Tell on You

  Dr. Goldman frowned. “What does that mean?”

  Heather shook her head. “I don’t know. But she said something like that before, when I met her at Starbucks last night. I got the feeling she was—I don’t know—hatching some kind of plot, or something.” Heather shuddered.

  “And that worries you.”

  “It does,” Heather agreed.

  Her therapist glanced at the clock. “Heather, we’re going to have to wrap up for today. But I’d like you to think about this: You can’t control Nikki. The only person whose behavior you’re accountable for is you. That’s where your responsibility begins and ends.” Dr. Goldman smiled encouragement at her. “Will you remember that?”

  Heather nodded, her expression sober. “I’ll try.”

  SIXTY

  AFTER A LONG, BLEAK night of searching for a comfortable position that didn’t exist on his rock-hard bed, Jeremy had finally dozed off when the sound of a key rattling awoke him. He jolted upright to see the guard opening his cell door.

  “Here.” The man tossed Jeremy an armful of clothing. His own, but not what he’d worn when they’d arrested him yesterday. “Get dressed. Your lawyer’s waiting for you in the courtroom.”

  The warden locked the door behind him, and Jeremy scrambled out of bed. After hastily peeing, then splashing tepid water on his face at the jaundiced sink, he stripped off the orange prison jumpsuit, wrinkling his nose at the reek of his own anxious sweat. He found a fresh pair of briefs among the things the guard had left and gratefully changed into them. He donned a pair of gray wool pants, wondering how they’d come to be here, slipped on a freshly dry-cleaned shirt, and topped it with a blue blazer he hadn’t worn since his job interview at the Forrest School. He smoothed back his hair as best he could without a mirror, feeling almost human.

  “Let’s go.” The guard returned and unlocked his cell. “Arms behind your back,” he ordered, producing a set of handcuffs. Reluctantly, Jeremy complied and heard the click of steel as the guard locked them around his wrists. He led Jeremy out of the cell block, down a hallway to a bank of elevators.

  They rode up two flights and walked down a corridor, where Jeremy saw uniformed officers and various people in street clothes, ranging from suits—probably lawyers—to jeans and tee shirts. What guardian angel had seen to it that he was dressed respectably for his court date?

  The guard brought them to a stop in front of a set of double doors. Jeremy took a deep breath as the man opened one. This was it. His day in court.

  As his jailer escorted him down the center aisle, Jeremy’s eyes scanned the seats on either side, looking for any familiar faces. With a surge of joy, he found the one he’d hoped to see.

  Melissa.

  Her gaze lighted on him, and Jeremy grinned. She gaped at him, aghast, and he realized how he must appear to her, handcuffed, his face bruised and swollen. The pain in his nose had diminished enough that Jeremy hadn’t considered his appearance until that moment. No mirror in his cell to remind him. He smiled again to show Melissa he was okay, but the guard hustled him past her, to the front of the courtroom.

  Winkelman craned his neck to watch Jeremy’s approach from his table at the head of the room. He rose as the guard led Jeremy over to join him, releasing his hands from the metal cuffs.

  “Peter.” Jeremy rubbed his wrists.

  “Don’t talk, listen.” His lawyer pushed him into a chair and sat beside him. “We’re set. I cleared it with the prosecutor.”

  “You mean…?”

  “Just follow my lead.”

  At the bailiff’s cry of “All rise,” Jeremy stood and watched the judge enter—a brown-skinned man in a black robe. Not smiling. A fringe of white hair didn’t quite reach the crown of his head. As the judge took his seat behind the bench, the bailiff pronounced, “Be seated.” Jeremy sank back into his chair.

  “Hear ye,” the bailiff called out. “This court is now in session. The Honorable Winston Roberts presiding. All having business with the court approach and be heard.”

  Judge Roberts whacked down his gavel. “The court will come to order.” The background buzz of conversation died. “Mr. DellaRocca?”

  “Your Honor.” Well over six feet tall, a dark-haired man in a blue suit rose and approached the bench. He passed some papers to the judge.

  “The prosecutor,” Winkelman muttered in Jeremy’s ear.

  The judge studied the document without expression, then looked up. “Jeremy Barrett? Are you present in the courtroom?”

