Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER TWELVE
At Attorney Dixon’s suggestion, I arrive at her office building to read and discuss the report that Probation Officer Jonathan Gonzalez filed after having completed my presentence investigation.
Before climbing the stairs, I stop first at that bakery on the ground floor and buy her one of those Death by Chocolate cupcakes I remember she loves.
“I’m touched but goddamn you, Ledbetter,” she says when I hand her the treat.
“I just started doing keto. Oh well, my wife will enjoy it. She eats like a lumberjack without gaining an ounce.” She hands me the PSI report.
“Tell me what you think,” she says. My sentencing hearing is in a week.
Officer Gonzalez has done a thorough job.
He’s included the police reports filed by Sergeant Fazio and Officer Longo, Detective Sparks, and the officer who arrested me for my earlier DUI.
The toxicology reports based on the blood draw they’d taken from me at the hospital are in there, too.
Gonzalez notes that I had not sought treatment for my substance abuse before the “event” for which I have been charged, but he’s attached photocopies of the scrawled signatures of chairs from the various AA and NA meetings I’ve been attending since then.
Gonzalez has also accessed and included my lackluster school records, not only from RISD but also from Three Rivers High School, which includes the information that I was suspended during my sophomore year for streaking during an outdoor assembly.
There’s no mention that I did this on a dare from Ethan Martineau, the police chief’s grandson.
Also attached are letters of support from Rhonda Tolliver, my former boss at Creative Strategies, Michael McGee, the shift supervisor at the Amazon warehouse where I work now, my AA sponsor, Dale Tebbins, and Dr. Patel, who has written that my participation in our grief counseling sessions has led to genuine progress and that “a prison sentence will serve only to impede or perhaps even arrest the positive changes he has begun to make.”
In addition to all that, Officer Gonzalez interviewed me twice to evaluate the degree to which he feels I exhibit remorse and the will to rehabilitate myself.
Both of the times I sat in his office, I was confronted by the framed picture of him, his wife, and their three kids and worried that he might not be able to empathize with a failed father like me.
But in his conclusion, Gonzalez wrote this: “I am convinced that Mr. Ledbetter is genuinely contrite and that his efforts to address his addictions have been serious and sincere.”
When I look up from the report, Dixon is shaking her head and smirking. “Streaking, Ledbetter? Seriously?”
“Youthful idiocy,” I say, shrugging. “Plus I got a hundred bucks from the kid who dared me.”
“Oh, well then,” Dixon says. “Other than the tox report and public nudity, I’d say this is pretty positive.
” She tells me it is fairly unusual for the person writing the PSI to avoid making a sentencing recommendation.
“Which could work in your favor. Judges are free to ignore the probation officer’s recommendations, but mostly they tend to follow those guidelines.
If Gonzalez had suggested you serve time, that would have upped your chance of going to prison. That’s the good news.”
“You saying there’s bad news?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I think you had a shot at avoiding time in with Judge Pelto, but his mother’s gone into hospice down in Florida.
He’s on temporary leave so he can be with her.
Judge Palazzolo is subbing in for him. She’s not a hanging judge by any means, but she’s no softie either.
She could go either way. Guess we’ll have to argue like hell on your behalf, then wait and see.
Of course, Reitland’s going to argue just as hard that you should do time; that’s what prosecutors do and she’s not above getting nasty sometimes.
I tell you what, though, Ledbetter. However this plays out, you’ve made some legit efforts during these twelve weeks.
You were one hell of a hot mess when you walked into my office that first time, but I’ve noticed some real changes.
It’s not easy for a cynic like me to admit this, but I’m impressed. ”
The unexpected compliment flusters me. Mumbling a thank-you, I look down at her desk to avoid looking at her. That’s when I noticed that, while I was reading the PSI report, she’s scarfed down half of her chocolate cupcake.
July 27, 2017
Dr. Patel asks me how many of these episodes I’ve had.
“Two. Both of them at night.”
“Can you say what precipitated them?”
“Insomnia, I guess. The first time, I couldn’t get to sleep and the other time I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. The longer I stayed awake, the more anxious I got about what’s going to happen. It got so bad, I started getting the shakes and panting like I couldn’t catch my breath.”
