Time Off for Good Behavior

Chapter One

The court date fell on the Friday of what had been a very bad week for me as an account executive at Hastings Channel 8. Any week in which you take people
’
s money and give them airtime is a bad week, bu
t that week had been unusually degrading, seeing as I
’
d dropped my card off at more than thirty businesses and had, in no particular order, been screamed at, spit on, and called a bloodsucking leech.

On that Friday morning, I put runs in two separate pairs
of panty hose, was forced to wake up my landlady so she could get her nephew in 2B to give my crappy Hyundai a jump, and stained my favorite skirt with cheap, 7-Eleven coffee. By the time the bailiff escorted me to the witness stand, I was already in a b
a
d mood and would have been snippy with Mother Teresa. As it was, the defense lawyer representing the sleaze-balls at Hastings Gas & Electric, who were responsible for the explosion three years ago that destroyed Whittle Advertising and nearly killed me, w
a
s definitely not Mother Teresa.

Instead, he was a pencil-faced guy, the kind who couldn
’
t smile without sneering just a little. The sort of guy who had a membership at the most exclusive golf club in town but brought a calculator to restaurants so he could
figure out a 15 percent tip to the penny. As a matter of fact, I was pretty sure he was the same guy I spotted at the Wal-Mart last year, demanding that the Salvation Army volunteer stop ringing that damn bell and write him up a receipt.

“
How are you feel
ing today, Ms. Lane?
”
he asked, looking up at me from the files on the defense table.

“
Never better,
”
I lied. The fluorescent lighting was giving me a headache, and I had cramps. But damned if I was gonna let Pencil Face know that.

“
Okay, then,
”
he said, a
pproaching me at the witness stand.
“
Let
’
s get started. What time did the explosion occur?
”

“
About nine in the morning.
”
I shifted in my seat and rolled my head to loosen my neck. The courtroom was eerily reminiscent of a motel convention room, and it smel
led like the plastic covering you put down to protect the floor when you paint. The jury sat on orange plastic seats, most of which wobbled when they shifted their weight. I was sitting on a swivel office chair that squeaked if I turned to the left. I gue
s
sed comfortable courtrooms weren
’
t a huge priority when the Hastings, Tennessee, powers-that-be made out the city budget. Either that or someone was buying on the cheap and lining their pockets with the difference. Knowing lawyers and politicians, I
’
d bet
dollars to doughnuts it was option number two.

“
And where were you immediately prior to the explosion?
”

“
Sitting at my desk.
”

Pencil Face nodded, pacing in front of the witness stand in a piss-poor Gregory-Peck-as-Atticus-Finch affectation. I looked behind
him and saw the HG&E reps leaning back with smug expressions and smoothing their five-hundred-dollar ties like they were out for drinks instead of in civil court for blowing up the building in which Whittle Advertising held a corner office. They were the
same weasels who came at me in the hospital when I was still hopped up on Demerol and got me to sign papers promising I wouldn
’
t sue if they paid my medical bills.

Fine by me, guys. I never said I wouldn
’
t testify.

I glanced over at Faye Whittle and her la
wyer, who were sitting at the plaintiff
’
s table with their arms crossed over their chests. Faye
’
s brown hair hovered like a bird
’
s nest over her thin, puckered face, and all appearances indicated that the tremendous pole she
’
d had shoved up her ass when I
was working for her was still firmly in place. Her attorney was short, fat, and bald and looked alarmingly like a bullfrog.

I turned my attention back to Pencil Face, who continued to toss out the questions.
Did you notice anything unusual?
Yes, I smelled
gas.
And what did you do?
I told Faye that I smelled gas.
And what happened next?
Faye told me to stay at my desk and keep working, and she went across the street to call HG&E.
There weren
’
t any phones in the building
? No, it was a new building. That
’
s why
the gas line was still being installed.
What happened then?
I needed some sticky notes, so I went into the supply closet and turned on the light. When my hand touched the metal plate on the switch, there was a shock of static electricity. And then...

Boom.

“
Boom?
”
Pencil Face looked up from the notes he was flipping through at the defense table. My irritation surged.

