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 wouldβif 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 bonafide, 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, ladiesβtime 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.
"Grandma, now don't freak out, okay? I need you to come
pick me up. Or get a lawyer-not my lawyer, butβ¦oh hell,
I'm not sure what I need you to doβ"
"A lawyer!" Grandma gasped. "Why on earth would you need a
lawyer? And what is all that racket?"
"Itβs a really long and stupid story Grandma, butβ¦okay,
listen, I'm sort of in a bind. You shouldn't panic or
anything, because like I said, its really, really stupidβ"
"Where are you, Robbie?" Grandma asked, her voice becoming
shriller.
Ughβthere was no good way to say this, was there? She
forced a laugh. "You won't believe this Grandma! Ha haaaa,
I'mβ¦I'mβ¦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?"
Thank God, Grandpa! "Yes, yes, it's me, Grandpa! Is
Grandma all right?"
"Are you really in jail?"
"Yes, Iβ"
"Oh yea? What'd you do?"
"I didn't really doβ"
"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 snapped. "Its 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 justβ¦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."
"Thanks, 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
72 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 aboutβ¦" 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 $25,000. 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. "Um, um, umβ¦don't know what's got
into you, girlfriend," she said, and picked up a vanilla
folder. "Do you think this town belongs to you?"
Was she supposed to answer that? Robin glanced uneasily at
the bailiff. "Uhβ¦no," she stammered, "No, of course not."
"Of course not, hmmm? That why you were so nasty to
Officer Denton?"
"I, uhβ¦I d-didn't know that I was."
The judge peered over the tops of her round glasses at
Robin. "You trying to tell me that you didn't know you
were mouthing off to him? Or that you were being nasty? Or
that by refusing to give him your name, or provide your
license, or proof of insurance, that you were being
disrespectful? Is that the way you do people, Ms. Lear?"
"Noβ¦"
"No?"
"Uh, yesβ¦well, no," Robin stuttered.
The judge snorted, looked at the bailiff. "Ms. Lear got
herself an attitude problem, Mr. Peeples. That superior
attitude got her into a little bit of trouble, didn't it?"
"It sure did, your honor."
"I'm surprised Ms. Lear managed to make it this long
before someone knocked her down a notch or two." The judge
tossed the file down and bestowed a fierce frown on Robin
that sent another shiver down her spine. "Now look here,
you need to wake up and smell the coffee, girl! How many
of your fine and fancy friends get themselves thrown in
jail for talking trash?"
"Iβ¦I don't know any," Robin answered truthfully.
"Maybe that's cause they don't go around thinking they are
better than everyone else. If you're gonna walk around
thinking you are, you're gonna keep making trouble for
yourself, do you understand me?"
"I don't think I'm better-"
"I said, do you understand me?" Judge Jobe demanded.
"Yes ma'am," Robin answered softly.
"I'm gonna accept your plea of guilty for driving without
a license or insurance and fine you $750 for wasting my
time."
Robin blinked, wondered when, exactly, she had pled
guilty.
"Now follow the deputy here, and try not to be annoying,"
the judge said, and handed the deputy a piece of paper. He
pointed toward the door; Robin walked, head down.
And found herself waiting in another large room after she
had received her personal property, which consisted of a
belt, a Cartier watch, an emerald ring, and a half-empty
purse, in which, fortunately, there had been a lone credit
card in the side pocket. The very helpful deputies also
gave her a paper with the location of her car and pointed
to the window where she would pay her fine along with
everyone else in Houston.
Robin made the mistake of asking the clerk when she could
pay, which earned her a reprimand to be seated while the
clerk and her friend chatted away as if they had nothing
else to do. Dejected, exhausted, and feeling terribly low,
Robin sat, wondering if it was possible to get a bazooka
in there to break up their little coffee club. Her head
ached, her back ached, even her butt ached from sitting
for so many hours on rock hard benches like the one on
which she was sitting now. She felt grimy in clothes she
had now worn for almost twenty-four hours, her mouth
tasted rank, and her stomach was in knots. All she wanted
to do was go home and burrow under the covers of her bed
for the next five months.
Miserable, feeling sorrier for herself with each passing
minute, she waited.
It wasn't until someone sat hard next to her, jostling her
almost off the bench, that she realized she must have been
drifting on the edge of sleep. With a jump, Robin blinked,
looked to her left. A man with impossibly broad shoulders
had fallen onto the bench next to her. He was wearing a
weathered leather jacket and faded jeans, had a crop of
thick dark brown hair, and when he turned to look at
Robin, he smiled and said with a wink, "Hey."
