Friday, November 23
Kate left The Meadows on a sunny, cool afternoon. I went to her farewell ceremony—a joyous yet tearful event called the Rites of Passage—a group meeting of past and current patients and staff, focusing on Kate’s progress and the tasks she’d faced.
The intense emotional attachment these people had with one another rankled me at first, and I didn’t know why. Then I realized I was jealous—jealous of their bond and jealous that these people could do more for Kate than I, her close friend and lawyer.
Kate’s eyes glimmered with tears and pride as she listened.
A sixty-something, heavyset black woman named Bernice, who’d been discharged about a week earlier, described her own homecoming.
“Child, it was hard,” she said, shaking her head so hard her chins waggled. “I felt pretty confident when I walked out the door here. But when I walked in the door at home and saw the mess Walter had left and the bills piled up and the refrigerator empty and the answering machine blinking, I said ‘Lord help me! I am not prepared for this!’”
Her throaty chuckle touched me. “Then I sat down, took a deep breath, closed my eyes and imagined myself back here in group. Walter thought I’d lost my marbles, but I didn’t care. I remembered something you said to me one day, Katie. You said I had a remarkable way of cutting through the crap, and I was one of the strongest people you knew. Well, that got me through the day. And honey, it takes one to know one! I know you’ll have the strength too.”
“Did it get easier?” Kate asked.
“Sure it did. Day by day, child,” Bernice said. “The second day home I panicked when I stumbled onto a bottle of vodka I’d hidden months ago. Had to call my daughter to help me pour it out. But yesterday, when I found an old bottle of Valium, I was able to laugh and flush ‘em all by myself! You can do it, too.”
Denise, an anorexic-thin, pale woman of about twenty, spoke up next. “Kate, I just want you to know how you’ve helped me these past few days. You’re so strong and cool. I know I’ll never be where you are… I mean with your education and career and all. But you helped me see what I’ve been doing to my body and all. I vowed to learn from my mistakes just like you have.”
Kate looked down at her feet. “Thanks, Denise,” she said. “But don’t ever put me up on a pedestal. I’ve made some major mistakes. In fact, I’m going in to federal court Monday to plead guilty to stealing a bunch of money, which I used to feed my coke habit. And in about two months I’ll be going to prison. I hope for not too long.”
“Wow. I didn’t know,” Denise said. The group—almost as one—fidgeted in their seats.
“Hey, it’s okay. Adam is the only one here who knew.” She nodded toward me and said, “Caroline is my lawyer as well as my friend. She asked me not to talk about it until we decided what to do.
“Let me tell you, it’ll be a relief to get it all out in the open. This place and, more importantly, you people have given me the tools and support to face it all. I love you and thank you for that!”
Each member of the group spoke, some awkwardly, some eloquently. Jake, with the sunken eyes and unkempt beard of a burned-out aging rocker, read a poem he’d written for the occasion. His insight and compassion, and the beauty of the poem, surprised me.
Adam Larken spoke last. He mentioned Kate’s many strengths: her intelligence, perceptiveness, sense of humor, candor and drive. He reminded her of her weaknesses—her tendencies toward self-criticism and allowing men to control her—and encouraged her to love and honor herself.
“It’s been a pleasure to work with you, Kate,” Adam said in closing. “Your outpatient counselor Sharon and all the wise folks in N.A. and A.A. will take over from here. But I hope you’ll remember to call on me, too. I’ll always be there for you.”
**
“Do you want to come in?” Kate asked as we pulled up in front of her building. I couldn’t read her mood.
“Do you want me to?”
“Not particularly,” she said, without a trace of discourtesy. “But I know you, Caroline, and I can see you’re uneasy about my being alone.”
“I guess you’re right. After what Bernice said at the meeting, I worry about you being overwhelmed at your own homecoming.”
“Bernice went home to a no-account husband who only came to one family session the whole time she was at The Meadows, and then he left early. I have no Walter to contend with. And, I swear, no hidden stashes of coke or booze or pills. I’m feeling strong enough to be alone. Honest.”