  At Winkelman’s nudge, Jeremy rose unsteadily to his feet, nervous and still stiff from his night on a pallet. “Yes, sir—Your Honor.” He felt the eyes of everyone in the courtroom bore through him.

  The judge stared at him, stone-faced. “You are being arraigned on the charge of felonious assault.”

  Jeremy gulped.

  “Are you represented by counsel?” Judge Roberts asked.

  Winkelman was on his feet before Jeremy responded. “He is, Your Honor.”

  “Has your client been advised of his constitutional rights?”

  “He has, Your Honor.”

  The judge held up the document in his hand. “Does your client wish the court to read the specific complaints made against him, Mr. Winkelman?”

  Jeremy drew a sharp breath. Melissa would hear the ugly lies of Nikki’s accusations.

  “He does not, Your Honor,” Winkelman replied, to Jeremy’s relief.

  Judge Roberts put down the paper. “Very well, then. Mr. Barrett. How do you plead?”

  Jeremy opened his mouth and heard Winkelman’s words, as though he were a ventriloquist’s dummy. “He pleads no contest.”

  Jeremy nearly groaned. His own lawyer, telling the judge he was guilty?

  “Mr. Barrett?” The judge fixed him with a stern look. “Is that your plea?”

  Jeremy glanced at Winkelman out of the corner of his eye, caught a quick nod. “Yes,” he murmured.

  “Speak up, Mr. Barrett,” the judge demanded.

  Jeremy cleared his throat. “It is, Your Honor.”

  “The court accepts the defendant’s plea of nolo contendere,” the judge stated.

  “Your Honor.” Winkelman looked over at the prosecutor, who nodded back at him. “May Mr. DellaRocca and I approach the bench?”

  “Mr. Prosecutor?” The judge arched an eyebrow in DellaRocca’s direction.

  “Your Honor,” he responded.

  Both attorneys walked up to the bench. They struck Jeremy as an incongruous pair, his own lawyer half as tall and twice as wide as the prosecutor. He remained standing, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as he anxiously watched their brief exchange with the judge. The voices were too soft for him to make out the words sealing his fate.

  Finally Judge Roberts sat back, nodding to dismiss the two lawyers. Jeremy stood up straight as Winkelman strode over to him, a look of satisfaction on his broad face. “It’s a done deal,” he stage-whispered.

  A low drone of conversation had sprung up in the courtroom during the sidebar and now Judge Roberts banged his gavel to silence it.

  “Mr. Barrett.” His voice rang out and Jeremy snapped to attention. “The prosecutor has agreed to consider your application for a Pre Trial Intervention Program. During the period required to complete this process, you may be released on bail. This court sets bail at the sum of $100,000.”

  The figure left Jeremy speechless. How could he possibly pay that? Without his father-in-law on board to bankroll him, he and Melissa were broke.

  “Your Honor, the defense has posted bond.” Winkelman’s smooth tone implied that the huge sum was no big deal.

  But it was. Jeremy turned to stare at his lawyer.

  “All right, then.” The judge’s gavel struck again. “Next case.”

  SIXTY ONE

  DAZED, JEREMY TRAILED PETER Winkelman out of the courtroom. All too much to absorb. He had pled guilty—or, at least, not not guilty—to a felony. Yet instead of a return trip to that
barren cell, he’d somehow made bail. And, now, there stood Melissa when he emerged through the double doors to the corridor.

  A miracle. She’d come through, in spite of everything. “Mel!” He reached to embrace her. She backed away, and Jeremy lowered his arms, crushed. Not such a miracle, after all. Still as outraged as when she’d banished him from their apartment two nights ago. Who could blame her?

  But then Melissa exclaimed: “My god!” She stared at his bruised face. “Did the police do that to you?”

  “Oh.” A reprieve. The sight of his injuries—that was why she had shied away from him. “No.” Jeremy glanced at Winkelman, the lawyer tactfully averting his gaze to provide a modicum of privacy for their reunion. What would Peter reveal to Melissa about the events in the motel room? But, no. That fell under attorney-client privilege. It was up to Jeremy to disclose to Melissa that Nikki had been there with him. But not here. Not now. “It was Rick,” he said. “He punched me.”

