Bliss (17 page)

“Don't worry about me,” she said.

*   *   *

Two days later, Charlie and Leandra flew to London aboard an Emirates Airbus. She packed every item she possessed. When Charlie asked why she had five suitcases for a five-night trip, she said, “A girl has to be prepared for any situation.”

The bank paid for Charlie's first-class ticket, and he paid $10,000 for hers. In just two months, Leandra upgraded her seat and her life from economy to first class. She gazed out the plane window from her catbird seat, and wondered where she could possibly go from here.

 

10

the world's wimpiest biker gang

For two weeks, Demi prepared for her day in court.

First, she hired a lawyer. A Google search for “DUI lawyer Vancouver” netted a surprising number of specialists. Demi set up consultations with three of them based on their websites. Dad was her legal eagle wingman, going to the appointments with her. The last meeting was with John Dooey, Esq. He wore a Vancouver Canucks team jacket and jeans. Dad didn't like his casual Friday on Monday look. Demi found it kind of charming, besides … Go, Canucks!

“My defense will center around the infallibility of the Breathalyzer result,” he said. “Since you tested over by just a hair, your case should be a slam dunk. One,” he counted off on his fingers, “we have the margin of error with the test itself, which puts you in the gray zone. Second, some gastric issues, like burping, while doing the test gives it a higher reading.”

“I did burp!”

“Three, there's a discrepancy of the swaying issue. In your favor, it wasn't shown on the dash cam. Although saying a police officer lied won't necessarily help you.”

Dad said, “So you're going to get her off on a technicality.”

“Not exactly. Technically, legally, she was drunk,” he said, making Demi flinch. “But the technology itself is fundamentally flawed. The strategy works. I've gotten off eighty percent of my clients with borderline readings like Demi's.”

“Sounds good to me,” she said. The Breathalyzer result really stuck in her craw. A one hundredth of a decimal point was going to decide whether she was a criminal, and it seemed wrong. If she were anywhere else in the world, her Breathalyzer test would have gotten her a dirty look and a pass. Instead, she had to pay Dooey his minimum retainer of $4,000, which was the going rate.

Dooey would do his part, and he told Demi she'd have to do hers. “One,” he said, “show up at court on time looking like a Catholic preschool teacher. Two, for the next two weeks, you will bike to work at your father's office. You will bike home and have dinner with your elderly neighbor. You will not go to a bar, or see your friends, or post a photo of yourself partying on Instagram.”

“What's Instagram got to do with…”

“I guarantee you, the judge will have done a lap of your social media to see what you've been up to since your arrest. To be safe, don't post
anything
. You're off Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram for the next two weeks.”

“Okay,” she said. Jesus, this guy was strict. “What else?”

“No drinking, smoking weed, snorting blow, at all. When you appear in court, you will probably be asked to give a urine sample. Your urine has to be squeaky clean. So clean, you'd drink it.”

Demi gulped. “What do you think will happen?”

He shrugged, making the Canuck jacket bunch up around his neck. “Worst-case scenario: You're convicted, pay a fine, probation, community service. You'll lose your license for good. Every potential employer, landlord, bank loan officer, cop, paranoid boyfriend for the rest of your life can find your conviction in court records with a few clicks of a mouse,” he said. “Best-case scenario: You're exonerated. What's likely to happen is something in between.”

Her DUI had cost her $8,000 so far. Half went to Dooey, and the other four grand went to the city of Vancouver to regain possession of her car, which she couldn't do until a city-approved mechanic made all necessary repairs to it (including a semi-detached muffler, caused the night she stalked James's apartment at three
A.M.
).

When all was said and done, she'd be broke by the end of this, regardless of the outcome of her court appearance. Convicted, exonerated, it didn't make a difference to her bottom line. She'd saved for years, and lost it all in weeks. Sometimes it was hard not to take bad luck personally, like God had it in for her. Was it punishment for being an atheist? No matter what her beliefs, Demi was getting tired of having to learn things the hard way.

Dooey sent her the occasional email, but otherwise, Demi didn't speak to him again until her court appearance. Dad and her stepmom, Mary, came to lend moral support. He was noticeably relieved that her lawyer wore a suit to court. He brought an assistant, first-year-law-student niece named Tracy. Tracy was Demi's age, but she acted a lot older, the picture of responsibility, efficiency, and competence. She was cute, too, in a soft gray suit and heels. When she and Demi were introduced, Demi sensed that all the adults in their group were comparing the two of them. Tracy's parents were probably proud of her, and felt confident she'd find her way in the world. Dad and Mary? They'd be thrilled if Demi wasn't sent to prison.

The court proceedings lasted only twenty minutes. Demi had dressed exactly as her lawyer advised, in a cardigan and trousers she borrowed from her stepmom, flats, next to no makeup, and her hair in a tight pony. She sat and stood when instructed by her lawyer. She'd followed his instructions and was ready to pee in a cup and present it to the judge. “My piss, your honor, nice and warm,” she'd say with a wink that might get her thrown in the clink.

But it didn't come to that. No one asked for her precious fluids, or her testimony. Dooey did his thing, and gave a speech he'd probably done a thousand times. She hoped he'd stage a dramatic courtroom stunt of having a random person from the gallery burp into the Breathalyzer, maybe even the judge herself. But no, he just recited the defense, plus a lot of puffery about Demi's promising career in marketing, her upstanding place in the community, and the tragedy of such a promising life being marred by a technological flaw.