Exhausted, all Robin saw was someone rude enough to knock
into her, and seeing as how she had endured enough for one
span of twenty four hours, thank you very much, she did
not appreciate it in the least.
"Get real," she muttered, shooting him an ice-cold look,
and scooched over.
"God, what'd I say?"
"Hey," she snapped.
"Oh come on, it can't be that bad," he remarked, as if
they were sitting in a park somewhere.
"What would you know?"
"Okay, so I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bump into you.
Truce?"
Oh no, oh nononooo. She wasn't about to engage. "Excuse
me," she said coolly, "But I'm really not in the mood to
make friends just now." With her hand, she gestured for
him to move. "Justβ¦go away."
"Believe me, lady, I'd love to oblige you," he said, his
voice less friendly, "but in case you haven't noticed,
it's pretty crowded in here."
"You can find another seat."
"Maybe you'd like to find another seat. I've been waiting
two hours."
Two hours? How did he get out so fast? That infuriated
Robin-she had to wait all night, and this dude was out in
two hours? "I was here first!" she insisted petulantly.
"Ah," he said, nodding. "Clearly, I misunderstood." But
instead of moving, he just settled in.
Robin glared at him. "What do you think you are doing?"
"Like I said, the room is full, so unless you can produce
a deed or something that proves you own this bench, I'm
not going anywhere."
"Oh my God!" Robin exclaimed indignantly, and abruptly
stood up.
"Nice talking to you, Miss Congeniality!" he said as she
started to push her way down the row.
"Shut up!" she barked over her shoulder. Three or four
seats down, she glared at two Hispanic men who, after
exchanging a wary glance with one another, moved to make a
seat for her.
She squished in between them like a sardine, then glanced
down the row just as the jailbird got up and sauntered
off. Bastard! But Lordβ¦what a saunter that bastard had!
Even in her dejected, repulsed and generally miserable
state, Robin could not help noticing how fine he was in
his ancient denim jeans and briefly wondered what he might
have done to land himself in hell, but quickly stopped
when he turned abruptly and caught her staring at his
backside. He flashed her a lopsided, knew-it smile. Robin
frowned deeply, turned her attention forward and did not
look again. Except once. Maybe twice. By the time they
finally called her name, she had definitely lost sight of
him and was in such a hurry to get out of that stinking
hellhole that she almost collided with him when she turned
from the window, clutching her freedom on a receipt marked
PAID.
He was standing in line just behind her; Robin gave a
little shriek of surprise and quickly jumped back a foot
or more.
"Oh man⦠well hello again, Sunshine," he drawled.
"Je-sus!" she exclaimed heatedly, holding the hand with
the receipt over her flailing heart as she glared up at
him. "Can't you take a hint?"
"Hey, Your Majesty, I'm just waiting in line like everyone
else."
"Uh-huh, right," Robin responded irritably and wondered
for a split second why men thought women were so ignorant
of their motives. "You know, if I were you, I'd be
worrying about my new cellmate instead of trying to get a
date!"
The man all but choked. He stared down at her, his copper
brown eyes wide with surprise. And then he laughed.
Laughed. Laughed so roundly, as if that was so hilariously
preposterous, that several heads turned in their
direction. But he didn't seem to care-he leaned forward,
bent his head until his mouth was just an inch or two from
her cheek, and said, "Sunshine, you're cuteβ¦" He paused,
lingered there for a tiny moment, his breath warm on her
face, so close that she could smell his cheap (but not
altogether unpleasant) cologne. "β¦but no way are you that
cute. And you're mean." He straightened up. "You know, if
I were you," he said, mimicking her voice, "I'd see
someone about that rod stuck up my butt." With that, he
calmly stepped around her to the payment window.
Okay. Well. She was now officially in hell. Someβ¦jail guyβ¦
had just dissed her, and it was so unbearably humiliating
that Robin beat a hasty retreat out the double glass
doors, into the lobby of the processing center, clutching
her purse and her receipts like a mad escapee, frantically
searching the milling crowd for her grandparents.
Fortunately, her mother's parents were easy to spot. There
was her grandfather, who had the distinct misfortune to
have been named Elmer, and the even greater misfortune, in
his declining years, of actually resembling Elmer. He was
round and squat with hugely enormous feet typically
encased in white Easy Spirits, which heralded his arrival
a good city block before him. And in fact, it was Mr.
Fudd's shoes Robin saw in the lobby before she saw him.