“You were hyperventilating,” she says.
“Yeah, and my heart was pounding so fast, it felt like it might explode. I didn’t know what the hell was going on.”
“Well, as frightening as they feel while you’re experiencing them, panic attacks aren’t fatal and they can be managed.”
Her calming voice, the aroma of the tea she’s poured, the colorful sari—peacock blues and greens: being in her presence is soothing. She’s what—in her sixties maybe? Wedding ring, so there’s a husband. Kids? Grandkids? There’s a bit of mystery to her.
“You mention your anxiety about the future is a trigger for these attacks. Can you be more specific?”
I look over her shoulder at the thing mounted on the wall behind her, the source of the sound of trickling water. I ask her whether it’s new. She says no, I just must not have noticed it during my earlier appointments. “Now, again, tell me more about why the future is making you so anxious.”
“If I get sentenced to prison, I’ve got fear of the unknown about that. And fear of what I do know from watching shows like Oz and The Wire. ”
“Television programs might not be your best source of information,” she says.
“No, but I look at a lot of stuff on the internet, too. Things ex-cons write about after they’re released. It’s pretty bleak.”
“Perhaps you should look less at these things. Wait until you’re in a position to judge the experience for yourself, if indeed you end up having that experience.”
“Yeah, makes sense. But that’s not the only thing I get scared about.”
“No? What else?”
“Let’s say I go to prison for however long they’re going to give me.
But eventually I get out and then what? I couldn’t find another job as a commercial artist before all the bad stuff happened.
What are my chances going to be when I have a prison record?
I’m probably going to end up making minimum wage.
Wearing a paper hat and asking people if they want chips and a soda with their sub. ”
“That’s your biggest worry, Corby? That you’ll end up working in the fast-food industry?”
I shake my head.
“Then what is troubling you the most?”
“You know.”
Patel says she needs to hear it from me.
“I’m afraid she’s never going to be able to forgive me and let me come home.
That she’s going to want to cut her losses and divorce me.
Maybe keep me from our daughter because she doesn’t think she’d be safe with me back in the picture?
And in the middle of freaking out about everything that could happen, I start going back to what did happen. ”
“The accident?”
“You can say it. The day I backed up my car and killed my own son.”
She cocks her head. Frowns a little. “That seems harsh, don’t you think? Putting it that way?”
I shrug. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? What difference does it make how you put it?”
“Well, legally, it could mean the difference between involuntary manslaughter and homicide. The former indicates it was accidental, the latter implies intent.”
“Involuntary manslaughter while under the influence . Don’t forget that little detail.”
She stares at me; I stare back. If she’s trying to make me feel uncomfortable, it’s working.
To break the impasse, I get up and go over to that thing on her wall.
Up close, I see it’s a kind of fountain.
Water comes out of a spout at the top, spilling down the ribs of a slate slab.
A metal base at the bottom catches the water.
It’s got smooth white stones in it and the water splashing down on them is what makes the sound. “This is cool,” I tell her.
“Glad you like it,” she says. “But since our time together is limited, might we return to the business at hand?”
I go back to my chair and sit down. Wait.
“Corby, I’m wondering why you requested this appointment.
Is it because you wanted to talk about your panic attacks or because you want me to participate in cudgeling you?
Because it seems to me that you’re doing a fine job of that all by yourself.
” She suggests that I try to be kinder to myself—put some work into self-forgiveness.
“Tall order,” I tell her. “Before? When you said these panic attacks can be managed? How would that work?”
Instead, she asks me to describe what happens when I go back to the day of the tragedy. Is it a memory or does it feel like I’m experiencing it again?
“It’s like… I relive it. I hear the neighbors across the street screaming for me to stop.… See him lying there beneath the car, his little chest heaving as he tries to… I hear the sirens, the cops asking me if I’m ‘the operator of the vehicle.’?”
“You’re having flashbacks then. Yes?”
I nod. I’m close to tears. “Yes.”
“Are these flashbacks part of what’s been triggering your panic episodes?”
“Yeah.… Yes.”
“Well then, let’s figure out how these might be short-circuited before they get to the point of debilitating you. Wouldn’t it be lovely if you could exert some control over these traumatic memories and your fears about what’s to come?”