Saturday, October 13
I drifted awake Saturday morning in a luxurious down-comforter-covered bed, my husband snoring gently by my side. No abrasive alarm clocks. No looming appointments. My sleep had been undisturbed by nightmares and, for the first time in weeks, I felt rested.
Padding noiselessly across the plush carpet, I inched aside the drapes to reveal glorious sunshine. It was too inviting to be denied.
Collecting the clothing we’d hastily scattered on the floor the night before, I tiptoed to the bathroom for a shower, then left David a note on the counter: “8 a.m. – Off to the farmers’ market. I have my cell. Love!”
Every Saturday morning from mid-April to early November, local area vendors gather around the Capitol Square to sell their seasonal produce, baked goods, honey, preserves, flowers and plants. Today I’d be somewhat out of place wearing yesterday’s rumpled business attire, but that’s part of the beauty of Madison: anything goes.
Stopping first for a cup of coffee and a flaky, fresh-baked scone, I strolled with the crowd. When breakfast was done, I bought a canvas bag and filled it with crisp apples, a pair of squash, and a half-dozen gourds for Lily. As I debated whether to lug a pumpkin back to the hotel, my cell phone chirped.
“G’morning, Mom! It’s Lily,” my one and only child said. I laughed: She’d certainly taken our phone etiquette lessons to heart.
“Hey, kiddo! I’m at the farmers’ market—just trying to decide whether to buy you a pumpkin.”
“You don’t have to. Mrs. McKinley and I got three last night, and we’ve already carved them,” she said. “Wait till you see ‘em!”
“Great. I’ve already got a bagful of stuff and couldn’t quite figure out how I was going to carry a pumpkin along with it. Your dad’s still back at the hotel sleeping.”
“What a lazy bones! Well—Mrs. McKinley and I are going to take Muffin for a walk. See you later, Alligator.”
David and I enjoyed a leisurely lunch at the Hilton coffee shop, retrieved our cars and headed back to the suburbs.
After a relaxing start to the weekend, I didn’t even mind doing homework. I spent a good part of Saturday and Sunday reading a book on cocaine addiction and studying case law I found on the Internet pertaining to federal bail revocation.
By late Sunday afternoon, I had my arguments well organized, but I knew there was still a very good chance that Judge Brillstein would order Kate to jail until her trial.
“How’s it coming?” David asked when he walked in from raking leaves.
“I’m as prepared as I’m gonna be,” I said, proudly showing him my outline. “But I’m afraid it might not be enough.”
“Well, you worked on the opposite side when you were an ADA. You know the process and what arguments to make.”
“That’s not exactly true. In state court, we’d never consider detaining a white-collar crook. And the only way we’d revoke bail was if a defendant murdered a witness. It’s a whole other game in federal court. Our crazy, reactionary Congress has passed laws making it way too easy for federal prosecutors to play hard ball.”
David burst out laughing. “We need to get you a spot on ‘Meet the Press!’”
He sat down beside me on the couch and jostled my shoulder. “But seriously, I’m curious about why this is so important to you. You’ve always said people need to be held responsible for the consequences of their own actions. And I know you’re angry with Kate. You’d be justified in just letting the chips fall where they may.”
“Excellent question—which I’ve been asking myself all day,” I said, scratching at a rough patch on my hand. David reached over and stopped me.
“I’ve come to the conclusion I’m more competitive than I ever realized,” I said. “I always loved the challenge of an adversarial court case: figuring out whodunit, how to find evidence to prove it, and how to convince a judge or jury. As a prosecutor, I thought I was motivated by a desire to protect the public from ‘bad guys,’ and I still think that’s part of it. But, in all honesty, a big part of it is simply I want to win. To show I’m better, smarter, more competent than opposing counsel. Maybe not so noble, huh?”
“I think honesty is always noble,” David said. “And there’s nothing inherently wrong with being competitive.”
“Even if it’s to defend someone who’s in the wrong?”
“Isn’t that the way our judicial system’s set up?” he asked. “Everyone’s got rights worth defending. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with mounting a vigorous defense for Kate. I only hope you’ll be honest with yourself about your feelings toward her. And don’t let her walk all over you out of some misguided notions about loyalty and obligation.”
I nodded wordlessly as he went to the kitchen to make dinner. He’s right—Kate’s rights are worthy of my best defense. And, despite my anger at her, my loyalty and obligation to her aren’t misguided.
**
Alone with my thoughts, my eyes were drawn to a black leather-bound album on the bookshelf: a scrapbook from my Shenstone College days. I haven’t looked at this in ages, I thought as I pulled it off the shelf. But I think I need to look at it now.
Kate had given me the album for Christmas during our freshman year. I’d been embarrassed to receive the gift, its thick linen pages and embossed leather cover smelling of opulence, when my gift to her was a coffee mug I’d found at a local art fair. Noting my mortification, she assured me the album was a re-gift—something she’d been given by a relative and would never use. “You’re the one who’s always taking all those pictures, not me,” she said. And the gifts had suited us: I filled the scrapbook with dozens of photographs, ticket stubs, newspaper clippings, and quotations, all memorializing the joys of college living, and Kate used the coffee mug every day until it fell off her desk during our senior year. I remembered her tears when she realized the shards of pottery could not be reassembled.
The pictures, depicting Kate and me and our other fresh-faced friends in various stages of dress and undress, brought back a flood of fond memories. I couldn’t help but smile at the permed hair, the shoulder pads, the baggy sweatshirts. The photo of Kate and me in her brother’s convertible, outfitted with sunglasses and headscarves, for our Thelma and Louise road trip. The picture of us in a campus bar, raising our wine glasses. I vividly remembered us singing along with UB40’s “Red Red Wine.”
Our college days had not been trouble-free. We’d lost one friend to suicide and another to a car accident; we’d suffered incredible emotional ups and downs. But there was something very special about the time we spent at Shenstone—and the bond my best friend Kate and I shared as we grew together into adulthood.
As I closed the cover, I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer. God, please help me be as good an advocate for my friend as she was for me.