Robin turned off the computer. The ache in her heart had spread to her head, and now, everything hurt. She loved her father, there was no question of that, and she desperately wanted to please him, she never wanted to lose him, but God, she couldn't seem to do anything right. The more she thought of the things he had said, the more confused and indignant she became until she could no longer think straight. At two in the morning, with a blinding headache that had turned her mind to mush, she decided to go home and try to sleep.
Robin reached for her bag, plunged her hand inside, rooted around for her keys. When she did not immediately find them, she dumped the contents of her purse onto the desk. She proceeded to sort through lipsticks, change purse,
business card holder, passport, cell phone, allergy pills, an old condom (very old), until she found what she was looking for.
Keys firmly in hand, she slung the bag over her shoulder and marched out of the office.
The night was warm and muggy, and she rolled down her windows, letting the moist air sweep over her as she made her way toward Loop 610. With the rhythm of rock and roll pounding out over the stereo, she picked up speed, floating around big rigs and old pickups as she went from lane to lane, her car almost driving for her.
The blue-and-red-lights behind her startled her so badly that her heart leapt to her throat.
With a gasp, Robin sat up, looked at the speedometer, and groaned aloud. She was only doing seventy-five, give or take—what, was this one of those end-of-month quota things to generate a little extra revenue for the police ball? She coasted onto the shoulder, put her car in park, and watched her side-view mirror as the police officer cautiously approached her, one hand on his gun, staying close to the side of her car.
He paused just outside her peripheral vision and leaned over, peered inside. “Good evening, ma'am. Have a late night?”
“Obviously. It's two-fifteen a.m.,” she said irritably and abruptly sat up.
The officer stepped back and grasped the butt of his gun. “I clocked you doing eighty-three in sixty-five. Is there an emergency?”
Apparently, it was a slow night in Houston . “Eighty-three is nothing! Look at everyone else out there!” she said sharply, gesturing wildly to the traffic on the loop that was speeding by them in case he hadn't noticed. “Like I am the only one going a little over the speed limit?”
“You were also weaving in and out of traffic. Have you been drinking tonight?”
Oh, if only! Robin gripped the steering wheel and tried to keep check on the explosion she felt building. 'Wo, I have not been drinking! I have been at work."
The officer peered at her. “You haven't had anything to drink?” he asked skeptically.
“This is ridiculous!” she cried. “I have not been drinking, and if you are through interrogating me, I would like to go home now!”
“First, I'll need to see some ID, and then we'll discuss it.”
“So what, you're going to check me out against your most-wanted files now? Well, be careful, because I am definitely an ax murderer,” she snapped and jerked her purse up, reached inside for her wallet… but could not find it. With a sigh of exasperation, she turned the purse upside down and let the contents fall onto the passenger seat… but it wasn't there. In a moment of sheer panic, she realized she had left her wallet on her desk. “Oh shit,'” she muttered beneath her breath, felt her pulse jump a notch or two, and turned to look into the blinding light of the officer's flashlight. “Okay, listen—”
“You wanna step out of the car?”
The panic filled her throat. “I am sooo not getting out of this car! This is ridiculous! I left my wallet in my office, and it had my license and registration—”
The officer opened her door. “Step out of the car. Now.”
'Wow what are we doing?“ Robin whined as she reluctantly did as she was told. ”Are you allowed to waste my time like this? Isn't this against the law? Okay, so I was going a little fast, so what? Everyone speeds on this loop! Is this the reason the city raises taxes each year? So they can put more idiot cops like you on the street to keep Houston safe from riffraff like me—"
“Lady, you are about to talk your way into jail. Now why don't you put a lid on it and walk around to the back of your car with me?”
Robin followed him, but somewhere between the driver's door and the back bumper of her car, all good sense and reason escaped her, fell right out onto Loop 610 and was flattened beyond recognition by a passing eighteen-wheeler. “This is police harassment!” she cried. "You have no right to detain me! If you want to write me a ticket for the dan-
gerous speed of eighty-three, go ahead and do it, but you can't just march me around like this!"
“What is your name?”
“I don't think I have to answer that,” she said, defiantly folding her arms across her chest.
The officer frowned. “What is your name?”
