Chapter 24
CHAPTER 24
“They’re going to make an example out of you.” Our lawyer sits back, folding his hands on the table. He is a stout man, with dark, freshly cut hair and a red necktie. Gregory Decker, though the partners call him Deck. This makes me think of a fraternity, which in turn makes me think of someone not taking their job seriously. But he comes highly recommended, and has an impressive pedigree. We’re paying out the nose for him, using money we don’t have.
I grip the edge of the gleaming walnut desk with both hands and lean forward. “Is that what they said?”
Beside me, Gabriel is stoic. If it weren’t for the heavy set of his shoulders, the dip of his chin, someone wouldn’t be able to look at him and know what we’re doing.
“Not in those words, but based on the plea agreement, I’d say so.” His fancy pen taps the table. “I did everything I could to get the endangerment charge dropped down to a misdemeanor, but the pedestrian was hurt. Prosecutor is adamant it be charged as a felony.”
“The pedestrian was also drunk, and walked in front of his truck.” My hands rake through my hair. I cannot recall the last time I’ve washed it. “What if we don’t take what they’re offering? What if we let it go to trial?”
“As your lawyer, I advise you to take the deal. Maximum sentence was seven years. This is three, with the possibility of early out at two with good behavior.”
“Did you tell them about his heroic service to the public? The lives he’s saved?” Desperation sinks into my voice.
“Yes, Mrs. Woodruff. That’s how I got it reduced to three. This is a sensitive time. There are more eyes on the police than ever before. Oversight isn’t a bad thing,” he says diplomatically. “But it’s not helping your husband right now.”
“I’m not suggesting there shouldn’t be consequences for bad choices, especially ones that endanger others, but there should be better-fitting punishment. How is sitting in a prison cell going to help his mental health? He can go to a treatment facility. AA. Weekly check-ins, an accountability partner.” Hysteria dances on the edge of my words. I can’t let this happen. Gabriel can’t go to prison. “He has PTSD. And possibly major depressive disorder.” Neither of these diagnoses are official, but it wouldn’t be a stretch to make them. Especially not right now. “This man works a dangerous job so others don’t have to. Because of him, most of society does not worry themselves with learning how to fight a fire, or basic emergency medical care, or, for God’s sake, how to remove a rattlesnake.”
The lawyers’ eyebrows lift. “A rattlesnake?”
“You wouldn’t believe the number of rattlesnakes this man has removed from a frightened person’s yard.” I look at Gabriel. He nods once, a silent corroboration.
Gabriel has been mute since the moment we sat down across from the lawyer. He nods, swallows, his facial muscles move as he represses his emotions. He has nothing to say, and I have everything to say. Doesn’t he want to fight for himself?
If he won’t, I will.
“The fact is,” I continue, “he, and every other firefighter, are on the other end of that phone call.” I point at Gabriel. “He answers that call for help. Five years ago, he answered my call for help. Now he’s the one asking. Who’s going to do it for him? Who will answer his call?”
Appreciation glimmers in the lawyer’s eyes. “Impassioned speeches aside, we have to work with what we have. The prosecutor's job is to focus on the event. My job is to paint a picture broader than the one day the event occurred.” He pushes a file folder across the table to me. “That’s what I did with those letters. That photo.”
I take the folder, slipping it into my purse. It contains two letters, one from Gabriel’s father in his professional capacity as fire captain, and one from a longtime colleague of Gabriel’s. The photo is from the newspaper article, Gabriel carrying me out of a burning home.
I gathered those items. I requested those letters. Gabriel has done very little to defend himself. It’s as though he has given up.
The lawyer taps the printed out plea deal in front of him. “Now we must work with what we have. And this is it.”
“Take it,” Gabriel says.
“What?” I stare at his stiff profile. “Gabriel, no.”
“I’ve been doing this for twenty years,” the lawyer says. “I’ve seen it all. I promise, this is the best you’re going to get. Taking your chances on a trial would be foolish.”