  “Rick did that?” Melissa’s jaw dropped. “Why?”

  Jeremy lowered his gaze. “He—uh—didn’t like the way I treated you.” True enough. He raised guilty eyes to Melissa’s. “And he was right.”

  She regarded him in silence.

  “He came back to the motel later,” Jeremy added, “and we made up.”

  “I see,” Melissa said. “No wonder he put up the money for your bail bond.”

  “He did?” Shocked, Jeremy looked from Melissa to Winkelman. Both nodded. “Son of a gun.” His friend’s generosity moved him.

  “Is it broken?” Melissa tapped her own delicate nose.

  Jeremy shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “You should get it x-rayed.”

  “It’s okay,” he insisted. “It doesn’t really hurt anymore.” Eagerly, he turned to his lawyer. “What happens now, Peter?”

  A flicker of hurt crossed Melissa’s face. It dawned on Jeremy that he’d already taken her for granted. Not the way to redeem himself. So many bad habits to break. “Hey.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Thanks for calling him for me and saving my stupid, unworthy ass.”

  “Uh huh.” Melissa still looked dejected.

  “To answer your question.” Winkelman spoke up, filling the awkward gap. “We’ll file the PTI application right away. The process will probably take a couple of weeks.”

  “Weeks?” Jeremy echoed. “Why?”

  “You’ll be interviewed by a Probation Officer,” Winkelman explained. “There’ll be a background check. You’d best line up some character references.”

  “References?” Jeremy’s spirits sank. Who the hell would vouch for him now? His mother, if he was lucky.

  “Anyone you can line up,” Winkelman said. “Your buddy Rick, your minister, colleagues. Work on it,” he insisted, as Jeremy looked doubtful. “That PTI is your Get Out of Jail Free card. Don’t blow it.”

  “And if he gets it? The PTI?” Melissa asked. “Then what?”

  “If he complies with all of the terms? Treatment, probably a year of probation,” Winkelman said. “Afterwards, his arrest record can be expunged.”

  “Expunged.” Melissa’s gaze met Jeremy’s. “Then you have to do that.” One hand brushed her barely rounded belly. “It’s our only chance.”

  A chance! She might forgive him?

  “One more thing,” Winkelman said. “I’m not expecting any publicity.” He sniffed. “It’s for damned sure your principal isn’t going to want any. But, in the event that anyone from the media approaches you, you have no comment. Got it?”

  Jeremy nodded. “Sure.” The last thing he wanted, to read about any of this in the papers, or, god forbid, see it on TV.

  “I mean it,” Winkelman insisted. “If you defend or justify yourself, it could backfire and hurt your PTI application. So, no matter what, you keep your head down.”

  “Okay,” Jeremy assured him. “I will.” How hard could that be?

  SIXTY TWO

  NIKKI’S SHAME FEST ON Facebook proved merely the coming attraction for the total peer blow-off that greeted her at school. Icy snubs in the hallways, whispers and snickers behind her back. Hate notes taped to her locker:

  He’s better off in jail than with a pig like you.

  Thought you were hot shit? Well, you’re just shit.

  She even found one scrawled in pink lipstick across her car’s windshield:

  Die, bitch.

  At least it was lipstick. The message loud and clear: She’d slimed a favorite teacher and become an outcast.

  As she drove home, squinting to see through the pink smears she’d produced by wiping her windshield with a spit-moistened tissue, Nikki fought back hot tears of indignation. So effing unfair. She kept losing out. Dad, so far removed from the picture that she could barely recall the sound of his voice. Mom, more useless than ever since he’d gone. The only fun she’d had all semester was toying with Mr. B, and now that was spoiled. Plus she’d lost all her friends and status.

  It totally sucked.

  Nikki wanted to hurt someone, everyone. Maybe she’d start with her little brother. When she got home, she saw Brandon’s bike outside the house. Little twit still used training wheels. Straddling the front wheel, Nikki gave the handlebars a good twist. Teach him to leave his bike outside. She might have inflicted further damage if she hadn’t spotted the envelope on the doorstep. A plain, brown sealed manila envelope with her name printed on it—no stamp or address. Somebody must have dropped it off. She glanced around the lawn and down the street, but saw no one.

