Mr. Walsh. You're twenty-four years old. First offense was at twenty. That's four years of repeated violations, each one more serious. Two charges ago, you should have received minimum seven years. One charge ago, another seven years. This charge carries another seven to ten years. If I were to sentence you according to what the law actually prescribed at each violation—accounting for the leniency you've already received—we're looking at close to twenty years, Mr. Walsh."

Ash felt the blood drain from his face. "Twenty—"

"Twenty years in state prison. You'd be forty-four when you were released. That's assuming you survive incarceration, which, given your addiction and the prevalence of smuggled drugs in the prison system, is not guaranteed." Judge Morrison removed her reading glasses. "Still want to face consequences as an adult?"

Ash couldn't speak. Twenty years. Not seven to ten. Twenty.

He'd be older than his parents were now. Older than Claire. Half his life gone.

"Your Honor," Robert Chen jumped in, voice urgent. "That's an extremely harsh interpretation of the sentencing guidelines. We would argue that—"

"You would argue," Judge Morrison interrupted, "the same thing you've argued twice before. That this young man deserves another chance. That his family will supervise him. That he's committed to recovery. How has that worked out, Counselor?"

Robert Chen closed his mouth.

Judge Morrison turned back to Ash. "I'm going to ask you one more time. Are you requesting enrollment in the Fresh Start Regression Program?"

Behind him, Ash heard his mother whisper something. A prayer, maybe. Or a plea.

Twenty years.

Sixteen years as a toddler, or twenty years in prison.

Die slowly as himself, or survive as someone else.

"No," Ash heard himself say. "I choose prison."

His mother's sob was audible this time.

Judge Morrison's expression hardened. "Very well. Ash Wilde Walsh, I hereby sentence you to—"

"Your Honor!" Shannon was on her feet, voice breaking. "Your Honor, please—please don't do this—"

The judge looked up, annoyed. "Mrs. Walsh, sit down."

"He doesn't understand what he's choosing—he's not thinking clearly—please, there has to be another way—"

"Mrs. Walsh, your son is an adult. He's made his choice. Now sit down or I'll have you removed from my courtroom."

"Please!" Shannon's voice cracked completely. "Please, he'll die in there. He'll die and I can't—I can't bury my child, please—"

"Bailiff," Judge Morrison said.

The bailiff moved toward Shannon. Patrick grabbed her arm, tried to pull her back down to her seat. Shannon resisted, still reaching toward the bench like she could physically stop what was happening.

"Please," she sobbed. "Please don't do this. He's my baby. He's my son. Please—"

"Mrs. Walsh, your son is twenty-four years old. He has the right to make his own decisions, including self-destructive ones. I cannot force him into a program he doesn't want. Now sit—"

"We request emergency conservatorship."

The words cut through the chaos like a blade.

Everyone froze. Shannon. The bailiff. Judge Morrison.

Ash turned around.

Patrick was standing, one hand still on Shannon's arm, the other gripping the bench in front of him. His face was pale but his voice was steady. Lawyer voice. The voice that won cases and negotiated settlements and never wavered.

"We request emergency conservatorship over our son," Patrick repeated. "Under the Mental Health and Rehabilitation Act, Section 47, Subsection C."

Judge Morrison's eyebrows rose. "On what grounds?"

"On the grounds that our son has demonstrated persistent inability to make decisions in his own best interest. That he has a documented pattern of self-destructive behavior. That he is currently making a choice that will, with high probability, result in his death." Patrick's voice didn't shake. "We request that the court grant us temporary emergency conservatorship for the sole purpose of making this sentencing decision on his behalf."

The courtroom was dead silent.

Ash felt like he couldn't breathe. "What? No. No, you can't—"

"Mr. Walsh," Judge Morrison said, but Ash wasn't sure which Mr. Walsh she was addressing.

"Dad—" Ash turned to face his father. "Dad, no. Please. Don't do this."

Patrick looked at him. Really looked at him. And in his father's eyes, Ash saw grief and determination and something that might have been an apology.

