The marshal’s office interview rooms were all in use when I got to the lock-up. I sat alone in the sterile waiting area—where an annoying vent blew frigid air down my back—too keyed up and cold to doze. I wondered how Lily’s day was going and what she’d decided to wear to school that morning. I wondered what Ida had packed her in her lunch bag. I reflected back on my decision to leave the criminal justice field and settle into more mundane, part-time work so I could spend more time as a mother.
When Lily had joined us, I had taken three months’ maternity leave. But it hadn’t been the storybook summer I’d hoped for. Lily was an easy-going baby, rarely insisting on attention. And David adored her and attended to her every desire—when he was home. His job was so demanding that summer that more often than not, I found myself alone with Lily. And more often than I cared to recognize, fear paralyzed me. Fear I’d have a heart attack, fear I’d slip in the shower and be knocked unconscious, fear I’d have an allergic reaction to a bee sting. I never feared Lily would succumb to crib death or choke on her formula: I had confidence in her ultimate health. Instead I worried I would somehow falter, and she’d be left alone with no one to depend on.
Not surprisingly, the panic attacks came back. What might start as free-floating anxiety or a fleeting worry could within seconds escalate into sheer terror: racing heart, narrowing field of vision with darkness clouding the periphery, certainty of imminent death or insanity. David was usually able to talk me down from the precipice and tried to be accessible to me by phone. But I hated feeling powerless and dependent.
My doctor prescribed an anti-anxiety medication and I resumed regular sessions with a psychologist. Both helped some: I had fewer and less severe attacks. But the attacks stubbornly refused to go away completely.
I didn’t dare admit the relief I felt when it was time to return to my job as an ADA. The pressures of work—to file motions and briefs on time, to win convictions, to strike plea agreements when appropriate—were tangible and manageable. I had little time for introspection and even less time to be anxious. Lily thrived at her sitter, Eve’s, where three other children provided hours of stimulation. Being a working mom felt right for me.
Inevitably, though, my responsibilities at work grew, and David’s situation was no better than mine. An ex-Navy SEAL and former police officer, he’d joined an up-and-coming Chicago security-consulting firm. Although he could often work from their small Madison office, he couldn’t completely avoid travel and, even when at home, was often on the phone or computer.
Lily had my undivided attention from the time I got home until her bedtime. Then, out came the briefcase and the homework. I felt like a blind juggler on a roller coaster, struggling to keep too many balls in the air while trying to anticipate the upcoming hills and curves. I became less tolerant of Lily’s minor indiscretions—like begging for another story when it was time for lights out—and found myself snapping and nagging.
When Lily was in kindergarten, she began having nightmares and frequent stomach upsets, which her pediatrician attributed to “stress.” It was as if I’d passed off my panic attacks to my daughter. Something had to give, and I would not let it be Lily.
With the help of a family counselor, we had gotten things back on track. David had negotiated a more workable schedule. I’d accepted a part-time position with a private law firm where my assignments were generally routine, non-criminal, and with predictable hours. I’d found a variety of lesser challenges to engage in: contested divorce cases, volunteering in Lily’s classroom, and long-forgotten or never-learned homemaking tasks. While imperfect, my life had become, on balance, happy again.
I glanced up from my reverie as the receptionist knocked on the window and beckoned. An interview room was available.
The room was divided in half by a concrete block wall with a heavy screen-covered window. When I opened the door to enter, it banged against one of the two straight-backed chairs that barely fit into my side of the room. A stainless steel ledge at the base of the window was just wide enough to write on. I sat down to wait. After a few minutes, the door to the other room opened, and a deputy marshal ushered Kate in. Though the screen obscured her facial expressions, I could see her shoulders slump forward as she sank onto her chair.
I hesitated a moment before speaking, hoping Kate would begin. She didn’t.
“I’m so sorry, Kate. I’ve never practiced in federal court, and I had no idea what we’d be up against today. I’ll make some calls when I leave here, and I’ll recommend a good lawyer to represent you.”
“I need you. I don’t want anybody else to represent me,” she said. “You know I’d do it for you.”
A sick feeling overcame me. I didn’t pause to consider what it meant—I simply pushed it back. Later, I said to myself.
“Let’s take this a step at a time. I’ll do some prep work and research for the detention hearing, and then we’ll decide how to proceed.”
No response.
I glanced through Monica Smith-Kellor’s report and began to make notes. “I need to ask you some questions about this bail report,” I said, focusing not on my friend but on the written page. “Tell me about the first OWI arrest. It says you refused to take a Breathalyzer.”