My head drops into my hands. My shoulders shake, but the tears don’t come. I cried myself out before we came here, and was left with a dull headache and sharp fear.
Gabriel and the lawyer discuss logistics. For me this is still out of body, a book I could be reading about a wife listening to her husband discuss his impending prison sentence.
“I’ll let you know when the hearing will be. You will show up, and answer the judge's questions. It’s not like what you see on television.”
The lawyer stops me as we’re walking out. “You can’t change the system in a day, Mrs. Woodruff. But you have good ideas. Perhaps you should consider activism.”
His words slide in one ear and out the other. I can’t think of anything but what is happening to my life, the implosion.
Later that night, once we’re home and in our bed, Gabriel reaches for me. For hours we’ve been robots, going through the motions. Picking up a prescription. Making dinner. Doing the dishes. Every motion by rote, every thought sickeningly heavy.
I let him hold me. I’m not angry. There isn’t time to be mad at him. Each tick of the clock is precious now.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers against my forehead. My automatic response is yes you do , but I’m feeling so many things, good, bad, and downright ugly. I say nothing at all.
Three years. Gabriel will go away for three years, maybe only two.
Only two.
Look at how I qualified that statement with an ‘only.’ It hasn’t begun, and already I’m applying hope to a decrease in duration.
“Avery,” Gabriel whispers my name.
I wait for what he’s going to say next.
“Avery,” he says again, sobbing. He rolls me onto my back, caging me in with his arms. Tears drip off his face and splash my chest. “You should move on.”
At first I’m confused, but then I understand. “What? No.”
His lips tremble. “You’re young. Smart. Passionate. Beautiful. You have so much to offer someone.”
“I’m already giving all that to you.”
“I won’t be there to receive it.”
The tears I couldn’t find in the lawyer’s office are pouring now. “Gabriel, no. We’re married. I’ll wait for you. Three years is nothing.”
Compared to thirty years, three is a blip. But three years is something. It’s holidays and family dinners, waking up alone and going to bed alone. It’s tiny moments in my days, the guy who will cut me off in traffic and the barista who will misspell my name and the funny bone I’ll smack on a corner and the box I can’t reach on the highest shelf and,
and,
and,
the list goes on.
I grip his face, the regrowth of facial hair poking my palms. “I will not move on. Ever. This is a hard situation, but I’m not afraid of hard things. It’s easy to uphold your vows when things are going well. When the money flows and the sex is good and nobody is making life-altering mistakes.” My thumbs stroke his cheeks. “Bonds are forged in fire, and right now, Gabriel, we’re in the middle of a fire. And even you can’t put it out.”
“I started it.” His eyes close. More tears splash onto my chest, sliding down between my breasts. “I’m responsible for the fire.”
He is. But I also wonder how much of a role I played in it all. I didn’t take his history seriously enough. I knew he was drinking, and I didn’t stand in the way. I didn’t beat the drum, sound the alarm, threaten to leave. I maintained his image at the expense of him. Is what happened my fault? No. Did I contribute? Yes.
I kiss him, and taste our tears. “Don’t talk anymore about me being with someone else. I won’t hear it. Got it?”
He nods. He kisses me again, more fiercely. His lips press against mine, giving to me and asking nothing in return. His hands roam my body, and in them I feel his hunger. His sorrow. His apology.
The next day, we learn his court date will be held in two weeks. There’s something about being faced with the stuff of nightmares that makes everything in the present more palpable.
Joseph gives me a leave of absence, and Gabriel and I are never without one another. Each second takes on water, until it’s bursting. And here we are, squeezing from it every last drop.
I’ve always loved Gabriel’s voice. Deep, clear, confident, a voice that is strong enough to know you’re safe with him, with corners rounded enough to know he is also kind.
Today is the first day I do not like my husband’s voice.
“How do you plead?”
“Guilty.”
The word reverberates in my bones.
Guilty.
Guilty.
Guilty .