"I'm sorry," Patrick said quietly. "But I can't let you choose death."

"I'm not choosing death—"

"You are." Patrick's voice was firm. "You're choosing twenty years in a prison system that will destroy you. You're choosing to refuse the only program that might actually save your life. That's choosing death, Ash. And I won't allow it."

"You can't—I'm an adult—I have rights—"

Judge Morrison held up a hand. "Mr. Walsh is correct that emergency conservatorship can be granted under the Mental Health and Rehabilitation Act. However, it's an extreme measure. Mr. and Mrs. Walsh, you understand what you're asking for?"

"We do, Your Honor." Patrick's hand tightened on the bench. "We're asking for temporary conservatorship, limited in scope to this sentencing decision. We're asking for the authority to choose the Fresh Start Regression Program on our son's behalf."

"You're asking to override your adult son's explicitly stated wishes."

"We're asking to save his life."

Judge Morrison looked at Ash. "Mr. Walsh—Ash—do you understand what's happening?"

Ash couldn't speak. Couldn't think. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real.

"Your parents are requesting the legal authority to make this decision for you. If I grant it, you will no longer have the right to refuse the regression program. They will make that choice on your behalf, and it will be legally binding. Do you understand?"

"You can't do that," Ash whispered. "Your Honor, please. I'm twenty-four years old. I'm an adult. You can't just—you can't take away my right to choose."

"Actually, I can. Under the Mental Health and Rehabilitation Act, when a person demonstrates inability to make sound decisions regarding their own welfare, and when said person has repeatedly violated terms of supervised release, the court can grant temporary conservatorship to ensure appropriate care." Judge Morrison looked at Patrick. "This is highly unusual. And it's not a decision I make lightly."

"We understand that, Your Honor." Patrick's voice was steady but Ash could hear the tremor underneath. "But we've watched our son nearly die four times. We've pulled him back from the edge repeatedly. And now he's choosing to put himself in a situation where we won't be able to save him. We can't—" His voice cracked, just slightly. "We can't stand by and watch him make that choice."

"Dad, please." Ash felt tears streaming down his face. "Please don't do this. I'll do better. I'll go back to rehab. I'll do house arrest. I'll do whatever you want. Just please don't—please don't take this away from me."

Patrick's jaw tightened. He looked away. But he didn't sit down.

Shannon was crying openly now, both hands pressed to her mouth.

Judge Morrison was quiet for a long moment, studying the papers in front of her. Studying Patrick's face. Studying Ash.

"This is unprecedented in my courtroom," she said finally. "I've never granted emergency conservatorship for sentencing purposes. The implications are..." She paused. "Significant."

"We understand, Your Honor," Patrick said. "But our son is twenty-four years old—barely within the eligibility window for the Fresh Start Initiative. Next year, this option disappears. This is quite literally his last chance at this form of rehabilitation. If we don't act now, if we let him choose prison, we're condemning him to twenty years of incarceration with no treatment, no support, and minimal chance of survival. As his parents, we cannot in good conscience allow that."

"Your Honor," Robert Chen stood. "I have to object. This is a violation of my client's fundamental rights. He's a competent adult. He has the capacity to understand his options and make informed decisions. Granting conservatorship under these circumstances sets a dangerous precedent—"

"A precedent of parents trying to keep their children alive?" Patrick's voice rose slightly. "A precedent of intervention when someone is actively choosing self-destruction?"

"A precedent of the state allowing families to override adult autonomy because they don't like the choices being made—"

"Enough." Judge Morrison's voice cut through the argument. "I need a moment."

She stood. "Court is in recess for fifteen minutes. Bailiff, clear the courtroom except for the Walsh family and counsel."

"Your Honor—" Robert Chen started.

"Fifteen minutes, Counselor."

She left through the door behind her bench. The bailiff gestured for the few other people in the courtroom—a court reporter, another lawyer waiting for his case, a social worker—to leave.

Then it was just Ash, his parents, Robert Chen, and the bailiff standing by the door.

