The Truth is in the Wine (23 page)

“Damn. I'll pray for you,” the man said, and they both laughed.

“So you're into wines?” the guy asked Paul.

“Love wines,” he answered. “Trying to get more into them. So this is an important trip for me. Had some great wines already, though. Had the best wine I ever had tonight.”

“The crazy thing about this place is that if you went out every night out here, you could probably say that every night,” the cellmate said. “That's why I come up here. I watch the movie
Sideways
and I get on the road.”

“Ah, man—what's your name?” Paul asked.

“Roger.”

“I'm Paul, Roger. I can't believe you mentioned
Sideways
. I watched it before I left, too. There are so many scenes I like. But there's this scene where Virginia Madsen's character tells Paul Giamatti's character why she loves wine… What she says and how she says it, it makes you want to drink wine.”

“Paul—Paul, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I know the scene you're talking about,” Roger said. “I know it by heart.”

“Come on, man. No way,” Paul said.

“OK, check it out. She says, ‘The more I drink, the more I liked
what it made me think about…like to think about the life of wine. How it's a living thing…like to think about what was going on the year the grapes were growing, how the sun was shining, if it rained? I like to think about all the people who tended and picked the grapes, and if it's an old wine how many of them must be dead by now. I like how wine continues to evolve. Like, if I opened a bottle of wine today it would taste different from if I opened it any other day, because a bottle of wine is actually alive and it's constantly evolving and gaining complexity. That is, until it peaks…and then it begins its steady, inevitable decline… And it tastes so fucking good.' ”

“Oh, shit,” Paul said. “That's amazing. How could you—wait. You said you live in L.A… You're an actor.”

“Yes,” he said. “Typical struggling L.A. actor. But I loved what she said and I used that as one of my monologues for auditions. It's easy to do because I agree with what she says, so it's almost an emotional thing, like it's really coming from me.”

“That's crazy you would recall
that
particular scene,” Paul said.

“I know,” Roger said. “I wish I could write like that. Just thoughtful writing.”

“And the person had to be a wine-lover,” Paul said. “How else could he be so emotional about wine?”

Paul's experience took a turn for the better. He was paired in a jail cell with a wine lover and actor who loved to talk about wine. In Atlanta, Paul had a few friends that appreciated wine, but none of them could really discuss wine the way they would sports or the stock market—with passion and knowledge.

“I'm like you—someone who likes wine and wants to get better at understanding them,” Roger said. “I was up here one time and happened to meet someone who took me to a sommelier event where there were about thirty of the best wine experts in the world in one room.

“So there is this contest—whatever sommelier that can identify this one red wine would win ten thousand dollars. I was standing there, saying to myself, ‘This is going to be fun.'

“Well, it wasn't fun, really.”

“What?” Paul said.

“It was amazing,” Roger said.

“These guys…let me tell you what happened. So, the wine is in this decanter. They pour each sommelier some of it. They're sitting around this huge table. So, you realize there are millions of wines in the world. Millions. But they have to identify the year, the region of the world and the actual name of the wine.

“I'm thinking, ‘How can this be? No one can do that.'

“So, they get the wine and everyone looks at it on the table for about, I don't know, seven, eight minutes. They just stare at it. Then they pick it up and hold it above their heads and look at it again, trying to determine the age. The next thing was to smell it. So they stick their noses damn near in the wine. It was crazy. They got a clear, deep smell of the wine.

“They do that a couple of times and then they begin swirling it in its glass—two fingers between the stem and circulate it while it's sitting on the table. They're helping it to breathe. This goes on for about five minutes. And I'm like, ‘I don't care what you do. No way someone gonna be able to figure out one out of a million wines. No way.' ”

Paul listened as a child would a bedtime story. He was totally engrossed.

“So, it's literally about forty-five minutes later,” Roger continued, “and no one has said a word. They are all studying this wine, swirling, it, smelling it, staring at it. Finally, after all the foreplay, they finally start tasting the wine. Still, no one has said a word because the one thing they can't afford to be is wrong. It would be horrible for their reputation.

