Chapter 2
MAGGIE
I'm sitting in the back row of the courtroom because I don't want to be noticed. There are reporters near the front and I have no intention of becoming part of the Princess Pigpen news cycle. I just want to see Sloane Archer's face when the judge sentences her.
People v. Archer. Just another name on the docket. But behind that name is a woman who plowed through my fence drunk at one in the morning and left my animals to wander onto the road. She's lucky no pigs got physically hurt.
I found Dolly on the highway. That's the part that makes me most furious.
Dolly, who's eleven years old and half blind and was rescued from a factory farm where she spent the first eight years of her life in a crate so small she couldn't turn around.
Dolly, who took two years to trust me enough to let me touch her ears.
She was standing in the middle of the road in the dark, confused and frightened, and if a truck had come around that bend, she'd be dead.
Sloane smashed through their home and drove away, and my security camera caught all of it.
I handed the footage to the police and thought that was that, but then the journalists came asking, and within days the video was everywhere.
Suddenly the whole world had an opinion about the socialite who got the nickname 'Princess Pigpen,' but nobody asked whether the animals were okay.
A door opens at the side of the courtroom and she walks in.
She's wearing a navy dress and heels, with dark hair pulled back. She looks like she's on her way to brunch at a place that charges twenty-eight dollars for eggs. I'd never even heard of her until she drove into my pig barn but then I don't read gossip columns.
Her lawyer guides her to the defense table. Sloane sits, folds her hands in her lap, and stares straight ahead.
"All rise."
The judge is a lean Black man with reading glasses and a calm energy. Judge Howard Coleman. He sits, we sit, and the proceedings begin.
The first part is procedural. Sloane pleads no contest to the DUI and the hit and run. Her lawyer does most of the talking — "accepts full responsibility" and "deeply remorseful" and "an isolated incident that does not reflect the character of my client."
Accepts full responsibility. That's rich, considering she denied having anything to do with my pig barn until the police showed her my security footage.
Then it was full responsibility and deep remorse and whatever else the lawyer told her to say.
It wasn't an isolated incident either. She has a prior DUI from five years ago.
Then we get to sentencing.
"Ms. Archer," the judge says, and she stands. "You've pleaded no contest to one count of driving under the influence, your second offense within ten years, and one count of hit and run causing property damage."
She nods. "Yes, Your Honor."
"The court orders restitution in the amount of twenty thousand dollars to Dawson's Sanctuary for property repairs."
I watch her shoulders drop. Just slightly, just a fraction, but I see it. Relief. She can write a check and walk away. Twenty thousand dollars is nothing to her. It's a purse, or a weekend away. She'll pay it the way I'd pay for a bag of feed and never think about it again.
This is what justice looks like for people like her. A fine. A story she'll tell at dinner parties one day — remember when I crashed into that pig farm?
"However," the judge says, "I'm not finished."
Sloane stiffens.
"Ms. Archer, this is your second DUI in five years. The first time, you received a fine and probation. You completed your program and your license was reinstated. The court trusted that you had learned from that experience." He takes off his glasses. Puts them back on. "Clearly, you did not."
"A hit and run is not a mistake," he continues.
"It's a choice. You chose to drive while intoxicated.
You chose to flee the scene. You left damaged property and escaped livestock on a public road where they could have been killed or caused a serious accident.
The fact that no one — human or animal — was harmed is a matter of luck, not judgment. "
Sloane looks down at her lap and he clears his throat.
"I'm aware that for defendants with your resources, a fine is not a consequence. It's a cost of doing business and I don't intend for this to be a cost of doing business."
Sloane's lawyer leans in to whisper something. The judge doesn't wait for him.
"In addition to the restitution already ordered, I'm sentencing you to ninety-six hours in county jail and two months of community service."
Now Sloane reacts. Her chin lifts, her lips part, and the color drains from her face. Two months. That's better.
"Your community service will be served at Dawson's Sanctuary," the judge says. "The property you damaged. You will report daily and perform whatever duties are assigned to you by the sanctuary's operator. You will begin immediately after completing your jail sentence."
Her lawyer is on his feet. "Your Honor, my client—"
"Your client drove intoxicated, destroyed property, endangered animals, and fled the scene. She can spend two months helping to repair the damage. Additionally, her driver's license is suspended effective immediately." He picks up his gavel. "We're adjourned."
The gavel comes down and for a moment I feel satisfied. Justice. Not just a check. She's going to jail and she's losing her license. And then she's—Wait. She's coming to me.
This woman who destroyed my property and drove away without a backward glance — is going to be at my sanctuary every day for two months. In my space. Around my animals. Under my supervision.
I didn't ask for this and I certainly don't have time to babysit someone who has never done a day's work in her life. I have fourteen pigs, eleven goats, twenty-three chickens, two horses, and a one-eyed donkey. Adding Sloane Archer to that roster is not going to improve my mornings.
I stand and head for the door before the reporters spot me. Outside, the sun is blinding, and I put on my sunglasses as I walk toward the parking lot and try to think practically.
Two months. Fine. If she's going to be there, she's going to work hard. Mucking out the pig barn. Hauling feed in hundred-degree heat. Scrubbing water troughs. Fixing my fence until her manicure is a distant memory.
And the logistics bring their own consolation.
She'll have to stay at the motel in town — the run-down place on Main Street.
And the county bus only comes through twice a day — 6:45 in the morning and 5:15 in the afternoon.
Miss it and you walk thirty minutes in the kind of heat that makes the road shimmer.
I picture Sloane Archer at the bus stop at six forty-five in the morning, melting in her designer clothes, and a small smile crosses my face as I get in my truck. It's a long drive back to Duster and I'm going to spend my time wisely, making a list of every miserable job I can think of.