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“Deede,” he replied in his best lawyer voice, “I have to have this today. Can you come up to my office today and give me a check?”

“I don't know,” I said, thoroughly agitated. I handed the phone back to Faith and marched from the room.

Dan dropped by the house about that time. “What?” he asked, seeing my face.

“Otto wants another thousand dollars for the court appearance day after tomorrow,” I said. “What the heck did he do to earn that $1,700 we gave him recently?”

“Don't give him another penny.”

“The court date is only one day away, Dan. He's got us over a barrel and he knows it.”

“Deede, I wouldn't give him another penny until after the court thing. Let's let him earn it.”

“That's not how Sir Otto does things, Dan. You know that. I'll have to go write him a check or Faith's up the creek without representation.”

“I'm against it,” Dan said, shaking his head disparagingly as he left to get in his work truck.

I was against it, too, but I had no recourse.

“He's a jerk,” Faith said more times than I could count that afternoon.

Not for the first time, I whole-heartedly agreed.

An hour later, Dan called and wanted to pick me up and go for lunch in Greenville. On the drive to the Green Tomato Buffet, I answered my cell phone. It was Faith.

“Otto's furious,” she said. “He said ‘what does your mom mean going out to lunch when I told her to come immediately and pay me for the court plea?'” Faith snorted. “Can you believe his ego? Stop this world and cater to Otto.”

“Yes. I'm acquainted with his ego. Mr. Otto will have to wait until I finish my meal, and if I have time, I'll go to his office and pay him.” Then I laughed. “Why can't he wait until tomorrow? The court date is the next day. What's his hurry?”

“He says that if you don't pay him
, today,
he's not going to lift a finger to help me.” She sighed heavily. “He'll squash me like a bug under his foot. I'm serious, Mom.”

I feared that he would. I couldn't chance that.

So later in the afternoon, I arrived at Otto's nice office. He was the epitome of a gentleman when I sat down across his wide mahogany desk from him.

I described to him in detail the progress Faith had made in recent months. Told him of the year-long drug rehab she'd finished, the one that nearly bankrupted us.

“Otto, do you think you can get Faith's probation transferred to LA?” I clarified for him in detail the wonderful success stories coming out of church-based Daystar Center.

“No problem,” he said. “I'll get her transferred and the first year she's there will be considered sentence served.”

“Are you sure?” I asked pen poised over check.

“Absolutely. It's done all the time.

“Then write me a receipt showing what this check covers.”

He did as I asked and I handed him the check. Immediately, he arose, “I'll walk you to your car.”

I thought, it's not my imagination after all. The money is all that matters.

I am dismissed.

We chatted on the way down the stairs and when we reached the car, he waved goodbye without even pausing or looking back. I felt extremely
had.
But I reminded myself that I'm a fair person and know that lawyers are busy folks and they don't work for nothing. I brushed off the
used
feeling and, with no other choice available, entrusted Faith's future into Otto's hands.

Two days later, Dan drove Faith to court. “I haven't heard a word from Otto so I don't even know if I'll go before the judge, Dad,” she told her father. “There's no need for you to stay and wait. This could take hours so I'll just call you when we're finished.”

Later in the day, when my phone rang, I expected to hear the good news of Faith's parole transference to LA.

Instead, Faith moaned, “Mom, Otto threw me under the bus. I'm so upset I don't know what to do.”

“What?” Alarm buzzed all over me like a crazy swarm of bees.

“Otto only talked to me about three minutes before we went before the judge. I thought he was doing a plea deal — which he should have done — but he didn't. He
told me to keep my mouth shut during the hearing. Not to say a word. Oh Mom — ”

“What happened, honey?” I asked knowing she was torn to bits. Trying to hold together.

Seemed Otto had apparently decided to present her as a hopeless druggie, not allowing her to correct him at crucial misinformation points. Lies. Not a word about the drug rehab she'd completed the past year. At one point, when she tried to tell the judge that she'd not been on heroin, Otto told her to “shut up. I told you not to speak.”

“It was so humiliating, Mom,” she said.

Otto miscalculated. He thought erroneously that the judge would agree to transfer Faith to the Los Angeles recovery center as an extreme measure.

“The entire thing backfired, Mom. The judge decided that I needed a real lesson and placed me under house arrest for six months, and when Otto asked that it be transferred to LA, the judge almost laughed in his face. Then on top of that, I face
two years probation,
plus another round of drug rehab. It's horrible, Mama.”

I was in total shock. “Oh God,” I groaned, in tears, “Rehab ? Why?”

