35. Chapter 35 #2
“It’s very much up to the discretion of the individual district attorney and dependent on the particular defendant,” Mr. Longfellow says. “There are limitations as to when it may be offered. It has to be a first time drug offense and it cannot be charged alongside other offenses, for example.”
I nod. “Are the rehab programs in-patient?”
“Sometimes,” Wilder says. “And they’re paid for by the state. The defendant has to successfully complete the program and then all charges are dismissed. It allows them to keep a clean record.”
“That seems like a really nice option,” I say. “How long are those programs, usually?”
Mr. Longfellow regards me, sharp but not unkind. “It ranges. Sometimes as little as twelve months, other times as long as three years. It all depends on the particular facts of the case, history, mitigating circumstances.”
Before I can ask the next question buzzing in my chest, our server arrives. It’s the guy from the bar. The manager. The one who shut Archer down without blinking.
“Ronan!” Wilder lights up. “Man, you’re like always here. Do you ever leave?”
Ronan smirks. “Nope. Got my sleeping bag and toothbrush stashed behind the bar.”
“Sure as heck seems like you do,” Wilder says with a chuckle. “Well, let’s make it count. I’ll have a Long Island iced tea.”
“Noted.” Ronan turns to the rest of us. “What can I get you all to drink?”
Mr. Longfellow orders a rye whiskey old-fashioned, while Mrs. Longfellow orders a glass of chardonnay. I just point at my half-full glass of water with a smile. When he lands on Archer, amusement flickers behind his eyes.
Ronan cocks his head, lets the silence stretch for just long enough, then asks, “How about you? Shirley Temple?”
I brace, even while Archer’s family chuckles.
Archer, of course, does not. His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring while his ears turn dark red. “You got a problem with me?” he snaps, already half upright.
I move my hand to his forearm. “Archer,” I murmur under my breath.
But it’s Wilder who cuts in before things escalate.
“Jesus, Archie,” he says, a wide grin on his lips like this entire situation is one big joke. “Learn how to take a joke. I don’t need you to get me banned from my favorite pub in all of New York because your ego can’t handle a soda.”
“I’ll just have a Coke,” Archer mutters and sinks a little lower in his seat. His arm is rigid next to me, the heat of his embarrassment radiating off him like steam.
Ronan nods and walks off with an amused half-smile.
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, then try for a change in subject. “So are the diversion programs only for drug crimes? Or could they apply to something else?”
Wilder tilts his head.
I force myself to sound nonchalant. “Like prostitution?”
Mr. Longfellow’s eyes are sharp, curious. “Depends on the case,” he says carefully. “Why?”
I shrug. “I just read something once about how some policy makers are trying to treat certain offenses more like public health issues. Addiction, trauma… that kind of thing.”
He studies me for a beat, then nods. “That’s the theory. Execution’s another story.”
Archer still hasn’t said a word. He’s stiff beside me, jaw tight, fingers twitching against his leg. Every instinct tells me he’s one bad comment away from another argument.
I decide to continue my line of questioning as the threads of a plan begin to come together. “So the district attorney could, at their discretion, still dismiss the other charges to give the defendant the ability to do this drug diversion program?”
Mr. Longfellow narrows his eyes but nods. “It’s rare but not impossible. Ultimately the charges brought against a defendant are up to the district attorney.” His lips twitch. “You seem very interested, Skye.”
“Yeah, well, I do plan on applying to law school after—”
“Oh my god,” Archer groans beside me, dragging a hand down his face.
And just like that, the moment dies. That’s my cue to stop.
“Honey, you don’t want to waste your time with that,” Mrs. Longfellow says with a girlish little laugh. “You’ll have other things to worry about once you and Archer are married and start a family.”
I blink. Smile. Swallow the impulse to say something I’ll regret.
Instead, I reach for safe and easy.
“So, what time does the musical start tomorrow?” I ask, turning toward her with practiced brightness.
Her face lights up instantly. “Four o’clock. I figured us girls could do a little shopping, then grab a bite to eat before the show. We have great seats. Mezzanine. I hear the set design is absolutely breathtaking.”
I nod along, grateful for something to cling to that isn’t the tense silence radiating off Archer.
Things only improve slightly over the course of the evening, and by the time Archer and I make it back to our hotel and say goodnight to his parents, to slip into our room next to theirs, I’m ready to call it a day.
We undress in silence, sitting on opposite sides of the king-sized bed. It feels like we’re a middle-aged couple who have been married for decades and run out of things to say.
My phone buzzes and I grab it, grateful for the distraction, for the sound dampening the deafening silence. I smile at Lily’s face lighting up my screen.
“Hey Lil!”
“Well, I did it,” she says. She sounds distinctly downtrodden, not her usual bubbly self. “I asked Boston out.”
My heart screeches to a halt while all the saliva in my mouth turns to dust.
“Oh. How… what… how did it go?”
A quiet sigh comes through the phone. “Not good.” Her voice pinches off at the end, cracking.