Kate sighed. “There was a reception to welcome the new faculty members, and our department head insisted we all attend. Anyway, I had the flu and felt like shit. I had a couple of drinks, thinking it’d help. I left early and got pulled over a couple blocks away by a young cop. I started out being cooperative but couldn’t handle it when he started coming on to me. So I refused to finish his silly sobriety tests or to blow into the machine. I’m sure I wasn’t drunk.”
“If you refuse to take a Breathalyzer, it’s legally the same as being intoxicated,” I said, looking up at her now. “Why didn’t you call me when it happened?”
“You were with the prosecutor’s office then. I didn’t want to make things awkward for you.”
“I could’ve referred you to a good attorney.” But there was no sense belaboring the point. “Okay. What about the insufficient funds check charge?”
Kate shook her head. “What a comedy of errors,” she said. “I was getting ready to attend a conference in Amsterdam, so I arranged for the university to directly deposit my travel advance into my bank account. The business office screwed it up and mailed the check. When I got home, I didn’t get around to picking up my mail at the post office for several days—I’d stopped it while I was gone—and didn’t discover the mistake right away. In the meantime, I wrote a few checks that bounced.”
“Didn’t your bank or the businesses contact you?”
“I was practically living in the lab at the time, Caroline. I guess I probably threw out the notices, assuming they were junk mail. I paid the fine and restitution, though. It’s all resolved.”
Throughout her responses, I tried in vain to read Kate’s non-verbal cues. The security screen cast her in shadows, making it impossible to see whether her eyes were tear-filled or clear, whether she was scowling or impassive, whether her jaw was quivering or tight. Without subtle communication clues, her voice sounded disembodied and not particularly believable.
I forged ahead. “The biggest obstacle we have to overcome to get you released is your failure to appear on the second OWI. Tell me about that arrest.”
“A cop pulled me over on West Wash about nine o’clock one night. Said I was driving erratically or some such nonsense. I’d just left the lab. One of the techs had brought in the stuff to make margaritas to celebrate the completion of our protocol. You know I hate margaritas. But I didn’t want to dampen everyone’s spirits, so I had one and then left. The cop said I failed the field sobriety tests, so he took me in to the station. This time I took the Breathalyzer, and they said the reading was just over the limit. I don’t know how that could be with only one drink.”
“Why didn’t you go to court?” I asked.
“I did go to court. I pled not guilty. I wasn’t driving erratically in the first place, so the officer had no cause to pull me over. Plus the field tests are subjective. This cop was a kid who had no clue what he was supposed to do, and I wasn’t drunk. Obviously, he didn’t operate the Breathalyzer correctly either. Caroline, you know I’m no drunk!”
It was true. Throughout college, Kate had been our designated driver. She drank only rarely, and I’d never seen her intoxicated. In recent years, we’d been together on a number of social occasions. Kate typically had one drink or a couple of glasses of wine, never showing any ill effects.
“But the failure to appear—”
“When I went to court and said I wanted a trial, they gave me a continuance. The ADA suggested I get a lawyer, but I got swamped at work and didn’t get around to it. They never sent me a notice with a new court date. I just assumed it would be a while. You always hear about the backlogged judicial system. To tell you the truth, I’d pretty much forgotten about it until today. I’ve been so busy.”
“What about the passport renewal and your threats to leave the country?”
“I’m scheduled to present a paper at a conference in London in December. My passport expired two months ago, so I got it renewed. I have no idea where they got the idea I said I’d flee. Caroline, that’s ridiculous. It’s probably some lie Marty Braxton made up. Please! You’ve got to get me out of here.”
“Judge Brillstein’s a tough one,” I said, almost afraid to look at her. “He’s probably going to want cash or a property bond to assure him you’ll show.” And, based on her answers during the bail interview, it was pretty clear she no longer had assets to be used for that purpose.
A deputy marshal knocked on my door and opened it a few inches. “Counselor, you’ve got about two minutes before we make the jail run,” he said.
“Okay. Thanks.”
I turned back to Kate. “They’re going to be taking you back to the county jail in a couple minutes,” I said. “I know it won’t be pleasant, but the women’s cell block is usually pretty quiet. You’ll have your own cell, and you shouldn’t be in any danger. I’ll come see you tomorrow. In the meantime, is there anyone I can contact who’d be willing to post bail for you? Preferably someone here in Madison?”
Silence.
“Kate?”
“I heard you. And, no. There’s no one.”
The marshal opened Kate’s door and motioned it was time for her to go.
“All right. I’ll get in touch with your folks—”
“Don’t. Don’t you dare!” she said over her shoulder as she was led away.