phone for a couple of days, so I couldn’t talk to him that night or text him. Every time I tried to apologize, hoping she’d give it back, and maybe ease up on my restrictions, she said she didn’t want to hear it until I was ready to tell her the truth.
Monday she took me to see a lawyer, somebody she knew from back in high school. His name was Vance. He looked more like a biker than a lawyer, with his long hair and handlebar mustache. I wondered what was up with Mom and guys with mustaches. Dad never had a mustache.
“Lemme cut right to the chase here,” Vance said after I told him about the events leading up to the arrest. I left out the parts about me drinking a beer, and Dreadlocks hitting on me, and Carla hooking up with Scuzzy and initiating the whole thing. I also left out the part about me wondering what Carla knew.
“You’ve never been in any kind of trouble,” he said, “plus you’re an upstanding girl, play on the basketball team, hold down a job, make good grades, all that kind of stuff. What that likely means is you get probation. Community service. So you spend your Saturdays working at the food bank or whatever. And you have early curfew. That sort of thing.”
Mom relaxed back in her chair.
“But I can still play basketball, right?” I asked. “And I can travel with the team to away games?”
Vance tugged on his mustache. “Depends. We’ll have to wait and see on that. It’s still gonna be a serious charge. That was a lot of pot.”
He spoke in a growly biker voice that had me looking around his small, cluttered office for a motorcycle helmet or a leather jacket hanging up somewhere or sitting on top of one of his piles of law books. He didn’t have either, though — or any shelves, which seemed odd for a lawyer.
“There’s another possibility,” he added. “Which is you cooperate with the police and give them the names of the guys. That’s something you have that could help us here.”
I looked down at the floor. My foot seemed to have started this nervous tapping and I had a hard time making it stop.
“What?” Mom demanded. “Out with it.”
I said I didn’t know their names. Mom practically shot up out of her chair.
“You went off in the car with two men, two
older
men, two
drug dealers
, and you didn’t even know their names?”
I couldn’t look at her. “Yes, ma’am. It was stupid. I know.”
Mom fumed. “Stupid doesn’t begin to describe it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said again.
Vance didn’t say anything. I was sure he’d heard this sort of thing before, and probably a lot worse.
“What about Carla?” Mom asked him.
He looked at her for a minute, then out the window at the downtown traffic. The building he was in, and his office, were so close to the street that he could practically reach out the window and touch the passing cars.
“She’s got two strikes on her, right?”
Mom nodded. “Possession when she was eighteen. And shoplifting last year. She’s on probation.”
“I hate to say it — and she needs to see her own lawyer, Gretchen, so you can’t take what I tell you as anything but my opinion — but if she’s involved in this in any way, she’s looking at doing time.”
“What kind of time?”
He drummed his fingers on the window. Somebody out on the sidewalk waved up to him, and he waved back.
“Real time. For starters, there’s the time they suspended on her before.”
“It was a year,” Mom said.
“A year, then,” Vance said. “Plus at least the minimum mandatory sentence for felony distribution, which is three years last time I checked.”
Mom’s face was pale. “And when was that?”
Vance studied the surface of his desk. “I do criminal law, which is mostly drug cases. So that was, like, last week.”
“So four years?” Mom asked, her whole body sagging.
“Minimum,” Vance said.
I stayed home the rest of the day but still didn’t have my cell phone. Kevin could have left me a hundred messages by
Monday she took me to see a lawyer, somebody she knew from back in high school. His name was Vance. He looked more like a biker than a lawyer, with his long hair and handlebar mustache. I wondered what was up with Mom and guys with mustaches. Dad never had a mustache.
“Lemme cut right to the chase here,” Vance said after I told him about the events leading up to the arrest. I left out the parts about me drinking a beer, and Dreadlocks hitting on me, and Carla hooking up with Scuzzy and initiating the whole thing. I also left out the part about me wondering what Carla knew.
“You’ve never been in any kind of trouble,” he said, “plus you’re an upstanding girl, play on the basketball team, hold down a job, make good grades, all that kind of stuff. What that likely means is you get probation. Community service. So you spend your Saturdays working at the food bank or whatever. And you have early curfew. That sort of thing.”
Mom relaxed back in her chair.
“But I can still play basketball, right?” I asked. “And I can travel with the team to away games?”
Vance tugged on his mustache. “Depends. We’ll have to wait and see on that. It’s still gonna be a serious charge. That was a lot of pot.”
He spoke in a growly biker voice that had me looking around his small, cluttered office for a motorcycle helmet or a leather jacket hanging up somewhere or sitting on top of one of his piles of law books. He didn’t have either, though — or any shelves, which seemed odd for a lawyer.
“There’s another possibility,” he added. “Which is you cooperate with the police and give them the names of the guys. That’s something you have that could help us here.”
I looked down at the floor. My foot seemed to have started this nervous tapping and I had a hard time making it stop.
“What?” Mom demanded. “Out with it.”
I said I didn’t know their names. Mom practically shot up out of her chair.
“You went off in the car with two men, two
older
men, two
drug dealers
, and you didn’t even know their names?”
I couldn’t look at her. “Yes, ma’am. It was stupid. I know.”
Mom fumed. “Stupid doesn’t begin to describe it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said again.
Vance didn’t say anything. I was sure he’d heard this sort of thing before, and probably a lot worse.
“What about Carla?” Mom asked him.
He looked at her for a minute, then out the window at the downtown traffic. The building he was in, and his office, were so close to the street that he could practically reach out the window and touch the passing cars.
“She’s got two strikes on her, right?”
Mom nodded. “Possession when she was eighteen. And shoplifting last year. She’s on probation.”
“I hate to say it — and she needs to see her own lawyer, Gretchen, so you can’t take what I tell you as anything but my opinion — but if she’s involved in this in any way, she’s looking at doing time.”
“What kind of time?”
He drummed his fingers on the window. Somebody out on the sidewalk waved up to him, and he waved back.
“Real time. For starters, there’s the time they suspended on her before.”
“It was a year,” Mom said.
“A year, then,” Vance said. “Plus at least the minimum mandatory sentence for felony distribution, which is three years last time I checked.”
Mom’s face was pale. “And when was that?”
Vance studied the surface of his desk. “I do criminal law, which is mostly drug cases. So that was, like, last week.”
“So four years?” Mom asked, her whole body sagging.
“Minimum,” Vance said.
I stayed home the rest of the day but still didn’t have my cell phone. Kevin could have left me a hundred messages by
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