Charlie said, “I can’t take the arraignment because I’m a witness. Not that Dad had any ethical qualms, but—” Charlie shook her head. “Anyway, Dad has this old law school professor, Carter Grail. He retired up here a few years ago. He’s ninety, an alcoholic, hates everybody. He can fill in tomorrow.”
Sam forced herself up from the bench. “I’ll do it.”
Charlie stood up, too. “No, you won’t.”
Sam found Stanislav’s card in her purse. She retrieved her phone. She texted him: Meet me out front.
“Sam, you can’t do this.” Charlie nipped at her heels like a puppy. “I won’t let you do this. Go home. Live your life. Be that less mean person.”
Sam looked at her sister. “Charlotte, do you really think I’ve changed so much that I’m going to let my little sister tell me what to do?”
Charlie groaned at her obstinacy. “Don’t listen to me. Listen to your gut. You can’t let Rusty win.”
Stanislav texted back: FIVE MINUTES.
“This isn’t about Rusty.” Sam put her purse on her arm. She found her cane.
“What are you doing?”
“My overnight bag is in the car.” Sam had planned to stay at the Four Seasons and visit the Atlanta office tomorrow morning before heading back to New York. “I can have my driver take me to the police station or I can go with you. Your choice.”
“What’s the point of this?” Charlie followed her to the gate. “I mean, seriously. Why would you do anything for that stupid asshole?”
“You said it before. It’s not fair that Kelly Wilson doesn’t have someone on her side.” Sam opened the gate. “I still don’t like it when things aren’t fair.”
“Sam, stop. Please.”
Sam turned to face her sister.
Charlie said, “I know that this is hard for you, that being back is like drowning in quicksand.”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to.” Charlie put her hand on Sam’s arm. “I would’ve never let Ben send that email if I had known how much this would affect you.”
“You mean because of a few slurred words?” Sam looked at the winding, paved path that led back to the hospital. “If I had listened to the doctors about my limitations, I would’ve died in that hospital bed.”
“I’m not saying you can’t do it. I’m asking if you should.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve made up my mind.” Sam could think of only one way to end this conversation. She closed the gate on Charlie, telling her, “Last word.”
10
Riding in the car with Charlie, Sam understood that she had never been a nervous passenger because she had never before been driven by her little sister. Charlie only gave a cursory glance in her mirrors before she changed lanes. She liberally used her horn. She talked to drivers under her breath, urging them to go faster, go slower, to move out of her way.
Sam sneezed violently. Her eyes were watering. Charlie’s car, a sort of station wagon/SUV hybrid, smelled of damp hay and animals. “Do you have a dog?”
“He’s on temporary loan to the Guggenheim.”
Sam gripped the dashboard as Charlie swerved into another lane. “Shouldn’t you leave your signal on for longer than that?”
“I think your verbal paraphasia is back,” Charlie said. “You said ‘shouldn’t you,’ when you meant, ‘you should.’”
Sam laughed, which seemed inappropriate given their destination was the city jail.
Representing Kelly Wilson was secondary to finding out what was wrong with Charlie both physically because of the bruises and emotionally because of everything else, but Sam did not take lightly the job of representing the school shooter. For the first time in many years, she was nervous about talking to a client, and worse, walking into an unfamiliar courtroom.
She told Charlie, “My Portland cases were in family court. I’ve never sat across from an accused murderer before.”
Charlie gave Sam a careful look, as if something might be wrong with her. “We both have, Sammy.”
Sam waved off the concern. She was unwilling to explain how she had always put her life into categories. The Sam who had sat across from the Culpepper brothers at the kitchen table was not the same Sam who had practiced law in Portland.
She said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve handled a criminal complaint.”
“It’s just an arraignment. It’ll come back to you.”
“I’ve never been on the other side.”
“Well, the first thing you’ll notice is the judge won’t be kissing your ass.”
“They didn’t in Portland. Even the cops had ‘fuck the man’ bumper stickers.”
Charlie shook her head. She had probably never been anywhere like it. “Usually, I have five minutes with my client before we’re in court. There’s not a lot to say. They generally did what they were charged with doing—buying drugs, selling drugs, using drugs, stealing shit or fencing shit so they can get more drugs. I look at their sheet and see if they qualify for rehab or some kind of diversion, and then I tell them what’s going to happen next. That’s what they usually want to know. Even if they’ve been in a courtroom a zillion times before, they want to know the sequence of events. What happens next? And then what happens? And then what? I tell them a hundred times, and each time they ask me again and again.”
Sam thought that sounded a hell of a lot like Charlie’s role during Sam’s early recovery. “Isn’t that tedious?”
“I always remind myself that they’re freaked the hell out, and knowing what comes next gives them some sense of control.” Charlie asked, “Why are you licensed in Georgia?”
Sam had wondered when this question would arise. “My firm has offices in Atlanta.”
“Come on. There’s a guy down here who handles the local stuff. You’re the micromanaging asshole partner who flies down every few months and looks over his shoulder.”
Sam laughed again. Charlie had more or less framed the dynamic. Laurens Van Loon was technically their point man in Atlanta, but Sam liked having the option to take over if needed. And she also liked walking into the bar exam and leaving with the certainty that she had passed without opening a book to study.
Charlie said, “The Georgia Bar Association has an online directory. I’m right above Rusty and he’s right above you.”
Sam thought about the three of their names appearing together. “Does Ben work with Daddy, too?”
“It’s not ‘too,’ because I don’t work with Dad, and no, he’s an ADA under Ken Coin.”
Sam ignored the inimical tone. “Doesn’t that cause conflicts?”
“There are enough criminals to go around.” Charlie pointed out the window. “They have good fish tacos here.”
Sam felt an arch in her eyebrow. There was a taco truck on the side of the road, the same sort of thing she’d see in New York or Los Angeles. The line stretched at least twenty people deep. Other trucks had even longer lines—Korean barbecue, Peri-Peri chicken, and something called the Fusion Obtrusion.
She asked, “Where are we?”
“We passed the line into Pikeville about a minute ago.”
Sam’s hand reflexively went to her heart. She hadn’t noticed the demarcation. She hadn’t felt the expected shift in her body, the dread, the feeling of despondency, that she had assumed would announce her homecoming.