“Privileged? I was guilty. They could’ve charged me with a felony and put me away for ten years.”
“You’re a good man who made one stupid mistake, and someone else paid a big price. That doesn’t make you a bad person, and putting you in jail would’ve been a waste of public money and made the world worse, not better. So win, win.” She gave the first full-fledged smile I’d seen from her. “I do like days when we win.” She sobered as she continued to meet my gaze. “Can I give you a bit of advice of a non-legal nature?”
“Um, sure, of course.”
“Think again about seeing a therapist. Just a few sessions, anyway. I’ve defended other clients who went through something like you did, and it takes a toll.”
I didn’t go through much. Linda and her family lost everything.And I hadn’t held back any of my money for therapy. But I nodded because she meant well.
“I hope you start songwriting again, and performing. I looked up your work when I took your case and you’re very talented.” She gave me a firm nod. “Come on, let’s get your paperwork and license sorted out.”
When we reached the hallway outside the courtroom, a middle-aged man hustled up to me, pen and notebook in hand. “Griffin! Do you have a statement for your fans? How does it feel to know you killed someone and got away with it? Will you write a song about this experience?” Luckily, there were laws about cameras and recording in the courthouse so he didn’t get a photo of the expression on my face. My glare did make him recoil a step. Two other reporters hurried over, though, calling questions.
My lawyer’s nudge on my arm reminded me to grind out a simple, “No comment,” through gritted teeth. She hooked a hand in my elbow and guided me down the hall.
The reporters followed, asking questions and making suggestions. Luckily, as we stood in line for documents, the first guy made himself annoying enough that a guard ushered him out of the building. I glared at his retreating back. The other two didn’t shut up, still calling out their bullshit, but they stopped trying to get in my face. After a minute, a different security officer appeared and sent them on their way despite their protests.
“How does it feel to know you killed someone?”That reporter wasn’t the first to ask me that question in my long slog through the justice system.It feels like shit, what do you think?I’d never tried to answer out loud. They wanted sound bites and juicy gossip. Anything I said, they’d twist into either “He’s suicidal,” or “He’s a remorseless monster.” Maybe both.
“The downside to being famous,” my lawyer noted, watching the reporters escorted away.
“One of them, yeah. Not that I count as famous anymore, or there’d have been more than a couple of hacks with pencils and cell phones waiting.”
“Still. I can get us out a back way when we’re done, if you like.”
Hiring her had been my best recent decision. Not that the bar was set high. “Yes. Thank you!”
Two hours later, I pulled into my parking space outside my apartment and turned off my SUV. The engine ticked as it cooled but I didn’t even have the energy to open the door. Driving still wiped me out. I had to force myself to start the car, and every moment on the road put me into hypervigilance, my hands at ten and two, waiting for disaster. I arrived with my shirt clinging to my damp skin. Maybe Ishouldsee a therapist. Then again, I wouldn’t be driving for a long time now.Worry about it later.
I needed to find somewhere to garage the SUV. Or maybe I could lend it to someone who’d take the vehicle out now and then and keep the engine running. The insurance company had paid to repair the damned thing after I wrecked it. No sense letting the battery become a brick through disuse. Maybe I had a friend who’d find free transportation useful.
If I had any friends here.In LA, not a problem. Some of the folks I knew well were still touring, but several had retired and started families. I could’ve called Mandy or Nic, or Pete if he was around. Here, in my hometown, I was as alone as I’d been when I was a child.
Other than once, for a few magical weeks, Iowa had never been a lucky place for me. Coming back here to sort out Mom’s things from her storage unit, four years after her death, had been the biggest mistake I’d ever made.
Now, I was stuck in the state for two years…I deserve worse. Listen to me bitching about being stuck, while Linda’s stuck being dead!
I pressed my hands to my eyes.I wish.For the hundredth time, maybe thousandth, other accident scenarios ran through my head, the what-ifs and might’ve-beens.
I could’ve not tried to shake out a cramp in my right wrist and knocked my phone out of the cup holder.So goddamned clumsy these days.
Or I could’ve let that phone lie on the floor by my feet, even if the tinny voice said it lost GPS signal. So what? I was driving on a straight road.
If I needed the phone, I could’ve pulled off onto the shoulder and stopped somewhere. Reached down safely. Sure, merging back into fast traffic from a standstill is a pain, but so is death.
When I realized I couldn’t reach it by feel, I could’ve stopped trying, instead of taking my eyes off the road for “just a second.” Who fucking cares if there was a good space ahead and traffic was moving well? That one second changed everything.
Or when I looked up and saw brake-lights, saw that Linda’s car had abruptly slowed due to a fallen box in the lane, I could’ve pulled to the right instead of left. I could’ve missed her by plunging off the embankment, or at least, whacked her toward the median and rolled my own SUV down the hill instead.
Half a dozen tiny changes, moments when fate could’ve been altered if I’d been smart, careful, aware,different, just somehow different.I’d give anything to make it different.If I was the one who’d rolled down the embankment and died, a lot fewer people would’ve really cared.
In the dark behind my closed lids, the accident played out in lurid color and sound, flashes of red lights and painted metal, bangs and crunches, and then in the silence as the airbag deflated, someone screaming. Not Linda. She was dead by then.
I wish, I wish, I wish.
Of course, as my mother used to say, you can wish in one hand and shit in the other, and see which one fills up first.
After ten or fifteen minutes when reality didn’t change, I forced myself to straighten, opened the door, and got out.
