Well, no, she didn’t know the drill, but Robin surged to her feet nonetheless, crowding with the others to get out of that stuffy little room.
They were lead to an open area with chairs and a bank of phones along one wall and told to make their calls. Robin went to a phone, picked up the receiver, grimaced at the greasy feel of it and debated who to call. Oh, hi, this is Robin, and I’m in jail. . . . Her attorney? Seemed logical, but no—she was also Evan’s attorney. Mia? Right. She didn’t answer the phone before noon. Lucy? Well, sure, if she wanted it spread all over Houston. Kelly, Mariah, Linda, Susan—God, no! Her CPA? He’d probably have a heart attack.
That left only one viable option.
Grimacing, Robin dialed her grandparent’s number, praying to high heaven they hadn’t gone off on some trailer trip. Grandma answered the phone on the first ring. “Hello-oh!” she sang.
“Grandma, it’s me,” she said low.
“Oh, hi, honey!” Grandma said cheerfully. “What are you up to?”
“Grandma, now don’t freak out, okay? I need you to come pick me up. Or get a lawyer—not my lawyer, but . . . oh hell, I’m not really sure what I need you to do—”
“A lawyer!” Grandma gasped. “Why on earth would you need a lawyer? And what is all that racket?”
“It’s a really long and stupid story Grandma, but . . . okay, listen, I’m sort of in a bind. You shouldn’t panic or anything, because like I said, it’s reallyreally stupid—”
“Where are you, Robbie?” Grandma asked, her voice going shrill.
There was no good way to say it. Robin forced a laugh. “You won’t believe this, Grandma! Ha haaaa, I’m . . . I’m . . . in jail.
They probably heard her grandmother’s shriek throughout the entire retirement community. “Jail!” she cried out. “Jail? Oh no, not jail! Elmer! Robbie is in jaaaail!”
Robin heard the receiver on her grandmother’s end bounce on the phone table. “Grandma!” she cried into the phone.
“Robbie, is that you?”
Thank God, Grandpa! “Yes, yes, it’s me, Grandpa! Is Grandma all right?”
“Are you really in jail?”
“Yes, I—”
“Oh yeah? What’d you do?”
“I didn’t really do—”
“Drugs?”
“Grandpa! Of course it wasn’t drugs!”
“Well then, what? Murder?” He chuckled appreciatively at his own jest. Robin stared at the phone cradle in front of her. Why hadn’t she realized before this crucial moment that her grandparents were insane? “Oh dear, it wasn’t murder, was it?” he asked, his voice suddenly anxious.
“Of course not!” she cried. “It’s too long to explain now, but Grandpa, please come get me. This place is horrible! Everyone smells, and who knows why they are here, and the guards are just . . . just mean, and I have no idea how long they will hold me or anything, but please, please come get me,” she said, feeling suddenly and dangerously close to tears.
“Well, of course we’ll come get you, Robbie-girl! You just hold tight. We’re gonna come get you.”
“Thanks, Grandpa,” she whispered tearfully, and heard him shout at Grandma to hurry up as the phone clicked off.
Feeling a little better having called in the cavalry, Robin endured another interminable wait until they were led, single file, into another long room where a judge’s bench was elevated above the rows of wooden benches. They formed two groups, men and women on opposite sides of the room. Now Robin was feeling particularly slimy. The last seventy-two hours had been a personal trip through hell, and all she wanted was out—she had never felt so alone or so vulnerable or so insane in her life. What sort of moron picked a fight with a cop?
She shivered. They waited. She wondered what time it was, had that slow and thick feeling of having flown through too many time zones on a long transatlantic flight. When at last the judge did arrive, Robin was surprised; the diminutive African American probably didn’t reach five feet.
The bailiff announced Judge Vaneta Jobe and told them all to rise. Judge Jobe climbed up onto her big black high-back leather chair, and with her head barely visible, and her feet probably swinging a foot above ground, let her gaze travel the crowd. “All right then,” she said, slipping on a pair of round, silver-framed glasses. “Listen up, everyone. Y’all have some rights you’ll need to know about. . .” She proceeded to inform them, in a booming voice that belied her size, of their rights and the different types of bonds available to them. Then she announced she would bring them forward to hear the charges being made against them, and when she had finished her speech, she asked, “Is that just clear as mud? Let’s begin, Mr. Peeples.”
The bailiff picked up a sheet and squinted at it. “Rodney Trace.”
A man from the third row of benches stood and came forward, his head hung low. When he approached the bench, Judge Jobe glared down at him. “Seems like you gone and done a stupid thing, Mr. Trace. How many times are you gonna be stupid? Until you kill someone? Or until they send you down to the farm?”