“Because that jerk Otto convinced the judge that I was a hopeless druggie, that's why.” Faith wept softly. She looked so exhausted my heart broke.

I groaned. “They'll put that awful chemical in you again. It did terrible things to you before.”

“I know. I hated it.” And she had. Methadone had nearly destroyed her health.

“This time, if it has to be, you will take suboxone. You did much better on that in the end.”

“You're right,” she agreed.

Dan was inconsolable. “I can't take this again, Deede. I can't. I've already put her through drug rehab at the cost of thousands of dollars, plus probation and other court related costs … it's not fair. We're the ones getting the punishment.”

We found out immediately that the extra costs for us would be over eight hundred dollars a month. The cost alone of wearing the house-arrest ankle bracelet was eight dollars per day. Then the weekly report-in to Sentinel cost forty-two dollars. Drug rehab was around $300 per month. Random drug tests were extra. And on and on. This — on top of our already overly-burdened finances — was more than we could bear at times.

This did not account for the extras of transportation to and from, with rising gas prices gouging us relentlessly. Dan rose early daily to transport Faith to the treatment center and later, the evening NA meetings.

We — Faith, Dan and I — could not even encourage each other, so we sequestered ourselves separately, as depressed as one can get. Desperation clawed. We'd been so close to the tunnel's end.

Now this.

And for the first time in a long, long time, I asked,
Why, God?

And then a miracle happened.

Not overnight. But slowly and steadily, our family began to come together in harmony. The house arrest made it impossible for Faith to abuse rules. She knew that any small violation would mean prison time for her. So she had to stick to the schedule, to the letter. She was
accountable for her space and activities every minute of the day.

Dan began to relax and allow Faith some freedom from his policing. He now realized that he'd been obsessive at times. And he found that he could bend a little and allow Faith to drive our vehicles when absolutely necessary. After all, she was monitored every time she left the house and had to be back inside by a certain designated time. She didn't have time to gad about and get into trouble as she once had.

Bottom line: Faith knew that even one small violation could land her in prison.

Discipline was now the word. And Faith was the one who strictly adhered to it.

Me? With the terrible battle between father and daughter relaxing, my own stress began to wane. I tried to cut corners to help with the financial pressures. Faith did her part by revving up her coupon mania. She was a genius at it and ended up being paid to buy groceries at the best of times.

One weekend, when Dan and I took a trip to Charleston to visit our friends Shirley and Jim, Dan left Faith the key to his Land Rover.

“Thanks, Dad,” Faith said. “I'll be really careful and return it as clean as it is now.”

It was a great feeling, knowing that she was on a tightly monitored system, and we didn't have to worry. Not for a second.

We kept in touch regularly via cell phones. “Poopsie's really missing Dad,” Faith said on our second day. “She watches the door constantly.” We always got a big laugh over that one. Dan had at one time said, “I won't have a dog in this house.” And then Faith brought Poopsie home
one day. She immediately migrated to Dan, who, after a few days stand-off, melted into putty beneath her tiny paws.

Then on the third day, Faith said, “Aunt Priss came by today and stayed a couple of hours. She cooked spaghetti and homemade sauce. It was delicious. I love her, Mama.”

“I'm glad she's there for you, honey.”

We went out to supper that last night in Charleston. We had a wonderful seafood buffet and then Shirley spotted a friend and waved him over to our table.

“Dan and Deede, meet our friend Nathan Milton. He's a state house representative and he's also a criminal defense lawyer.”

“I'm impressed,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Call Kay over and join us,” Shirley and Jim insisted. He collected his beautiful blonde wife to join us for coffee and dessert.

“Tell me what's happening with Faith now,” Shirley said.

I began to fill her in on what had happened since she had put in an application for Faith's acceptance to the Los Angeles Daystar Center. “They agreed for Faith to come to Daystar Center, but the court thing really turned out badly,” I finished up the account. “But all is not lost. We're learning to live together again without wanting to kill each other.'

Everyone laughed, except Nathan. He looked thoughtful. “Is Otto still on the case?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, rolling my eyes, “as much as he's ever been.”

“Get him to call me,” Nathan said, handing me his card. “I might be able to help.”

I put the card in my purse and forgot about it for a few days.

Then one day, I got an e-mail. It was from my new friend Nathan, the criminal defense lawyer. “Is there anything I can do to help? There's not much I can do as long as another attorney has the case. I could only take charge if Otto is no longer on the case. I would do it without charge. But in the meantime, I do think he should file a motion for reconsideration.”