“So finally, almost an hour into this thing, one guy raises his hand. He says it's a 1976 Chateau so-and-so from Southern Italy or some place. I can't remember exactly what it was. But he was
right
. Can you believe that? This guy figured out this wine forty-something year-old wine from Italy from just studying it and tasting it. The other guys clapped politely for him. I wanted to give my man a hug and a high-five. It was amazing.”

“Damn,” Paul said. “That's what you call being an expert in your field.”

Both men were quiet for a moment as they took in the story. For those few minutes, they were not in jail. They were in that room with some of the best wine experts in the world.

“What was the wine that made you fall in love with wine?” Roger asked.

“It was a Fairview Pinotage 2002, I believe,” Paul answered.

“A South African wine?” Roger said.

“Yes. My boy, D.J.'s wife, Wanda, went there for a visit and brought me back a bottle,” Paul explained. “I had never had a Pinotage before. It's grown only in a few places in the world but especially in South Africa. Something about the soil. Well, I loved it. It made me feel like wine could be a meal. It was hearty and fruity and robust. It was different from any wine I had ever had. It was the wine that brought me all the way in.”

“I understand how you feel,” Roger said. “What did it for me was a 2008 Tobin James Fatboy Zinfandel. I always liked wine, but this one goes down smooth, like an expensive cognac. All the dark berries are evident. And it's 16.2 alcohol content, so it gets you there. I heard a guy call it ‘sex in a bottle.' And you know what? You drink a bottle of that with your woman and you'll get lucky for sure.”

They talked of wine—viogniers, pinots, chardonnays, merlots—until the sun came up, starting a day they hoped would not end
like the day before. They talked because they couldn't sleep and because discussing wine kept them from thinking about where they were.

So into the discussion was Paul that he hardly thought about Ginger and the abortion. And he was glad about that because he still had not figured out how to process it. But Ginger said they needed to talk and he hoped something would come out of it to make him feel better. But that would be later.

Paul and Roger were corralled along with about twenty other inmates and shepherded to the courtroom in the detention center. Paul felt the weight of his trip as he stood for before Judge Jenson, who looked fresh and alert. He had an upbeat spirit.

Paul looked around the courtroom and spotted Ginger, who offered a reassuring smile. He was glad to see her; he smiled back. Paul watched how the judge interacted with the inmates before him. He was expeditious, thorough and seemingly fair, giving Paul a sense of hope. When it was Paul's turn, Judge Jenson said, “OK, you look like an upstanding citizen. What's your deal?”

It was a rhetorical question and Paul realized it, so he did not say anything as the judge examined the paperwork. “OK, Mr. Wall, I don't see any results of a breathalyzer. Did you take one?”

“No, your honor.”

“I see,” he said. “Looks like you took the field sobriety test. Didn't do so well, huh? What were you drinking?”

“Sir, I had the best wine of my life at 1313 Main — a bottle of Caymus 2008 Cabernet Sauvignon.”

“That place is great,” the judge said. “I go there on occasion… OK, let's see here. So you stopped in the middle of the intersection, didn't fail the sobriety test but didn't pass it, either. The officer used his judgment, which he is entitled to. But he did not administer a breathalyzer. Can you pay the bail?”

Paul turned to Ginger, who nodded her head.

“Yes, I can, sir,” he said.

“OK, Mr. Wall. They don't have much of a case against you without the breathalyzer, but because it is a DUI case, I'm going to set a court date. See the clerk on your way out and then pay the bond, which is ten per cent of five thousand dollars. And, if I were you, I'd hire a lawyer to negotiate this thing so you don't have to come back out here just for this.”

“Thank you, judge.”

And just like that, Paul was again a free man. He looked at Roger, who was a few feet away. “Good luck, man. Call me,” he said, and Roger nodded his head.

Paul saw the clerk, got some paperwork and went through a side door to claim and change his clothes. Ginger, after paying the bail, waited in the lobby for her husband, unsure of how he would receive her. It was her news that she aborted their child that led him to leaving her at the hotel and the ensuing drinking binge.
Would he blame me?
she worried.