Ash turned to face his parents fully. Shannon was still crying, mascara running down her face. Patrick stood rigid, like if he moved he might shatter.

"How could you?" Ash's voice was raw. "How could you do this to me?"

"Ash—" Shannon reached for him.

"No. Don't touch me." He backed away. "You're taking away my choice. You're taking away my right to control my own life. How is that love? How is that helping?"

"You were choosing death," Patrick said. "What would you have us do? Stand by and watch?"

"Yes! Yes, I would have you respect that I'm an adult and let me make my own decisions, even if you don't agree with them!"

"Even if those decisions kill you?"

"It's my life!"

"And you're our son." Patrick's composure cracked, voice breaking. "You're our son and we've watched you nearly die four times. Four times, Ash. Do you have any idea what that's like? Do you have any conception of what it does to a parent to get those phone calls? To sit in those hospital waiting rooms? To wonder each time if this is the time we don't get you back?"

"Then let me go!" Ash was shouting now, not caring. "If it's too hard for you, if you can't handle it, then let me go! Let me make my own mistakes! Let me face my own consequences!"

"We tried that," Shannon said quietly. "For four years, we tried that. And it almost killed you."

"So this is better? Turning me into a baby? Making me completely dependent on you? That's your solution?"

"It's the only solution that keeps you alive." Patrick's voice was firm again, back under control. "I've reviewed the statistics, Ash. I've looked at the outcomes. Prison for young drug offenders—the survival rates are abysmal. Continued drug use inside. Violence. Sexual assault. Even if you survive the twenty years, you come out broken. The regression program, for all its..." he paused, "extremity, has a ninety-two percent success rate. Ninety-two percent of participants reach eighteen again sober, healthy, with actual prospects for a future."

"I don't care about statistics—"

"You should. Because those statistics represent real lives. Real people who chose survival over pride."

"This isn't about pride—"

"Isn't it?" Patrick challenged. "You'd rather die as an adult than live as a child. That's pride, Ash. That's ego. That's you valuing your sense of dignity over your actual survival."

"You're damn right I value my dignity! I'm a person, Dad. I'm a twenty-four-year-old person. I have thoughts and feelings and a life, and you want to erase all of that—"

"We want to save all of that," Shannon interrupted. "We want you to have a future. We want you to live long enough to be thirty, forty, fifty. We want you to have the chance at a real life instead of dying in prison at twenty-eight."

"By taking away sixteen years—"

"By giving you sixteen years," Patrick corrected. "Sixteen years of safety. Of health. Of actual recovery. Yes, you'll be physically young. Yes, you'll be dependent on us. But Ash—you'll be alive. You'll be clean. And when you're eighteen again, you'll have a genuine chance at building a life. Prison doesn't give you that. Prison takes it away permanently."

Ash felt like he was drowning. Like the walls were closing in. Like every word his parents said was another weight dragging him under.

"You don't believe me," he said finally. "About Jordan. About what really happened. You don't believe that I was trying."

Patrick and Shannon exchanged a look.

"It doesn't matter what we believe about that specific night," Patrick said carefully. "What matters is the pattern. What matters is that you've been on this trajectory for four years, and it's getting worse, not better."

"I was clean for twenty-six days—"

"And before that? And before the time before that? Ash, you've had moments of sobriety scattered across years of active addiction. That's not recovery. That's pausing between crises."

"So I'm hopeless. Is that what you're saying? I'm so broken that I don't even deserve the right to make my own choices?"

"You're not hopeless," Shannon said, voice thick with tears. "That's exactly why we're doing this. Because there is hope. Because the program works. Because we believe you can have a real life—but only if you survive long enough to build it."

The door behind the bench opened. Judge Morrison returned, her expression unreadable.

"Please be seated," she said.

Everyone sat. Ash felt numb. Disconnected. Like this was happening to someone else.

Judge Morrison settled into her chair. Looked at her papers. Looked at Ash. Looked at his parents.