“Okay. But call me if you need anything. You’ve got my cell phone number.”
“Caroline, chill!” Kate said. “I’m not worried about getting in touch with someone if I need to. I have all three of your numbers. I’ve got three for Adam, two for Sharon, and one for Bernice and almost everyone else in the group. I can reach Jake telepathically if all the world’s phone systems crash.”
The image brought me an involuntary but very welcome giggle. “Okay, then! Meet me at my office at ten Monday morning?”
“You got it. Thanks, friend.”
I watched in admiration as Kate practically leaped up her front steps, her duffle bag and backpack slung over one shoulder as if they were weightless. She turned to wave and wink as I drove away. She could’ve been off to a college tennis match fifteen years earlier.
Monday, November 26
Kate appeared in my office promptly on Monday morning, wearing a classic navy blue suit, a simple cream-colored blouse and small gold hoop earrings. Looking nothing like the cocaine addict who’d been arrested weeks earlier, she was the picture of conservative respectability—perfect for an appearance before Judge Hugh Coburn.
“Hey, you look great,” I said as she sat down.
“Thanks!”
“How did the weekend go?”
“It was fine, Caroline. Just fine. About seven o’clock Friday night I recorded a new message for the answering machine because my well-wishers wouldn’t—or couldn’t—leave me alone. It said, ‘Hi, this is Kate. I’m neither drunk nor stoned. I promise you’ll be the first person I call if I feel a relapse coming on. But I need some quiet time. Thanks for your understanding and concern.’ I set the machine to pick up on the first ring and took a long soak in the Jacuzzi. There were probably ten sheepish hang-ups before I went to bed at nine-thirty. I slept like a baby, took a run Saturday morning, had a huge breakfast, and I felt like I could handle anything. Yesterday I started packing and had coffee with Luann, my N.A. sponsor. Caught up on some TV. It was heavenly.”
“I’m glad,” I said with heartfelt relief.
“So tell me what to expect.”
I explained what would happen at the plea hearing from start to finish. A good deal of time would be spent reviewing the rights Kate would be forfeiting by pleading guilty, including the right to ever own or possess a firearm.
“You mean I won’t be able to participate in the annual fox hunt anymore?” she asked.
Is she being facetious?
“Fox hunt?”
“I’m just kidding, but it does sound like the kind of pretentious sport my dad would get into!”
We had no time for another discussion about Corbett Daniels, so I forged ahead in preparation for the hearing.
George Cooper had told me about the timetable: the judge would order the probation department to conduct a presentence investigation and to calculate tentative sentencing guidelines. Their report would be due in five weeks. Then, we’d have up to five additional weeks—including time to respond to the report—before the sentencing hearing. We could waive our right to five weeks if we wanted the sentencing to take place sooner.
“We’ll waive, Caroline,” Kate said.
“Are you sure? You’ve got your condo up for sale. The extra time might come in handy.”
“Do you need five weeks to prepare?” she asked.
“No. Two weeks should be enough time for me,” I said without thinking.
“Then let’s ask for two weeks. Caroline, I want to get this over and get on with my real life.”
I paused for a moment, wondering if I’d been too hasty. But I was as anxious as Kate to put this case behind us. “Okay, two weeks it is. The judge will ask you a lot of routine questions. Always pay attention and answer, ‘Yes, Your Honor,’ or ‘No, Your Honor.’ If you don’t understand something, ask if you can talk with me—”
“Piece of cake, Caroline. I’ve watched every lawyer show from ‘Perry Mason’ to ‘Boston Legal.’”
“At some point, Judge Coburn will ask you to tell in your own words what you did. Keep it simple—no details. We’ll provide details to the probation officer. Be contrite but don’t belabor it.”
“Okay. No problem,” Kate said with an air of supreme confidence.
I, too, was confident. Plea hearings were often tedious but rarely did anything surprising happen there.
