Chapter Eight
CHAPTER EIGHT
I don’t remember going into the twins’ room, but that’s where I wake up—a failed sentry face down on the carpet alongside the empty crib.
That picture of the twins is on the floor beside my head and my cell phone is next to it.
I grab the phone, squint at it, then realize the alarm hasn’t gone off because I set it for six forty-five p.m .
Goddammit , I heard my father say. She’s going out of her way to help you and you stand her up?
You know something, Corbin? You could fuck up a wet dream.
I stagger onto my feet, grab the crib rail to regain my balance.
Hurry into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and take a big swig of Listerine.
Tasting the burn of the alcohol, I swish and spit.
Our bedroom door is still closed, but I don’t have time to change anyway.
No time to make myself a cup of badly needed coffee either.
Out in the kitchen, the first thing I see is the empty rum bottle and the mug beside it.
I retrieve Emily’s car keys, scrawl her a note that I’ve got an early appointment with a lawyer.
I rinse the mug and grab the bottle. Take it with me.
I know I’ll be late, but she’s allotted me fifteen minutes, so I might make it for the last six or seven.
My hands on the steering wheel won’t stop shaking and my headache is banging away like a jackhammer.
When I’m about halfway there, the houses and stores give way to a wooded area.
There’s no one in back of me and no cars coming the opposite way.
I pull over, grab the bottle, and fling it as far as I can into the woods.
Hear the smash, then get back in the car.
I’ve lost maybe a minute but figure it’s time well spent.
I find her building, park down the street, and take the stairs two at a time. When I get to her office, I barge right in on her. Overweight, oversized glasses, fortyish. Her spiky hair is pink on top, shaved close on the sides. “Mr. Ledbetter,” she says. She looks down at her watch. “You’re late.”
In the middle of my rambling apology, I become aware that she’s checking out what a mess I am: slept-in clothes, crazy hair, shaky hands.
“And then when I finally did get to sleep, it was like I fell into a coma or something.” I don’t mention that I got plastered and woke up on the floor in the twins’ room.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Ledbetter, especially under such tough circumstances.
You must be going through hell right now.
” She’s slipping manila folders into her attaché case as she speaks.
“Unfortunately, I can’t talk with you now.
If you want me to represent you, we’ll have to carve out a good hour, minimum, for an initial consultation.
But did I hear that the police are questioning you about the circumstances of your son’s death? ”
I nod. Tell her I spoke with them yesterday and agreed to meet with them at their headquarters later today. Tell her, too, about how they had my blood drawn while I was at the hospital.
“Oh, shit,” she says. She glances again at her oversized watch. Is that Wonder Woman on the dial? “So what are those test results going to show, Mr. Ledbetter?”
“Not that much. I had poured a couple of shots of rum into my morning coffee—just to take the edge off, you know? And I’d taken an Ativan. Which I have a prescription for. For anxiety.” I’d taken two, actually, and just lied automatically.
“Why is it that you had to take the edge off first thing in the morning?”
“Why? Well, I’ve been out of work for about a year now so we’ve been getting by on one salary. And I—”
“Any DUIs in your history?”
“One. On the day I found out I was getting laid off, I stopped on the way home to—”
“Was your drinking why you lost your job?”
“No, not at all. The company was downsizing.”
“And that’s what your former employer would tell the police if they inquired?”
“Absolutely. I never had any drinking issues at work.”
“Okay. Good. But just between you and me, would you say you have a drinking and drugging problem now? Maybe because of your unemployment?”
I shake my head. “Not really. No. What happened yesterday happened because I was distracted by my neighbors across the street. Like I told Detective Sparks—”
“Tunisia Sparks was who you talked to?”
“Yes. Why?”
She checks her watch again. “I don’t have time to go into it now.
I’ve got clients waiting over at the courthouse and I need to talk with them before they appear in front of the judge today.
I’ll be tied up for the rest of the day, but I should be able to make time for you tomorrow.
Just call my receptionist, Virginia, and make an appointment.
” She hands me her card. “But in the meantime, here’s what you need to do.