“If I told you, you'd be sorry. My family is very prominent in Houston , and believe me, they won't be happy that you were harassing me like this—”
“Look, lady, you are trying my patience. Now tell me your name!”
“Ha! I won't!” Robin said, knowing, somewhere within the confines of her deadened instinct that it was exactly the wrong answer.
To confirm that it was, the officer smiled, stuffed his ticket book in the back of his pants and reached for the cuffs dangling from his belt. “Got some bad news for you, Ms. Smart-ass. You're going to jail—”
“What?” Robin cried, jumping away as he reached for her. “You can't arrest me!”
“Oh really? Well try this on for size. I am arresting you for failure to identify and driving without a license or proof of insurance. Now take my advice and don't be a complete fool and add a charge of evading arrest to it,” he said and grabbed her wrist, slapping a cuff on it.
Robin gaped at the cuff, then at him, disbelieving, as he told her that she had the right to remain silent.
Thursday morning, Jake was on the job site at 8 a.m. sharp, surprised that he was there before Zaney, the guy he used on most of these jobs. Thinking he was probably stuck in traffic, Jake waited on his bike for about ten minutes, wanting to make sure Zaney found the place okay. When he got bored with talk radio, he got off, stretched his legs, and wandered around to the back of the Lear house.
Raymond was already hard at work in the garden he had planted behind the guesthouse and waved him over, showed him tomatoes as big as volleyballs. Suitably impressed, Jake had a look around at the rest of the produce, and when Raymond offered to sack some up, he said, very cool. Particularly since he didn't really have any food in his house at the moment. After paying taxes and insurance this month, he'd come up a little short.
He put the sack Raymond filled in a saddlebag on his bike and checked the time. Nine o'clock and still no Zaney. Okay, now he was officially worried. His old pal had suffered a head injury a few years ago working on an oil rig, and since then, he could be pretty dumb at times. But he
was as steady as the day was long, and when he was this late, well… Jake dug out his cell phone and started to make some calls.
So this was what the proverbial rock bottom looked like, and Robin had splattered herself all over it.
It was humiliating enough to have been brought in at all, much less wearing handcuffs. But then they took all of her belongings, including her belt, made her spread her legs so a female guard could pat her down, and when she was completely traumatized, they took her picture, fingerprinted her, and told her to quit whining; she was not going to see the sheriff, she was going to see a judge. Okay, she had said then, fully contrite for her folly, I give, let me out.
They said they would—if and when a judge said so.
And then they showed her the holding cell in which they had managed to defy physics and force at least a dozen women. Her bathroom was bigger than that cell. It was a nightmare, a bona fide, unmistakable nightmare, complete with bodies under the benches and scary monster-type-looking humans. And damn it, Robin could not stop shivering—they had turned the air-conditioning on to a full-metal-jacket high, undoubtedly to keep the stench down. How long she sat there, she had no idea, and wouldn't have been the least surprised if days had passed, maybe even weeks, until the door was at last pushed open and a guard came waddling in. “All right, ladies—time to go. You know the drill, everyone on their feet!”
Well, no, she didn't know the drill, but Robin surged to her feet nonetheless, crowding with the others to get out of that stuffy little room.
They were lead to an open area with chairs and a bank of phones along one wall and told to make their calls. Robin went to a phone, picked up the receiver, grimaced at the greasy feel of it and debated who to call. Oh, hi, this is Robin, and I'm in jail…. Her attorney? Seemed logical, but no—she was also Evan's attorney. Mia? Right—she didn't answer the phone before noon . Lucy? Well, sure, if she
wanted it spread all over Houston . Kelly, Mariah, Linda, Cecilia—God, no! Her CPA? He'd probably have a heart attack.
That left only one viable option.
Grimacing, Robin dialed her grandparent's number, praying to high heaven they hadn't gone off on some trailer trip. Grandma answered the phone on the first ring. “Hel-lo-oh!” she sang.
“Grandma, its me,” she said low.
“Oh, hi, honey!” Grandma said cheerfully. “What are you up to?”
“Grandma, now don't freak out, okay? I need you to come pick me up. Or get a lawyer—not my lawyer, but… oh hell, I'm not really sure what I need you to do—”
“A lawyer!” Grandma gasped. “Why on earth would you need a lawyer? And what is all that racket?”