“
Yeah,
”
I said.
“
Boom. The place went up. So did my hair, and the sleeves of my dress, which flamed up and burned my hands and my arms, altho
ugh I didn
’
t notice so much because I was busy trying to figure out why my ass was suddenly wedged between the back wall and the filing cabinet.
”
I stared point-blank at one of the smarmy HG&E reps as I spoke. He never met my eye. Big surprise.

“
Ms. Lane,
I think that word is inappropriate.
”

“
What word?
Cabinet
? Or
wall
?
”
I blinked innocence, trying to grate on his nerves and, from what I could tell, succeeding quite nicely.

“
I think you know which word.
”
Pencil Face turned his beady, narrowed eyes from me
to the jury and went on.
“
So you smelled the gas.
”

“
Yes, I smelled the gas.
”

“
And yet you didn
’
t leave the building? You chose to stay and work even though you knew you were in danger?
”

I shifted in my seat. It squeaked.
“
Faye told me to stay.
”

“
But you sm
elled the gas?
”

“
Yes,
”
I repeated through clenched teeth.

“
Well,
”
Pencil Face said with a well-practiced and humorless laugh,
“
I guess I
’
m just wondering why, if the smell of the gas was so obvious and strong, you stayed in the building.
”

I narrowed my eye
s to slits.
“
Exactly what are you getting at?
”

“
What I
’
m
getting at,
Ms. Lane,
”
he said, his tone thick with mockery,
“
is that you didn
’
t really smell gas, now, did you?
”
I glanced over at Faye and the Bullfrog, who showed no indication that he was plannin
g on objecting to Pencil Face
’
s blatant badgering. Once again, Faye Whittle was proving useless to me. I looked back at Pencil Face.

“
Are you insinuating that I
’
m lying?
”

“
Oh, I
’
m not insinuating anything,
”
he said, wisely backing away from the witness sta
nd and turning to the jury.
“
I
’
m just saying it begs the question.
”

“
Excuse me?
”
I stood up. The judge let out a heavy sigh. I ignored it.
“
Look, you little shit
—
”

“
Ms. Lane.
”
The judge
’
s tone was sharp, but I didn
’
t care. This was personal now.

“
Yes, I sm
elled the gas. But it could have been anything. It could have been next door. I could have slopped some gas on my shoes when I filled my tank that morning. I turned on a light, for Christ
’
s sake. It
’
s not like I smelled gas and lit up a goddamn cigarette,
you pencil-faced butt munch.
”

“
Ms. Lane!
”
I heard the judge slam down her gavel, but I kept my glare locked on Pencil Face. This was one of many moments in my life when it would have behooved me to remember the words my father repeated to me often while I
was growing up:
Wanda, sometimes a battle is worth fighting. And sometimes you just have to know when to shut the hell up.

I leaned forward on the railing that enclosed the witness stand.
“
And another thing, jackass...
”

“
Ms. Lane!
”
The judge was pounding h
er gavel.

“…
if I for one minute thought that staying in that office was going to get me a front-row ticket to six weeks of painkillers and bathing in Neosporin, you would have had to nail-gun my ass to the floor to keep me in that place.
”

“…
held in contemp
t of court if you don
’
t sit down...
”

“
You wanna talk about poor judgment? Let
’
s talk about the fucking dipshits who left an open gas line piping into the building.
”

Pencil Face looked at me, his beady little weasel eyes glittering in the face of conflict.
My chest was heaving with the force of my ragged breath. He moved in close and gave me an empty smirk.

“
Thank you for saving me the time of bringing someone in here to testify about your character,
”
he said, his eyes drifting down to my breasts and back up
to my face, reminding me that I was a woman and he
’
d use that against me if I pushed him.

I almost heard it, the pop and hiss as my fury erupted. I pulled my arm back and swung at Pencil Face. He
’
d turned to glance at his sleazy HG&E guys, so he didn
’
t se
e me coming. It was luck, and not reflexes, that made him move a smidgen to the left. There was a crack, and I felt the cheap witness stand railing give out underneath me. Pencil Face gave a girly screech and jumped out of my way as I fell forward. I can
s
till hear the sound of my head as it slammed with a sickening clunk on the thin carpet that covered the floor, and I can still hear my father
’
s voice seeping up from my memory, laced with disappointment.
Sometimes you just have to know when to shut the hel
l up.