Get ahold of Sparks and tell her you have to postpone your interview because you want your lawyer to be there and I’m not available today.
That’s all I want you to say. All right?
Don’t volunteer anything else. But make sure you mention me by name, okay?
I’ve gone head-to-head with Sparks a number of times and my win-lose record against her is better than fifty percent.
It won’t hurt to put her on the defensive. ”
“So you’re going to take my case then?”
“Unless you tell me otherwise. Come on. I’ll walk you out.”
I wait while she locks her outer office door, then follow her down the stairs.
Out on the street, she stops at the front window of the cupcake bakery and says, “Their Death by Chocolate with ganache icing probably will kill me someday, but at least I’ll die happy.
Don’t forget to call Ginny and make that appointment.
Tell her I said it has to be tomorrow.” I promise I will and thank her for her help.
We start off in opposite directions when she calls my name.
I stop, walk back to her. “How many vials of blood did they draw from you at the hospital yesterday?” she asks.
I hold up three fingers. “Okay, so they wanted you tested for both alcohol and chemical substances. Oh, and one more thing. After the accident happened, did you go back inside your house for any reason?”
I shrug. “Not that I can remember. Why?”
“Because, let’s say—theoretically—that you were so shook up by what had just happened that you went inside and took a drink or another benzo to steady yourself. Or maybe you took one of each because you were so distraught.”
“I was distraught,” I tell her. “ I am .”
“Yeah, but think again. Did you go back in the house after you realized what had happened?”
“Wait. Come to think of it, yeah, I did. To get my cell phone so that I could get ahold of my wife.”
She nods approvingly. “Anyone see you do that?”
“Yeah. Some of the neighbors had come out when they heard the ambulance, saw the police cars. I was holding my little girl and had a woman from the neighborhood take her so that I could get my cell and call my wife.”
“Did you reach her?”
I shake my head. “She had turned off her phone.”
“Well, that must have made you crazy, huh? Your little boy is lying there, fighting for his life at that point. Right?” I nod.
“You need to let his mother know, but you can’t reach her.
It’s understandable that, at that point, your anxiety is so acute—so off the charts—that you might need to pop a pill or take a drink to try to hold yourself together. ”
I shake my head. “I might have, but I—”
She puts her hand up to stop me. “Like I said, I’m just talking theoretically. Because if that’s what happened, it would be helpful—something we could use.”
“What are you getting at?” I ask.
“Well, you told me you’d done a little drinking and drugging before your son got hurt.
But if you did a little more after he was injured, then whatever those blood test results are going to say, a judge might rule that they’re inadmissible.
You know, theoretically speaking.” I’m confused about what she’s saying; her expression is unreadable. “Okay, gotta go. Talk to you tomorrow.”
As I watch her hurry off, I figure it out.
If I lie about what happened when I went back in the house—tell Sparks I couldn’t face the fact that I’d just critically injured my son without “fortifying” myself—then there’s a decent chance they’d have to invalidate the blood tests.
Whatever they’re planning to charge me with would be that much harder to prove.
They might even decide it wouldn’t be worth it to charge me at all.
And with no arrest hanging over my head, I’ll be motivated to drink less, cool it on the Ativan, get serious again about the job hunt.
None of that will bring Niko back, but it would be a way forward for Emily, Maisie, and me.
Tempted by Attorney Dixon’s “theoreticals” and still feeling the effects of my two a.m. alcohol binge, I walk the street for several minutes looking for my car before it hits me that I’ve taken Emily’s.
I didn’t notice before that I parked across from a diner.
I need coffee badly and I ate almost nothing the day before.
“Large coffee, cream no sugar, and a corn muffin to go,” I tell the woman at the register.
Back in the car, I stuff half of the muffin in my mouth and wash it down with a big gulp of coffee.
Take a second swig, a third. Ah, caffeine.
… Glancing at the dashboard clock, I realize that at this time yesterday, Niko was still fighting for his life.
What right do I have to be sitting here, enjoying the taste of coffee?