Stash (15 page)

Returning to the dorm, she broke into a jog to see if her knee felt better, but it always felt fine at the start of a run, and she slowed to a walk after a few strides.

When she got back to her room she went down the hall to where her roommate, Jen, was hanging out with Mark, her new boyfriend. A rerun of
Friends
was on the TV, although no one paid much attention. Steve, who also lived on their floor but already was avoiding his roommate, was sunk in the room’s one chair with his laptop. Mark and Jen sat together in the middle of Mark’s bed, holding hands. Mark roomed single, which meant Dana pretty much had a single now, too, since Jen had spent the last four nights with Mark. Dana couldn’t believe the speed with which Jen and Mark had become a couple.

Jen and Mark slid over to make room for Dana.

“
Friends
again?”

“It’s on every night.”

“You at the library?”

“I’m writing a paper on this Margaret Atwood story.”

Steve looked up at Dana while continuing to type on his laptop. “I’ve read Atwood,” he said.
“The Handmaid’s Tale.”

“That’s the one everyone’s read. It’s not her best.”

“I liked it.”

“I saw the movie. It was creepy.”

“How’s government policy?”

“Also creepy.”

“Steve’s already planning significant changes to the Constitution,” Mark said.

“Those would be called amendments,” said Steve.

“The first one would lower the drinking age and legalize recreational drug use.”

Dana liked Steve. She shared a Monday-Wednesday-Friday class with him—intro to poli sci—and twice now they’d stopped for coffee together on their way, both half asleep, Steve with bed head, Dana in whatever sweatshirt she’d slept in. He treated her like a political ally. He told her that his girlfriend back home in Syracuse was coming to visit this weekend, much to his ambivalence.

Mark said, “I’m telling you, your fake ID business will come back to haunt you, Steve. Everything from your past gets dug up when you’re in an election.”

“When the journalists come knocking on my door for the dirt on you, I won’t tell,” Dana said.

“I won’t, either,” Jen said. “Unless it’s Anderson Cooper. He’s pretty hot.”

“He’s old. He’s got gray hair.”

“It’s blond.”

“Gray.”

“Blond-gray.”

“I don’t care, he’s red hot.”

“Yes, I’ve got it!” Steve said to his laptop. “There’s still tickets for Grace Potter this weekend in Potsdam. Who’s in?”

Mark and Jen simultaneously said, “We are.”

“What about you, Dana?”

“We’ve got our first meet on Saturday, I can’t go.”

“The concert’s Friday night,” Jen reminded her.

“A lot you know about athletics,” Steve said. “You can’t go out the night before a big game.”

“It’s not a game, it’s a meet.”

“And you can’t have sex the night before.”

“That’s just a myth.”

“It’s not an issue anyway.”

“We’ll have you home in time.”

“How’s your knee?”

“It’s pretty sore right now.”

“Well, if you can’t run this weekend, then you can go with us to the concert.”

“No,” Dana said, “I can’t go. I have a race.” She left it at that. She’d be at the starting line with her team in Plattsburgh on Saturday morning. Had to be.

They had been to Roger’s firm once before, when they purchased the house in Tear Lake and sought Roger’s expertise on the contract. Since that time Roger had become a managing partner and moved to a corner office on the sixth floor with one window offering a view of the river and the other facing the restaurants and bars lining Pearl Street.

Roger settled them around a table and asked if they wanted coffee. Neither did. Two framed photographs guarded either corner of his desk. One of Marlene on her wedding day twelve years ago, her face smooth and smile soft, lacking lines around her cheeks and eyes, her veil framing her face. The other photo showed a close-up of Marlene and Roger with their arms around Josh and Abby, the four of them squeezed together. It looked fairly recent by the ages of the kids. The flash from the camera reflected off Roger’s forehead, which had gotten higher the last couple of years.

Gwen and Roger knew more about each other than clients and attorneys should—with all of the disclosure flowing through Marlene. Roger was married to a woman who treated intimate details about their personal life like giveaways at trade shows. Anyone coming by could have some. Marlene told Gwen about everything, from the big blowouts when Roger had gone so far as to get in his car intending to leave and igniting a crying scene in
the driveway, to big blow jobs she gave him, some as rewards for favors such as taking her on a clothes shopping spree, others in return for going down on her, which he did only when asked. Only after she’d showered. Yet methodically and with an attention to detail that worked for Marlene.