Rosalee knocked on the door at ten-thirty and brought in two cups of her aromatic secret-blend coffee and two gigantic maple walnut muffins.
“You’re an angel. How’d you know I didn’t have time for breakfast?” I asked.
“I can hear your stomach growling all the way out here!” she said, laughing. “Seriously, I tried a new recipe yesterday and my gentleman friend was unimpressed. I decided to bring them here rather than eat them all myself.”
Kate and I sat quietly sipping and nibbling while we read over some reports George Cooper had sent me that morning. When she got up to stretch, her repeated glances in my direction told me she wanted to talk.
“What’s on your mind?” I asked.
“Did you tell my father about the hearing today?”
“No. The last time I talked to him, he made it pretty clear a guilty plea would be unacceptable to him. But more than anything, I decided it wasn’t his business unless you wanted it to be.”
“But I seem to recall your promising to keep him informed,” Kate said.
“I promised to keep him informed of anything that might jeopardize the bail he posted. Pleading guilty doesn’t fit the bill.”
“How ‘bout when we got called back to court after I used coke with Joe Ames?” she asked, resuming her seat. “That certainly jeopardized his bail.”
I’d never considered calling Corbett during that tenuous situation which, in retrospect, wasn’t really fair to him. I brushed some crumbs from my desk into the wastebasket while wracking my brain for an answer. “No, I didn’t call him,” I said finally. “There’s no precedent for taking bail money for technical violations like drug use. Your dad’s money would only be forfeited if you fled.”
“I almost left the country.”
I choked on a sip of coffee. “What?”
She nodded. “It’s true. The night before the controlled buy, I concocted a plan. I was going to call Joe, have him pick me up early at The Meadows and go with him to get my two ounces. He would’ve done it. He also would’ve driven me to the airport to catch a flight. Joe relished any opportunity to beat the system. I wasn’t totally bullshitting when I told him on the tape I planned to go to Costa Rica.”
“Were you lying when you told him you had new identification documents?” I asked, afraid to hear the answer.
“No. I wasn’t lying.”
“Oh, Kate. How—”
“It’s kind of a long story. Do you really want to hear it?”
God, no! But I guess I’d better. “Uh-huh.”
“Joe Ames loved the union terrace. I think he always regretted not going to college, and he’d hang out there engaging in all kinds of intellectual and philosophical discussions with whoever would listen, which made him feel smart. And, as you might expect, he recruited customers and sexual partners.”
She paused to take a bite of her muffin and became lost in thought.
“Earth to Kate.”
“I’m sorry, Caroline,” she said with a trace of sadness. “Even after all this time, it’s difficult for me to think about him. There was a lot I loved about Joe, although Adam Larken insists it was really his cocaine I loved.
“Well anyway, even before I found out Joe was married, I knew he cheated on me. I’d see him around campus arm-in-arm with other women, and he often stood me up. I don’t know why I put up with it, but I did.
“One day—I guess it was a few months before my arrest—I was waiting for Joe at the terrace, and he didn’t show. I was sitting there morosely drinking my beer when this big black guy with a British accent came up and asked if he could sit down. I said yes, mostly in hopes Joe would show up and find him there. Thorpe was his name.”
Kate took another bite and washed it down with a sip of coffee. “Long story short, Joe never did come,” she said. “But Thorpe was a pretty interesting guy, a graduate student in business administration from Nigeria, maybe thirty-five years old. We went out several times, but there was no physical chemistry, maybe because I was still too hung up on Joe. Thorpe and I remained friends. We’d do a few lines or have a few drinks together. Occasionally go to a movie.”
“Did Joe ever find out?” I asked.
“Sure. But it didn’t enrage him like I’d hoped. He’d make a few caustic, racist comments, but he didn’t care enough about me to work up any anger.”
Is she ever going to get to the point? Yet a part of me was fascinated by the details.
“A couple days after I got out of jail, Thorpe came by my apartment. He was leaving the next day to return to Nigeria, an unexpected trip because his mother was ill. He said he’d seen the news accounts about my arrest and had brought me a ‘care package.’”
