by Julia London
“But I just wish you weren’t so arrogant, Robbie,” her father continued, shaking Robin loose from any remorse she might have had. “That arrogance costs you too much—just look at your life and tell me it isn’t so.”
For a moment she could only stare at him, reeling from the pain of his inexplicably complete disapproval, a stinging criticism that had, as far as she was concerned, come out of nowhere. A million things went through her mind, things she should say, things she should definitely not say, but in the end, all she could manage was, “Bye, Dad.” And she walked blindly out of the library without looking back, out of his ranch house and to her car, uncertain when—or whether—she might ever see her dad again.
She drove nonstop to Houston, testing the upper bounds of her Mercedes, uncaring about anything except to get as far away from Comfort and Aaron Lear as possible.
She reached Houston after midnight, but she was too keyed up to return to her empty house, especially now, when she was so desperately in need of someone to say she was not a horrible person, that her dad did love her, that she meant something to him. And as there was no one at her home to do that, she went instead to her office and made a pot of decaf.
She toyed briefly with the idea of calling Evan, but dismissed the notion quickly. (And what exactly did Dad mean, running from Evan? Had Evan said that?) Robin flipped on her computer—there were a dozen new messages since this morning, all of which she bypassed, and went directly to the company’s database. As painful as it was, she looked to see how much the rate she had quoted Darren would have undercut CSOT. The two companies, Atlantic and CSOT, had the same distribution lanes, the same class freight, almost the same ports. Yep, she was quoting a couple of cents cheaper per pound to Atlantic. She’d calculated it down to the bare bones trying to land the big fish and had never once thought of CSOT.
Dad was right. She was arrogant. And stupid.
Robin turned off the computer. The ache in her heart had spread to her head, and now, everything hurt. She loved her father, there was no question of that, and she desperately wanted to please him, she never wanted to lose him, but God, she couldn’t seem to do anything right. The more she thought of the things he had said, the more confused and indignant she became until she could no longer think straight. At two in the morning, with a blinding headache that had turned her mind to mush, she decided to go home and try to sleep.
Robin reached for her bag, plunged her hand inside, rooted around for her keys. When she did not immediately find them, she dumped the contents of her purse onto the desk. She proceeded to sort through lipsticks, change purse, business card holder, passport, cell phone, allergy pills, an old condom (very old), until she found them. Keys firmly in hand, she slung the bag over her shoulder and marched out of the office.
The night was warm and muggy, and she rolled down her windows, letting the moist air sweep over her as she made her way toward Loop 610. With the rhythm of rock and roll pounding out over the stereo, she picked up speed, floating around big rigs and old pickups as she went from lane to lane, her car almost driving for her.
The blue-and-red-lights behind her startled her; with a gasp, Robin sat up, looked at the speedometer, and groaned. She was only doing seventy-five, give or take—what, was this one of those end-of-month quota things to generate a little extra revenue for the police ball? She coasted onto the shoulder, put her car in park, and watched her side-view mirror as the police officer cautiously approached her, one hand on his gun, staying close to the side of her car.
He paused just outside her peripheral vision and leaned over, peered inside. “Good evening, ma’am. Late night?”
“Seeing as how it is two-fifteen A.M., I guess so,” she said irritably and abruptly sat up.
The officer stepped back and grasped the butt of his gun. “I clocked you doing eighty-three in sixty-five. Is there an emergency?”
Apparently, it was a slow night in Houston. “Look at everyone else out there!” she said sharply, gesturing wildly to the traffic on the loop that was speeding by them in case he hadn’t noticed. “Like I am the only one going a little over the speed limit?”
“You were also weaving in and out of traffic. Have you been drinking tonight?”
Oh, if only! Robin gripped the steering wheel and tried to keep check on the explosion she felt building. “No, I have not been drinking. I have been at work.”
The officer peered at her. “You haven’t had anything to drink?” he asked skeptically.
“No! So if you are through interrogating me, I would like to go home. It’s late, I’m tired.”