You’re telling me more than I need to know, Gwen would say. Which would not slow Marlene in the least.

Roger and Marlene each had endured failed first marriages in their early twenties. Marlene missed graduating from college by a single three-credit course, which she had taken an incomplete in and then over the summer had driven cross-country with her boyfriend instead of writing the required paper. Roger, despite finishing near the top of his class, had taken the bar exam three times before passing. Marlene wanted another baby; Roger did not.

In return, Gwen confided in Marlene, who, like any spouse, shared with Roger. Gwen and Brian rarely yelled at each other—their fights were like high school debate team competitions, polite and structured but seething under the surface. Sex was healthy, occasionally spectacular, but not as frequent since the kids were born. How can you simply go from twice a day to twice a week or even less, and hardly notice? She’d told Marlene about a boyfriend in college who committed suicide and afterward Gwen had an abortion because she was pregnant with his child. She would have had the abortion, anyway; the boyfriend, a beautiful guitarist who’d stopped taking his meds for bipolar disorder, killed himself before Gwen could tell him about the pregnancy. Later, she married Brian
because
she was pregnant—well, not only for that reason, but up until the positive pregnancy test they’d never talked about marriage.

The personal details that Gwen and Roger knew about each other could make a professional meeting both intimate and
stilted, as if they were discussing everything except what was on everyone’s mind.

Now they were discussing Gwen’s legal situation, the three of them huddled around the table.

“First off, you did exactly the right thing by not telling Keller anything,” Roger said. “He shouldn’t have been badgering you at the PTA meeting.”

“So she shouldn’t divulge where she got the pot from?” Brian asked.

“What I’m saying is all communication goes through me. From now on you don’t say hi to Detective Keller without asking me first. Because it’s getting a little complicated. I spoke with Keller yesterday and what normally might be a simple DUI has turned into a crusade for the Morrissey PD.”

“What do you mean?” Gwen asked.

Roger repeated most of what Keller had told Gwen: arrests and incidents involving drugs were trending up in town; break-ins, vandalisms, and even a recent bank robbery were linked to drug users seeking money and valuables to pay for their habit. Two high school students were expelled just this past May for having quantities of prescription painkillers in their locker. A maintenance man found a bong under the middle-school field bleachers. Police and parents feared that Morrissey was getting a reputation as the drug capital of upstate.

“We all read about the high-school incident,” Brian said, “but what does it have to do with Gwen? Or the bong. She had a small bag of marijuana in the car. She’s on the PTA board, for God’s sake. She’s a mother of two kids in the schools. She’s never been in trouble in her life.” He looked at her and took her hand.

“All true, and I laud you for defending your wife. But the police are applying pressure in all drug arrests in the town. That’s why they spoke to the DA about Gwen’s case—and other cases.”

“What kind of charges are they talking about?” Gwen asked.

Roger stroked his chin. “I’ll temper this by saying the charge will never hold. I mean, it’s outrageous.” He paused.

“Come on,” Brian said.

“The DA mentioned vehicular manslaughter.”

Gwen stiffened in her seat.

Roger quickly added, “It’s an outlandish charge, and like I said it will never hold up.”

“This is absurd,” Brian said. “The other driver was at fault, we all know that. Even the investigative report confirmed it. He crossed the double line and hit Gwen. If he hadn’t done that, we wouldn’t be sitting here today. Nothing would have happened.”

“That pretty much sums it up,” Roger agreed, “although the investigative report is still classified as preliminary.”

“Then how do you get vehicular manslaughter out of it?” Brian said.

“It’s just the way it works sometimes. You tell them what they want to know and they drop the charges—probably all charges, even the DUI—and you walk away. You don’t tell them and they bring up charges of vehicular manslaughter.”

Gwen began making soft percussive sounds, tears filled her eyes. Whatever resolve she’d had finally eroded. She’d been waking up every night replaying the accident, the lightning sequence, the split-second confusion, her sudden reaction. How could she be sure she’d done enough? Still, the leap between uncertainty and vehicular manslaughter crossed a wide chasm. It wasn’t right.