"This is," she said slowly, "one of the most difficult decisions I've been asked to make in my eighteen years on this bench. Emergency conservatorship is not granted lightly. It involves overriding the fundamental rights of a legal adult. It sets a precedent that makes me deeply uncomfortable."

Ash felt a flicker of hope. She was going to say no. She had to say no.

"However." Judge Morrison's voice hardened. "I've also reviewed Mr. Walsh's file thoroughly. The pattern of self-destructive behavior is undeniable. The multiple overdoses. The repeated violations despite numerous chances. The complete inability to maintain sobriety for any significant period. And now, when offered a program that statistics show will almost certainly save his life, he chooses instead an option that will almost certainly end it." She looked directly at Ash. "Mr. Walsh, I believe your parents are right. I believe you are making a decision that will kill you. And while I respect your right as an adult to make your own choices, I also recognize that addiction has fundamentally compromised your ability to make sound decisions about your own welfare."

No. No, no, no.

"Therefore, I am granting temporary emergency conservatorship to Patrick Francis Walsh and Shannon Elaine Walsh, limited in scope to this sentencing decision and the subsequent enrollment and participation in the Fresh Start Regression Program." Judge Morrison's voice was formal now, legal. "The conservators will have the authority to make all decisions regarding their son's participation in said program, including but not limited to: enrollment, medical procedures, living arrangements, and treatment protocols. This conservatorship will remain in effect for the duration of the program or until such time as the participant reaches legal majority again, at which point it will be reviewed for potential dissolution."

"No." Ash stood. "No, Your Honor, you can't do this. I'm an adult. I have rights. You can't just—"

"I can, and I have. Bailiff—"

"This is illegal! This is kidnapping! This is—" Ash's voice broke. "Please. Please, Your Honor. I'm begging you. Don't do this to me. I'll do anything. I'll go to rehab again. I'll do house arrest. I'll—" He was crying openly now, not caring. "Please don't take this away from me. Please."

Judge Morrison's expression softened, just slightly. "Mr. Walsh, I know this feels like a violation. I know it feels like we're taking away your autonomy. But I genuinely believe this is your only chance at survival. And sometimes..." She paused. "Sometimes being an adult means making the hard choices for people we love, even when they hate us for it."

She turned to Patrick and Shannon. "Mr. and Mrs. Walsh. Your son is now under your legal conservatorship for the purposes of this sentencing. The question before you is simple: Do you choose to enroll him in the Fresh Start Regression Program, or do you allow the sentence of twenty years incarceration to stand?"

Ash turned to face his parents. They were both standing now. Shannon was openly sobbing. Patrick's face was set, determined, but Ash could see his hands shaking.

"Please," Ash whispered. "Mom. Dad. Please don't do this. I'm begging you. I'll do anything. Just please don't—"

Patrick's voice, when it came, was steady despite everything. "We choose the Fresh Start Regression Program, Your Honor."

The words hit Ash like a physical blow. He felt his knees give out. Would have fallen if Robert Chen hadn't caught his arm.

"NO!" The scream tore out of him. "No, you can't! Dad, Mom, please! Please, I was TRYING! I was clean! Jordan did this to me! I didn't use! Please, you have to believe me! Please don't do this! I'll do better! I promise I'll do better! Just please—PLEASE—"

"Bailiff," Judge Morrison said quietly.

The bailiff moved toward Ash. Robert Chen let go of his arm, stepping back.

"NO! No, this isn't—I have RIGHTS! Your Honor, please! I didn't choose this! I was TRYING! Jordan shot me up while I was ASLEEP! I was CLEAN this time! Please—DAD! MOM! PLEASE DON'T DO THIS TO ME!"

His parents were standing together now, Patrick's arm around Shannon's shoulders. Shannon had her face buried in her husband's chest, sobbing. Patrick's face was like stone, but his eyes were wet.

"I'm sorry," Patrick said, voice barely audible. "I'm so sorry, son."