Dooey wasn't finished when Judge Klavan, a matronly, big-breasted, thin-haired grandmotherly type, interrupted him. “I've heard enough,” she said. “We can go to trial, or I can give you a judgment right now.”

They huddled at the defense table. “If we go to trial, you'll probably win,” said Dooey.

“Let's go to trial.”

“It'll cost another five thousand dollars.”

“Let's get a judgment right now. Your success rate is eighty percent, right?”

“It's a risk.”

“No risk, no reward.”

“There is no reward,” he said. “The only outcomes are varying degrees of punishment.”

Despite hearing his warning, Demi believed it would all go away with the drop of the gavel. Call it willful delusion or unbridled optimism. “We have a solid defense, and the judge doesn't seem like a hard-ass.”

“Okay,” said Dooey. To the bench, he gave their decision. “We waive the right to a trial.”

Judge Klavan said, “Demi Michaels, you are guilty of driving under the influence. Your driver's license is suspended for twelve months. You're ordered to pay the fine of two thousand dollars. You will do fifty hours of community service. The record of this arrest will be expunged. If you're arrested again for DUI, you will serve jail time. Next case!”

That was it. Dooey and the law student each took an elbow and guided Demi out of the courtroom. Her parents met them in the hallway. Mary dabbed tears of joy from her eyes. Dad slapped Dooey on the back and said, “I knew you were the right choice all along!”

“Guys!” said Demi, breaking up their victory party. “We lost. I got the book thrown right at my forehead.”

The adults all seemed surprised. Dad said, “The record is expunged.”

“I lost my license and all my savings!”

Mary, usually sympathetic, said, “You drove drunk, and you paid the price. You should be
thrilled
your stupid mistake won't destroy your future. I never want to hear you complain about this outcome again.”

The drive back to Dad's was tense, to say the least. If Demi were in grade school, Dad would teach her a lesson by making her write a thank-you note to the judge. It took Mary a minute to calm down and find some compassion, and even longer to stop feeling guilty about crossing the nonbirth-parent line. She hadn't. No one else could have broken through Demi's selfish first reaction to the judgment. But after Mary's brutal honesty, she rethought it. Her parents were right. She should be as relieved as they were.

She really should. One day, she would. But right now, she saw a year on two wheels, picking up trash, and depending on her dad for a paycheck.

*   *   *

That Sunday afternoon, Demi and Catherine set up lawn chairs in the front yard with a pitcher of lemonade and a platter of jerk chicken. She baked a pan of corn bread, too, and gave out squares to all the residents. Wally took one, and asked, “With whole corn? Because that'll give me the runs.”

“No whole corn,” Demi assured him, and he went back to trimming the hedges.

“Why don't you call a friend?” asked Catherine. “You lost your license, but you're not dead.”

“It's only a matter of time.”

“That's true for all of us. I just don't get why you want to sit around with me on this beautiful day.”

“I like hanging with you.” With Catherine, she could relax. She didn't feel pressure to be funny, or a hard drinker, or talk about “her future” (Dad's favorite subject). Sarah had checked in a few times since the arrest, trolling for gossip. Demi texted back that she was laying low until it was all sorted out. Now that it was, Demi didn't feel inclined to get back in touch with her. She was still bruised and battered, not in a party mood. Plus she was broke, and had to rely on pedal power to get anywhere.

“Do your friends even know what happened in court?” asked Catherine.

“I told them it was a close call, but I won't be joining the cast of
Orange Is the New Black
and won't get a cool prison nickname, like Squeaks or Sliver.”

“Most of the women in prison are there because of some man, you know.”

“Makes sense.”

“If my husband hadn't run off to Australia, I would have killed him.”

“Wait …
what
?”

“He deserved it. I woke up one morning, and he was gone. He left a note, though, thanking me for twenty years of support, my jewelry, and all the cash in our bank accounts.”

“Are you bullshitting me? You're making this up.”

She laughed, and said, “I'm not! I went to sleep a happy housewife, and woke up penniless and alone. This was forty years ago. I look back in disbelief that it actually happened to me. But it did. I lost everything. My shrink says it's why I grew up to be such a collector. I cling out of fear.”

“How do you recover from something like that?”

“I just did,” she said. “I moved into my parents' house. The timing turned out to be good. I was there when they needed me at the end of their lives. After they died, I spent months cataloging the furniture and the art—they were collectors. I researched the providence of some of the pieces, and realized I enjoyed doing it. My parents hoped I'd share their passion, but it wasn't until they were gone that I got into it, and eventually became an early-American-furniture appraiser at Sotheby's. I had boyfriends—historians, collectors, and curators. I traveled all over the world. But I never fell in love again after Rufus.”

“Rufus?”

“I know, silly name. Like a shaggy dog or something. He did have shaggy hair—he was a bit of a beatnik. So was I! I rebelled against my parents, ran off with a poet. And then he ran off with a stewardess.”

Demi couldn't believe what she was hearing. “You let me whine about James for months, while you've been sitting on all this amazing stuff?”

“I like your stories! I know mine already, and I get so tired talking about myself. My theory is that, when you're born, you're an egomaniacal narcissist. Every day you're alive, you care less and less about yourself. If you live long enough, you get so sick of yourself that you're relieved when you die.”

“Where do you think I am, on the egomaniacal narcissist scale?”

“You're exactly where you should be,” said Catherine, with a sly smile. “Tell me again about your day in court, but this time, add
Law and Order
theme music and
ka-chung
sound effects.”

The sound of bells drew their attention to the street. A dozen bike riders pulled up to the curb at the Grace. The rider in front removed her helmet.