Brian reached across the table and stroked her face, thumbed away a stream of tears. Gwen looked up and composed herself.

“I’m sorry,” Roger said. “Do you want to take a break? Can I get you some water?”

Gwen shook her head. “But what’s the point if the charges can’t hold?” she asked.

“The point is that when they charge you with vehicular manslaughter it becomes a big story in Morrissey—especially given all the attention to the drug problems. Front page news in the
Morrissey Bee
. Remember how eager you were to keep your name out of the police blotter after the arrest? This time Richard won’t suppress the story. Everyone finds out you were high, had a bag of pot in your possession, got into an accident in which someone died, and later, when the final investigative report comes out and the charges don’t hold and are dropped—by then the damage is done. Sure, there will be some sympathy for you from your friends and the more compassionate citizens, but you’ll be branded with the scarlet letter. You’ll be a witch living in Salem. You’ll be …”

Gwen cut him off. “I get the picture. So what do we do?”

No one spoke. Roger waited.

Brian broke the silence. He faced Gwen and said, “It’s pretty obvious.”

Gwen had been thinking about Jude while Roger was speaking, recognizing the inevitable current of the conversation.

Brian turned to Roger. “That’s the right thing to do, isn’t it? Give up the supplier.”

“There aren’t a lot of other options,” Roger agreed. “I hate to say it, but it’s the way the system works.”

“But I didn’t get it from a dealer,” Gwen said. “He’s just a friend who did me a favor.” Ratting out Jude didn’t make sense. It was an act of betrayal against someone who had helped her out. She had promised him not to tell anyone.

“Is he really a friend?” Brian said, his voice rising a note. “You haven’t had any other contact with him in years. Have you?”

“But he was just doing me a favor.”

Brian said, “That’s what drug dealers do: they make themselves available to you, they get what you ask for, they act like your friend.”

“I’m telling you, he’s not a drug dealer.”

“Of course he’s a drug dealer. He sold you drugs, didn’t he? He didn’t give them to you, did he? You didn’t barter, did you?”

She tensed under Brian’s questioning. “Stop interrogating me,” she shot back.

Then Brian leveled his voice, and said flatly. “Gwen, tell Roger who it is.”

Gwen turned to Roger. “Part of what I got was for you and Marlene. What if this had happened to Marlene? Or even you, Roger? Would you tell the police that I was your drug dealer?”

Roger shifted in his seat. Brian stood and walked to the window, leaned against the tall pane of glass.

Roger said, “Gwen, you can’t focus on hypothetical events that could have or should have or might have happened. Just think about what has happened—has happened to you. Think about the current situation that’s in front of you right now.”

“I am thinking about it! And I’m thinking maybe we need a different attorney, one who would have stood up to the DA against their extortion tactics. And for my rights.”

Seeing the flash of hurt in his eyes, Gwen regretted what she’d said. But she felt trapped and continued to lash out. “I mean, this is ridiculous that I’m in this situation. I should be facing a misdemeanor charge at worst.”

“I’m willing to step away and recommend someone else,” Roger said. “I made that offer the first day and it still holds. In fact, maybe it’s the best idea. But that won’t change anything. You’ll still be in the same position: give up the name of your dealer or face the charges.”

“Gwen, I don’t think you’re saying you want a different lawyer,” Brian added, still looking out the window.

“I’m sorry,” Gwen said. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I’m just upset. I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Think about our goal,” Brian said. “We want this problem to go away, and this is how you make that happen. I don’t see any other course of action.”

“That’s a good way to look at it,” Roger said. He hadn’t made eye contact with Gwen since she’d insulted him. “It’s how you make the problem go away.”

Gwen raked her hands through her hair, loosening the clip holding her bangs to the side. She fixed the clip and sighed. She exchanged a glance with Brian, and he gave her a nod of encouragement. It would be easier if he would spit out Jude’s name—he knew where she’d gotten the bag—and then she could blame him for breaking the trust. But he wasn’t going to let her off the hook. She had to make the decision.