“A ‘care package?’” I asked.
“Yeah. He handed me a box containing about two thousand dollars in cash, a certified birth certificate for a girl born in London in 1970, and a British passport in the same name. There was no photograph on the passport. He told me after I had a picture taken I should take the passport to a guy he knew to have it laminated and sealed. Thorpe gave me the guy’s first name, number, and a code to use.”
I couldn’t even imagine her in the scene, which reminded me of something out of a spy movie. “You didn’t do it, did you?”
“Yes, Caroline. I did. That very afternoon. It was somewhat disconcerting calling and meeting the guy, but it all worked smoothly.”
“What were you thinking?”
“I guess I wasn’t thinking. Being in jail where I was forced to withdraw from cocaine scared me to death. And just knowing I could flee if I needed to or wanted to gave me some comfort for a while. Plus, I’d begun using cocaine again as soon as I got out of jail, so my judgment was obviously not the best.”
“You mean it wasn’t just one time?” I asked.
“I wish I could say it was. But, no, I used pretty regularly. In jail I learned all about how to beat drug tests.”
Oh, my God—can this get any more sordid? “How’s that?”
“Well, for example, you can use right after you drop a sample. The PO almost never calls you back for a test the next day or even the day after. You know—budget constraints. You can flush your system with water or juices or certain health food supplements. I confess, I learned none of this stuff in med school.”
“Does it work?”
“Not very well,” she said, “since it wasn’t long before I got caught. Ergo my hasty admission to The Meadows.”
I laughed nervously. “Back to the documents.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry for the digression,” Kate said dispassionately. “I locked the passport and birth certificate in my safe for a couple days. Then I took things a step further. I went to Milwaukee and got a state photo I.D. card, using the birth certificate and passport for documentation. I used a mail box service center for my address.”
The matter-of-fact manner in which she related the events set off Klaxons in my head, but I forged ahead, purposely silencing the alarms. “Were you seriously considering leaving the country?”
She nodded.
“What stopped you?”
“At first it was because I couldn’t come up with the cash. Most of the money Thorpe had given me was as counterfeit as the passport.”
“Please don’t tell me you spent some of it.”
“I tried. I gave two hundred to Joe for some coke, but he took one look at the bills and knew they were phony. He accused me of trying to fuck with him, but I convinced him I hadn’t known the money was fake. He accepted the money in payment for coke—only at twice the cost. I’m sure he passed it on.” She shrugged.
“Anyway,” Kate said, “I kept the fake I.D. and became more conflicted about my plans to split. The more involved I got in treatment, the less inclined I was to leave. Until the night before I set up Joe. Then I started feeling completely panicky about everything: wearing the wire, being around cocaine again, seeing Joe, going to prison. It gave me real relief to plan my escape.”
“But you didn’t go. Why not?” I asked almost absently, focused instead on a placid watercolor on my wall—one that had always helped to center me. I had to get my bearings.
“Because of you and Lily,” she said, her voice softening. “You’ve been so steadfast in your support, and I knew Lily would think less of me. But more than that, the thought of never being able to see or talk with you or watch Lily grow up was more than I could handle.”
I looked at Kate. She brushed back a lock of hair, then wiped the corner of her eye with the heel of her hand. Don’t be sidetracked by her tears, I told myself.
“So I decided to stay,” Kate said. “My resolve lasted until I got in Joe’s car and saw the coke. It’s a miracle I came to my senses again and was able to give the arrest signal.”
I paused to collect my thoughts. “Do you still have the false documents?” I asked.
“Yes, although I had the foresight to put them in my safety deposit box where I couldn’t get to them in the middle of the night. We can stop at the bank after court. Maybe have a bonfire tonight?”
“I’d like you to get them out, but we won’t be burning them just yet,” I said. George Cooper might be very interested in Kate’s friend Thorpe. And possessing some concrete evidence couldn’t hurt, could it?