“I need to see some ID.”
“So, what, you’re going to check me out against your most-wanted files now? Well, be careful, because I am definitely an ax murderer,” she snapped and jerked her purse up, reached inside for her wallet . . . but could not find it. With a sigh of exasperation, she turned the purse upside down and let the contents fall onto the passenger seat.
It wasn’t there.
In a moment of sheer panic, she realized she had left her wallet on her desk. “Oh shit,” she muttered beneath her breath, felt her pulse jump a notch or two, and turned to look into the blinding light of the officer’s flashlight. “You’re not going to believe this—”
“You wanna step out of the car?”
The panic filled her throat. “I don’t need to get out of the car. This is really ridiculous, sir. I left my wallet in my office, and it had my license and registration—”
The officer opened her door. “Step out of the car. Now.”
“Now what are we doing?” Robin whined as she reluctantly did as she was told. “Are you allowed to waste my time like this? Isn’t this against the law? Okay, so I was going a little fast, so what? Everyone speeds on this loop. Is this the reason the city raises taxes each year? So they can put more cops on the street to keep Houston safe from riffraff like me—”
“Lady, you are about to talk your way into a trip to central booking. Now why don’t you put a lid on it and walk around to the back of your car with me?”
Robin followed him, but somewhere between the driver’s door and the back bumper of her car, all good sense and reason escaped her, fell right out onto Loop 610 and was flattened beyond recognition by a passing eighteen-wheeler. “This is police harassment!” she said sternly. “You have no right to detain me. If you want to write me a ticket for the dangerous speed of eighty-three, go ahead and do it, but you can’t just march me around like this.”
“What is your name?”
“If I told you, you’d be sorry. My family is very prominent in Houston, and believe me, they won’t be happy that you were harassing me like this—”
“You are trying my patience, miss. Now tell me your name.”
“Ha! I won’t!” Robin said, knowing, somewhere within the confines of her deadened instinct that it was exactly the wrong answer.
To confirm that it was, the officer smiled, stuffed his ticket book in the back of his pants and reached for the cuffs dangling from his belt. “Got some bad news for you, Ms. Smart-ass. You’re going to jail—”
“What?” Robin cried, jumping away as he reached for her. “You can’t arrest me!”
“Oh really? Well try this on for size. I am arresting you for failure to identify and driving without a license or proof of insurance. Take my advice and don’t be a complete fool and add a charge of evading arrest to it,” he said and grabbed her wrist, slapping a cuff on it.
Robin gaped at the cuff, then at him, disbelieving, as he told her that she had the right to remain silent.
Chapter Four
Thursday morning, Jake was on the job site at 8 A.M. sharp, surprised that he was there before Zaney, the guy he used on most of these jobs. Thinking he was probably stuck in traffic, Jake waited outside for about ten minutes, wanting to make sure Zaney found the place okay. When he got bored with standing on the sidewalk, he decided to stretch his legs and wandered around to the back of the Lear house.
<
br /> Raymond was already hard at work in the garden he had planted behind the guesthouse and waved Jake over to show him tomatoes as big as softballs. Suitably impressed, Jake had a look around at the rest of the produce, and when Raymond offered to sack some up, he said, very cool. Particularly since Jake didn’t really have any food in his house at the moment. After paying taxes and insurance this month, he’d come up a little short.
He put the sack Raymond filled in a saddlebag on his bike and checked the time. Nine o’clock and still no Zaney. Okay, now he was officially worried. His old pal had suffered a head injury a few years ago working on an oil rig, and since then, he could be pretty dumb at times. But he was as steady as the day was long, and when he was this late, well . . . Jake dug out his cell phone and started to make some calls.
So this was what the proverbial rock bottom looked like, and Robin had splattered herself all over it.
It was humiliating enough to have been brought in at all, much less wearing handcuffs. But then they took all of her belongings, including her belt, made her spread her legs so a female guard could pat her down, and when she was completely traumatized, they took her picture, fingerprinted her, and told her to quit whining; she was not going to see the sheriff, she was going to see a judge. Okay, she had said then, fully contrite for her folly, I give, let me out.