"THEN DON'T DO IT!" Ash struggled against the bailiff's grip. "If you're sorry, then DON'T DO IT! Please! I'm begging you! I'll do anything! I'll—" His voice broke completely. "I'll do anything. Please. Please don't take this away from me."

Judge Morrison's gavel came down. "The court accepts the conservators' decision. Ash Wilde Walsh is hereby sentenced to enrollment in the Fresh Start Regression Program under the continued conservatorship of Patrick Francis Walsh and Shannon Elaine Walsh. Proceedings will begin immediately." She looked at the bailiff. "Please escort Mr. Walsh to the holding facility for intake processing."

"NO! No, you can't do this! This isn't legal! This is—" Ash's voice rose to a scream as the bailiff started pulling him toward the side door. "MOM! DAD! PLEASE! I was TRYING! This wasn't my FAULT! Please don't do this! Please! I'll do better! I PROMISE! I'll—"

The door closed behind him, cutting off his screams.

Shannon collapsed into the bench, her sobs echoing through the now-quiet courtroom.

Patrick stood frozen, staring at the door his son had just been dragged through. At the space where Ash had been, begging, screaming, promising anything if they would just change their minds.

Judge Morrison gathered her papers. "The conservatorship documents will be processed within the hour. The facility will contact you with intake information." She paused. "Mr. and Mrs. Walsh. I know this was an impossible choice. For what it's worth... I believe you made the right one."

She left.

Robert Chen gathered his briefcase. "I'll file the conservatorship paperwork. You'll need to sign several forms for the program enrollment. The facility will provide instructions." He hesitated. "I'm sorry. I know this wasn't the outcome anyone wanted."

He left too.

Patrick and Shannon were alone in the courtroom except for the bailiff standing discretely by the door.

Shannon was still crying, harsh, broken sobs. Patrick stood rigid beside her, one hand still on her shoulder, staring at nothing.

"We made the choice," Shannon whispered finally. "We chose this for him. Patrick, we chose this."

"I know."

"He was begging us not to."

"I know."

"He'll hate us."

"I know." Patrick's voice cracked. "But he'll be alive to hate us. That's what matters."

Shannon looked up at her husband. "What if we're wrong? What if this breaks him?"

"Then we live with that. But at least he'll be alive to be broken." Patrick's hand tightened on her shoulder. "Prison would have killed him, Shannon. The statistics don't lie. Young addicts in the prison system—the mortality rate is over sixty percent. Over sixty percent dead within ten years. The regression program... he has a ninety-two percent chance of making it to eighteen sober and healthy."

"And the eight percent who don't?"

Patrick didn't answer. He didn't have an answer.

From somewhere beyond the courtroom, muffled by distance and walls, they could still hear Ash screaming.

"I can't bury my child," Shannon whispered, repeating the words that had started all of this. "I can't bury my child."

"You won't have to." Patrick pulled her close. "We saved him. We saved our son."

"Then why does it feel like we destroyed him?"

Patrick didn't have an answer for that either.

They stood in the empty courtroom, holding each other, listening to their son's distant screams fade as he was transported to the facility that would transform him.

They had made the choice.

In seconds. Under pressure. With the judge watching. With "I can't bury my child" ringing in Shannon's ears and the statistics about prison mortality in Patrick's mind.

They chose this.

And none of them could ever undo it.

The gavel had fallen. The sentence was passed. The conservatorship was granted.

Ash Wilde Walsh—twenty-four years old, artist, transgender man, recovering addict, someone who had been trying—was now legally the property of his parents. His voice, his choice, his autonomy—all of it stripped away in a matter of minutes.

And in a facility across town, the intake procedures were already beginning.

The last night of Ash's adult life had already started.

By this time tomorrow, he would be someone else entirely.

Small. Helpless. Dependent.

Noam Francis Walsh.

The name his parents would choose for him, writing it on the paperwork with shaking hands, sealing the transformation.

They had saved him.

They had destroyed him.

Both were true.

Neither would ever be able to change it.

The courtroom door closed behind them as they finally left, and the space where their son had stood screaming was empty.

Silent.

Final.