Read Online Hold Me in Contempt by Wendy Williams - Free Book Online Page A

basements, back rooms, and kitchens of legal business fronts that allowed the dealers to function day in and out without worry. For the vegan baker, while the business itself was failing, through investigation we discovered that his drug-laced baked goods earned him upward of eighty thousand per month. He was shipping orders throughout the state and had a special baked-goods delivery service. The case seemed pretty cut-and-dry until it came out that he was only selling the baked goods to cancer patients, most of whom delivered tear-filled testimonies on his behalf during the trial. There was a teenage boy with leukemia who testified that he would’ve killed himself months earlier if it weren’t for the weekly brownie deliveries he received from the bake shop. A broken law was a broken law, but a bleeding heart is a bleeding heart, and looking at the jury during the testimonies, I knew it was filled with bleeding hearts that might let the baker go free or settle for lesser charges. My boss hated to lose, and he despised lesser charges. I knew the verdict would come down to me. What I said during my closing could save our record and my reputation.
    I’d spent days working on the argument. I’d typed it, memorized it, and practiced it, had it ready to be performed like I was Dr. King stepping up to the podium on the Mall in DC. But when it was time for me to deliver, I choked. I forgot the entire thing, and for a second I stood there looking at the jury trying to remember any word on the iPad I’d left sitting at the prosecution’s desk. Then it came to me. I had to admit that the baker’s actions were likely coming from a place of goodwill. I said that he could’ve been helping those in need, but he was also cheating the system. He was lying to his community. He was involved in vigilante justice that threatened a system that operated on the idea of change. If he wanted to change the system, he needed to work within it—not compromise it. Not take medical matters into his own hands. I went down a list of medical-marijuana champions who’d done just that. Those who’d achieved victory. I added that he detracted from their victory and lessened the power of their fight. His criminal behavior cost us more than it may have benefited the few he served. For that he needed to be prosecuted.
    No matter what a counselor says, there’s just no way of knowing which way a jury will go after a case is closed. So when the jury left the courtroom to deliberate, I followed my class’s ritual of going out for scotch and cigars. After two days, they came back with a verdict for the wayward baker: guilty of all charges.
    I stayed in my office working on the Candy Shop case a little later than I anticipated. When I got home, the bottle of wine was still sitting on the coffee table in the living room. I kicked off my shoes, picked up the bottle, and walked it into the kitchen, cursing myself for the late-night boozing that I was sure added, like, ten pounds to my body each year. I vowed to pour the little bit that was left down the drain and never ever bring a bottle of wine into the house again . . .  ​a promise I knew instantly was a lie.
    I was cursing aloud and lying some more to myself about trying to find more time to go to the gym when there was a single soft knock at the door. I never had company I wasn’t expecting, so I stood in the kitchen listening for a second to be sure the knock was actually at my door and not coming from downstairs or next door. But then there was a second set of three quick knocks.
    â€œWho is it?” I called, walking to the door.
    There was no answer.
    I looked through the peephole. There was someone I definitely wasn’t expecting and didn’t care to see.
    â€œWhat do you want?” I asked.
    â€œOpen the door.”
    â€œI told you not to come here anymore,” I said, looking at a bright smile in the little blurry