They said they would—if and when a judge said so.
And then they showed her the holding cell into which they had managed to defy physics and force at least a dozen women. Robin’s bathroom was bigger than that cell. It was a nightmare, a bona fide, unmistakable nightmare, complete with bodies under the benches and scary monster-type-looking humans, and she had no one to blame but herself. And damn it, Robin could not stop shivering—they had turned the air-conditioning on to a full-metal-jacket high, undoubtedly to keep the stench down. How long she sat there, she had no idea, and wouldn’t have been the least surprised if days had passed, maybe even weeks, until the door was at last pushed open and a guard came waddling in. “All right, ladies—time to go. You know the drill, everyone on their feet!”
Well, no, she didn’t know the drill, but Robin surged to her feet nonetheless, crowding with the others to get out of that stuffy little room.
They were lead to an open area with chairs and a bank of phones along one wall and told to make their calls. Robin went to a phone, picked up the receiver, grimaced at the greasy feel of it and debated who to call. Oh, hi, this is Robin, and I’m in jail. . . . Her attorney? Seemed logical, but no—she was also Evan’s attorney. Mia? Right. She didn’t answer the phone before noon. Lucy? Well, sure, if she wanted it spread all over Houston. Kelly, Mariah, Linda, Susan—God, no! Her CPA? He’d probably have a heart attack.
That left only one viable option.
Grimacing, Robin dialed her grandparent’s number, praying to high heaven they hadn’t gone off on some trailer trip. Grandma answered the phone on the first ring. “Hel-lo-oh!” she sang.
“Grandma, it’s me,” she said low.
“Oh, hi, honey!” Grandma said cheerfully. “What are you up to?”
“Grandma, now don’t freak out, okay? I need you to come pick me up. Or get a lawyer—not my lawyer, but . . . oh hell, I’m not really sure what I need you to do—”
“A lawyer!” Grandma gasped. “Why on earth would you need a lawyer? And what is all that racket?”
“It’s a really long and stupid story Grandma, but . . . okay, listen, I’m sort of in a bind. You shouldn’t panic or anything, because like I said, it’s reallyreally stupid—”
“Where are you, Robbie?” Grandma asked, her voice going shrill.
There was no good way to say it. Robin forced a laugh. “You won’t believe this, Grandma! Ha haaaa, I’m . . . I’m . . . in jail.
They probably heard her grandmother’s shriek throughout the entire retirement community. “Jail!” she cried out. “Jail? Oh no, not jail! Elmer! Robbie is in jaaaail!”
Robin heard the receiver on her grandmother’s end bounce on the phone table. “Grandma!” she cried into the phone.
“Robbie, is that you?”
Thank God, Grandpa! “Yes, yes, it’s me, Grandpa! Is Grandma all right?”
“Are you really in jail?”
“Yes, I—”
“Oh yeah? What’d you do?”
“I didn’t really do—”
“Drugs?”
“Grandpa! Of course it wasn’t drugs!”
“Well then, what? Murder?” He chuckled appreciatively at his own jest. Robin stared at the phone cradle in front of her. Why hadn’t she realized before this crucial moment that her grandparents were insane? “Oh dear, it wasn’t murder, was it?” he asked, his voice suddenly anxious.
“Of course not!” she cried. “It’s too long to explain now, but Grandpa, please come get me. This place is horrible! Everyone smells, and who knows why they are here, and the guards are just . . . just mean, and I have no idea how long they will hold me or anything, but please, please come get me,” she said, feeling suddenly and dangerously close to tears.
“Well, of course we’ll come get you, Robbie-girl! You just hold tight. We’re gonna come get you.”
“Thanks, Grandpa,” she whispered tearfully, and heard him shout at Grandma to hurry up as the phone clicked off.