At the same time, she remained flummoxed by learning she again was pregnant.
How could I go from not being able to get pregnant to pregnant twice in about five months? When do I tell Paul? My mother? Helena? Are we ready to have a child?

She was overwrought with concerns and not confident on what to do. She was sure she would tell Paul, though.
This pregnancy was a blessing from God, a chance for me to redeem myself to Him and regain whatever I lost from my husband.

Then she thought:
What if he's so angry with me that he wants out? What if he believes he can't trust me?

She was going to play more games with her mind, but Paul emerged from the locked doors. Their eyes met…and there was no animosity between them. There was relief.

Otis' story about losing his daughter and wife resonated with Paul. He wasn't sure if he would not deteriorate as Otis had without his girls. And now that he had financial means, it was the time for them to come together, not pull apart. He faced the fact that while Ginger's decision on abortion was extreme, she never would have taken that path if he hadn't lost all confidence in who he was and said he wanted a divorce.

Ginger was remorseful that she acted out of spite and anger instead of calm and responsibility. Despite Paul's claims, she came to the belief that it was her responsibility to share her pregnancy news with her husband and let them decide together what route to take. She told him what she did as a way of overcoming her guilt, but it only heightened animosity in the relationship.

So now they were face-to-face after so many personal revelations, and they were unabashed in their remorse and shared responsibility for their plight.

“Thank you for being here,” Paul said, hugging Ginger. “I'm sorry about all this.”

“I'm sorry, too, Paul,” she said, holding her man tightly. “I am so sorry.”

They hugged for an extended period. When they finally let go, Ginger used the back of her hand to wipe away tears.

“It's OK,” Paul said. “I'm OK, and we're OK. Let's get back to our vacation. We have one more day in California. I have some plans for us.”

Ginger pulled out her vibrating phone. It was Brenda, Paul's mother.

“He's right here,” Ginger said, handing over the phone.

“I'm good, Ma. No problem. Everything's fine. We're headed back to the hotel. Ah, huh. Yes… It was bad, but… Ma, we'll be there in twenty minutes. No, maybe longer. We've got to go get
the car. They impounded it. So we'll get the car and be there in the next hour… OK. Ma, I'm fine. OK. Love you, too.”

He ended the call and looked at Ginger. “It's not like I was in Sing Sing or Alcatraz,” he said.

“A parent will be a parent until the end,” she said.

He nodded his head, grabbed her hand and they headed out to retrieve the rental car.

When they got back to the hotel, Madeline and Brenda were in the lobby, waiting.

“Let me look at you,” Madeline said to Ginger.

“Why are you worried about her? I was the one in jail,” Paul said.

“You don't know?” Brenda said.

“Know what?” Paul asked

“I wasn't feeling well last night,” Ginger said, “so after I left the jail I went to the emergency room.”

“You OK? What did they say?” Paul asked.

“I'm fine,” she said. “Better than ever. Just had some stomach issues.”

“What did they say, though?” Paul asked.

“That I'm fine,” Ginger answered. She did not want to tell him standing right there in the lobby. She was not sure the best scenario to tell him, but she knew that was not it. “I had some ginger ale and I felt better.”

She was convincing enough that no one questioned her.

“Well, what's the plan for the day?” Paul said. “I've got to get a nap. I did not sleep at all last night.”

“I bet you didn't; I wouldn't,” Brenda said. “How bad was it?”

“Terrible. Humiliating,” he said. “But I met some interesting people. But I can't talk about it now. I need a good, long shower and at least a two-hour nap. Let's have lunch by the pool around twelve-thirty.”

They agreed to do so, and Ginger walked with Paul back to their room. The in-laws went for coffee and fruit.

In the room, Paul hardly delayed in getting into the shower. “I have to wash away that experience,” he said. Under the hot water, he felt himself come back to life, the smell and grime and aura of the jail flowed down the drain. He spent an extra ten minutes in the shower, letting the flow douse his hair, the water serving as therapy.