  Intrigued, Nikki carried the mysterious delivery into the house, dumped her bag on the floor and tore open the envelope. Inside, she found another envelope—standard white, letter-sized. Blank, sealed. With a frisson of anticipation, she ripped open the flap.

  She removed the single sheet of paper the envelope contained. She unfolded it with eager fingers, and a business card fluttered to the floor. Nikki perused the typed message on the paper as she knelt to retrieve the card:

  You have a story to tell. This reporter will keep you anonymous when he tells it. Will you call him?

  The note was unsigned.

  A reporter! Why not? She sure as hell did have a story. And nothing more to lose by telling it. A smile rose to Nikki’s lips as she read the card and pondered the invitation.

  Why shouldn’t she? This might lead to even bigger things.

  IT TOOK AN AGONIZING forty minutes at the court house to process Jeremy’s release. The whole time, he debated over what to say to Melissa. How to beg forgiveness he didn’t deserve. Fall to his knees? Take her in his arms? But surrounded—sometimes jostled—by clerks, cops, perps and pervs, this was no place for a confessional.

  Would he get another chance?

  Her expression grim, Melissa’s eyes jittered in constant motion, looking everywhere but at Jeremy. The longer they waited, the more he feared she’d bolt and leave him there to fend for himself.

  Finally, his anguish became unbearable. “Mel—”

  At that moment, a loud voice called out: “Jeremy Barrett!”

  His turn, at last, to retrieve his belongings and get out of there. He turned to Melissa, eyes imploring. “Wait for me?”

  Her tight nod made him want to sing.

  Minutes later, possessions in hand and wedding ring restored to his finger, Jeremy rejoined her. The tension in Melissa’s face melted into a look of relief.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said.

  Last chance. Jeremy summoned his courage. “Please, would you mind giving me a lift to the school? I—uh—need to pick up my car.” Please, let it still be there.

  “Okay.” Her voice cool, expression non-committal.

  “Thanks.” Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU!

  They exited the court house and walked toward the parking deck. Late morning sun warmed the back of Jeremy’s neck like a blessing. The breeze held a teasing hint of spring. He darted sidelong glances at Melissa, as they covered an entire block with neither of them saying
a word.

  Suddenly they both spoke up at the same time.

  “Melissa, I…”

  “Where did you…?”

  Each halted in mid-sentence. Melissa lowered her gaze, gnawing on her lip.

  “Go ahead,” Jeremy urged. “What were you going to say?”

  “I was wondering…” She fiddled with a lock of hair. “Where were you planning to go?”

  Where indeed? The thought of returning to the Meadowview Inn made Jeremy queasy. “I—I don’t know.” He felt lost.

  Melissa studied him in silence for a long moment. “You could come back to the apartment, I suppose.”

  “Mel!” His spirits soaring, Jeremy reached for her.

  “Just for tonight.” She shied away. “Until you figure out what to do.”

  “For tonight.” Jeremy nodded solemnly, afraid any further display of joy might make her change her mind. More than he’d dared hope for—a chance. “Come on.” He offered Melissa his arm, prepared to escort her. “Let’s go pick up the car.”

  Ignoring his proffered elbow, she walked on.

  SIXTY THREE

  JEREMY FOUND THE APARTMENT even more chaotic than usual. Dirty plates littered the coffee table and kitchenette, shoes and clothing lay strewn around the living room. Today he didn’t mind at all. He surveyed the panorama, drinking in the glorious mess.

  Home.

  Suddenly ravenous, he made a bee-line for the fridge. As he opened it, Melissa called out, “Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to go grocery shopping.” Sure enough, the refrigerator was nearly barren.

  “No problem.” Jeremy grabbed a lone apple, noticed an abundance of brown spots, and put it back. “Want me to go pick up some stuff?”

  Mel stalked in, scowling. “Why the fuck should I be apologizing to you?”

  Her outburst startled him, but he reminded himself of all the grievances he’d inflicted on her. “No, Mel, I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

  “Damn right. Do you know what you put me through? My blood pressure was already too high, the doctor said. Did you even realize that? It must be through the frigging roof by now.” She folded her arms. “And it’s your fault.”