“It's a really long and stupid story Grandma, but… okay, listen, I'm sort of in a bind. You shouldn't panic or anything, because like I said, it's reallyreally stupid—”
“Where are you, Robbie?” Grandma asked, her voice becoming shriller.
Ugh— there was no good way to say this, was there? She forced a laugh. “You won't believe this, Grandma! Ha haaaa, I'm… I'm… in jail.”
They probably heard her grandmother's shriek throughout the entire retirement community. “Jail!” she cried out. “Jail? Oh no, not jail! Elmer! Robbie is in jaaaail!”
Robin heard the receiver on her grandmother's end bounce on the phone table. “Grandma!” she cried into the phone.
“Robbie, is that you?”
T hank God, Grandpa! “Yes, yes, it's me, Grandpa! Is Grandma all right?”
“Are you really in jail?”
“Yes, I—”
“Oh yeah? What'd you do?”
“I didn't really do—”
“Drugs?”
“Grandpa! Of course it wasn't drugs!”
“Well then, what? Murder?” He chuckled appreciatively
at his own jest. Robin stared at the phone cradle in front of her. Why hadn't she realized before this crucial moment that her grandparents were insane? “Oh dear, it wasn't murder, was it?” he asked, his voice suddenly anxious.
“Of course not!” she cried. “It's too long to explain now, but Grandpa, please come get me. This place is horrible! Everyone smells, and who knows why they are here, and the guards are just… just mean, and I have no idea how long they will hold me or anything, but please, please come get me,” she said, feeling suddenly and dangerously close to tears.
“Well, of course we'll come get you, Robbie-girl! You just hold tight. We're gonna come get you.”
“T hank s, Grandpa,” she whispered tearfully, and heard him shout at Grandma to hurry up as the phone clicked off.
Feeling a little better having called in the cavalry, Robin endured another interminable wait until they were led, single file, into another long room where a judge's bench was elevated above the rows of wooden benches. They formed two groups, men and women on opposite sides of the room. Now Robin was feeling particularly slimy. The last seventy-two hours had been a personal trip through hell, and all she wanted was out—she had never felt so alone or so vulnerable in her life. She shivered. They waited. She wondered what time it was, had that light-headed feeling of having flown through too many time zones on a long transatlantic flight, slow and thick. When at last the judge did arrive, Robin was surprised; the diminutive African American probably didn't reach five feet.
The bailiff announced Judge Vaneta Jobe and told them all to rise. Judge Jobe climbed up onto her big black high-back leather chair, and with her head barely visible, and her feet probably swinging a foot above ground, let her gaze travel the crowd. “All right then,” she said, slipping on a pair of round, silver-framed glasses. “Listen up, everyone. Y'all have some rights you'll need to know about…” She proceeded to inform them, in a booming voice that belied her size, of their rights and the different types of bonds available to them. Then she announced she would bring
them forward to hear the charges being made against them, and when she had finished her speech, she asked, “Is that just clear as mud? Let's begin, Mr. Peeples.”
The bailiff picked up a sheet and squinted at it. “Rodney Trace.”
A man from the third row of benches stood and came forward, his head hung low. When he approached the bench, Judge Jobe glared down at him. “Seems like you gone and done a stupid thing, Mr. Trace. How many times are you gonna be stupid? Until you kill someone? Or until they send you down to the farm?”
Rodney Trace shrugged.
Judge Jobe sighed. “Bail set at twenty-five thousand dollars. Who's next on our hit parade, Mr. Peeples?”
Horrified, Robin watched as Judge Jobe and a long string of people who alternately tried to argue their charge or took whatever bond she set with a shrug. She was beginning to feel less and less optimistic about what would happen to her, and started like a jumping bean when the bailiff finally called her name. She hurried forward, clasped her hands tightly in front of her and tried very hard not to shiver.
The judge leaned over the bench to have a better look at her, shaking her head. “Urn, urn, urn… don't know what's got into you, girlfriend,” she said, and picked up a manila folder. “Do you think this town belongs to you?”
Was she supposed to answer that? Robin glanced uneasily at the bailiff. “Uh… no,” she stammered. “No, of course not.”