Her grandmother, Lil, was the physical opposite of Elmer.
She was tall and reed thin, and wore big, pink-rimmed
octagonal glasses that covered her cheeks and eyebrows and
made her eyes look like big blue stop signs. She also wore
Easy Spirits. The taupe ones.
Grandma spotted Robin and came hurrying like a squirrel
across the lobby, darting in and around people in her
haste to get to her granddaughter. "Robbie!" she
exclaimed, and grabbed her in a bear hold, nearly
squeezing the breath from her. "Oh my God, Sweet pea! What
has happened!"
"Robbie-girl, you all right?" Grandpa asked, rescuing her
from Grandma's grip.
"I'm fine," Robin insisted. "It's really so stupid. I'll
tell you all about it in the car, but please, let's just
get out of here," she urged, ushering them in the
direction of the door.
Grandpa had scored a prime parking spot into which he had
maneuvered his Chevy Expedition, an SUV the size of a
small condo. Robin gratefully crawled into the cavernous
back seat.
"Buckle in, hon. Now, are we going to hear what you did?"
Grandma insisted, fastening her seat belt.
Best to get it over. "I got stopped for speeding-"
"Speeding! Where?" Grandpa insisted.
"On 610β"
"Well now, 610, that's just a death trap."
"βAnd I guess I sort of mouthed off a little. I mean, I
wasn't doing any faster than anyone else, and I told the
cop so."
"That's my girl!" Grandpa said proudly as he coasted out
of the parking lot.
"So he asked me for my license and registration, but the
thing is, I had left them on my desk at work-by the way,
Grandpa, I need to go by my office and get my wallet,
okay? Anyway, I didn't have my license or registration,
and suddenly I'm a criminal! So the cop told me to step
out of the car, andβ¦well, I just thoughtβ¦I just thought
that he was overreacting and I shouldn't have to step out
of the car."
"Well, he should have taken your word for it!" Grandma
said with an indignant nod of her head. "Surely when you
told him your name he ran some sort of check or whatever
they do in their cars to make sure you weren't lying!"
Robin squirmed.
Grandma swiveled sharply to look at her. "Well?" demanded
Grandma. "Didn't he?"
Robin sighed, leaned her head against a headrest covered
with a pink baby T-shirt. "I was really tired and really
cranky, and I didn't exactly tell him who I was. I just
sort of thought it wasn't his business. So he arrested
me."
Grandpa gave a shout of laughter, but Grandma threw a hand
over her mouth and stared at Robin in horror for a
moment. "Can they do that?"
"Apparently," she answered dryly. "He arrested me for
failure to identify myself, driving without a license, and
driving without insurance!"
"Oh my goodness, what does this mean?" Grandma asked.
Robin grimaced at her grandmother's look of shock, and
turned away, to the window, where cars where swerving from
behind Grandpa and whizzing past as he pushed the SUV up
to 60. "It means they convicted me of a Class C
misdemeanor, took $750 dollars for their trouble, and told
me to go home."
"Did you see any murderers in there?" Grandpa asked.
"Elmer! This is no joking matter!"
"I didn't think that was joking!"
"Grandpa, don't forget to go by my office, okay?"
Grandpa acknowledged her request by putting his blinker on
a good two or three miles before their exit.
"Well you can't work today," Grandma said in a huff. "You
don't want everyone knowing why you were late-Aaron
wouldn't like that at all."
Honestly, Robin didn't know anymore. Maybe Dad would think
she deserved to be publicly humiliated. "I just need to
get my things and a couple of files, that's all. Maybe
Grandpa can go in for me," Robin said absently.
"I just can't believe you have been arrested," Grandma
said, and shook her head again.
Too exhausted to think, Robin stared out the window, felt
her eyelids growing heavy. The next thing she heard was
Grandpa, saying, "Uh-oh. Looks like a fire."
Robin opened her eyes and glanced out the front
windshield. As her mind began to grasp that they were on
the street of her office, she suddenly grabbed the back of
Grandpa's seat. "Oh my God!" she cried. It couldn't be.
Couldn't be! Robin quickly counted the floors of her
office building and felt her heart sink to her toes. Oh
yes, it could be, and it was. The LTI offices were on
fire. Her office was on fire.
In front of her, Grandpa shook his head. "Some fool
probably left a cigarette burning or a computer on or
something like that," he opined, disgusted.
Left something on the suggestion was suddenly clawing at
Robin's throat, choking her. The coffeepot. She had left
the coffeepot on.
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