Feeling a little better having called in the cavalry, Robin endured another interminable wait until they were led, single file, into another long room where a judge’s bench was elevated above the rows of wooden benches. They formed two groups, men and women on opposite sides of the room. Now Robin was feeling particularly slimy. The last seventy-two hours had been a personal trip through hell, and all she wanted was out—she had never felt so alone or so vulnerable or so insane in her life. What sort of moron picked a fight with a cop?
She shivered. They waited. She wondered what time it was, had that slow and thick feeling of having flown through too many time zones on a long transatlantic flight. When at last the judge did arrive, Robin was surprised; the diminutive African American probably didn’t reach five feet.
The bailiff announced Judge Vaneta Jobe and told them all to rise. Judge Jobe climbed up onto her big black high-back leather chair, and with her head barely visible, and her feet probably swinging a foot above ground, let her gaze travel the crowd. “All right then,” she said, slipping on a pair of round, silver-framed glasses. “Listen up, everyone. Y’all have some rights you’ll need to know about. . .” She proceeded to inform them, in a booming voice that belied her size, of their rights and the different types of bonds available to them. Then she announced she would bring them forward to hear the charges being made against them, and when she had finished her speech, she asked, “Is that just clear as mud? Let’s begin, Mr. Peeples.”
The bailiff picked up a sheet and squinted at it. “Rodney Trace.”
A man from the third row of benches stood and came forward, his head hung low. When he approached the bench, Judge Jobe glared down at him. “Seems like you gone and done a stupid thing, Mr. Trace. How many times are you gonna be stupid? Until you kill someone? Or until they send you down to the farm?”
Rodney Trace shrugged.
Judge Jobe sighed. “Bail set at twenty-five thousand dollars. Who’s next on our hit parade, Mr. Peeples?”
Horrified, Robin watched as Judge Jobe and a long string of people who alternately tried to argue their charge or took whatever bond she set with a shrug. She was beginning to feel less and less optimistic about what would happen to her, and started like a jumping bean when the bailiff finally called her name. She hurried forward, clasped her hands tightly in front of her and tried very hard not to shiver.
The judge leaned over the bench to have a better look at her, shaking her head. “Urn, um, um . . . don’t know what’s got into you, girlfriend,” she said, and picked up a manila folder. “Do you think this town belongs to you?”
Was she supposed to answer that? Robin glanced uneasily at the bailiff. “Uh . . .
no,” she stammered. “No, of course not.”
“Then why were you so nasty to Officer Denton?”
“I, uh . . . I d-didn’t know that I was.”
The judge peered over the tops of her round glasses at Robin. “You trying to tell me that you didn’t know you were mouthing off to him? Or that you were being nasty? Or that by refusing to give him your name, or provide your license, or proof of insurance, that you were being disrespectful? Is that the way you do people, Ms. Lear?”
“No. . .”
“No?”
“Uh, yes . . . well, no,” Robin stuttered.
The judge snorted, looked at the bailiff. “Ms. Lear got herself an attitude problem, Mr. Peeples. That superior attitude got her into a little bit of trouble, didn’t it?”
“It sure did, Your Honor.”
“I’m surprised Ms. Lear managed to make it this long before someone knocked her down a notch or two.” The judge tossed the file down and bestowed a fierce frown on Robin that sent another shiver down her spine. “You need to wake up and smell the coffee! How many of your fine and fancy friends get themselves thrown in jail for talking trash?”
“I don’t know any,” Robin answered truthfully.
“Maybe that’s cause they don’t go around thinking they’re better than everyone else. If you’re gonna walk around thinking you are, you’re gonna keep making trouble for yourself, do you understand me?”
“I don’t think I’m better—”
“I said, do you understand me?” Judge Jobe demanded.
“Yes, ma’am,” Robin answered softly.
“I’m gonna accept your plea of guilty for driving without a license or insurance and fine you seven hundred fifty dollars for wasting my time.”
Robin blinked. When, exactly, had she pled guilty?
“Now follow the deputy here, and try not to be annoying,” the judge said and handed the deputy a piece of paper. He pointed toward the door; Robin walked, head down.