Chapter 1
Jillian
“STATE OF TEXAS vs. Jillian Walker, case number 85-0492-DT-510.”
Judge Norma Jean Kirby (yes, she uses both names) pushed her glasses up onto her long, narrow nose as her ancient bailiff shuffled back to his designated area. The judge herself resembled an ostrich, with large, oversized marble eyes and feathery grey hair cropped short against her head. She showed more scalp than was acceptable for a woman, only adding to her bird-like appearance.
Her long, thin neck, extending from her judicial robes, was in need of an iron, reminding me of something my mother always says: Nothing reveals age quicker than the neck and the hands. She could easily add female baldness to that list, I thought, then snorted. I covered the faux pas with a cough.
“Ms. Walker, I have been provided paperwork stating that you and the state have come to an agreement with respect to how the allegations being brought against you will be handled. Is that your understanding?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” I’d worn a demure, grey pantsuit with a light pink silk shell beneath the fitted jacket. The string of Mikimoto freshwater pearls, a gift from my parents for my sixteenth birthday three years earlier, were a last minute addition to my ensemble. My frosted blonde hair, neatly pulled back away from my face, drew attention to the one-carat diamond earrings Daddy had brought to the hospital just a few weeks earlier. They were meant to make me feel better about what he referred to as ‘my unfortunate ordeal.’ And they had.
“Do you understand that the allegation is driving while intoxicated?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” I kept my voice even, unemotional, and my face devoid of expression. Contrite is the word our family attorney, Jamison, used. While tediously preparing for this trial he used that word, along with remorseful, humble, and apologetic. Virginal may have been thrown in there too, though I can’t really remember. The fact was, my father paid him a higher end, six-figure salary to create an illusion of sophisticated innocence. What neither of them realized was—between my years of cotillion, finishing school, state dinners, and even my recent summer internship at the capitol—I was bred for this. It was in my blood. I had this thing in the bag.
“This charge carries with it a potential incarceration of 180 days in jail, do you understand that?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Perspiration was starting to affect my grip on the handles of the god-awful walker I’d be forced to rely on for the foreseeable future. I had to admit, though, it was a hell of a lot better than the wheelchair I’d been relegated to up until only a few days ago. How much longer, people? We’d hammered out all the details with the district attorney’s office weeks ago. This was some kind of deja vu hell.
“The paperwork I have been given tells me the proposed resolution is that you be admitted into what is called a pretrial diversion program. As a result, there will be no plea and there will be no actual charges brought against you… at this time.” Those last three staccato words fired from her sickly thin lips like bullets. “Is this clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Your natural face is sour lemons, Jillian. You must always smile. With my mother’s words echoing in my subconscious, I did what I was taught to do in a public setting; smile with the bottom half of my face, so as not to look overly impressed or excited. Never let the smile cause your eyes to wrinkle. I was good at this. I went through the majority of my life in just this manner.
What a colossal waste of my time. Yes, I understood I was not being charged. Of course, I understood I would never serve time. My father was Harrison Walker. Former representative and now governor of the great state of Georgia, eyeing the presidential seat once Bush’s term was up. There was no way I would be charged or whatever. In a matter of months, weeks maybe, this little incident would be just a tiny hiccup in my otherwise perfect life. I glanced down at my new diamond-encrusted Tag Heuer to check the time.
“So, he explained you have the right to a trial and by signing this agreement, you are waiving that right. However, you also understand, the state still reserves the right to file a case against you if you fail to meet the terms laid out in the contract. Am I correct in assuming this?” My head snapped up to meet the disapproving eyes of the judge. Damn.
I nodded once more, biting the inside of my cheek to keep my eyes from rolling back into my head. She shook her head slowly. Judges made decent money, didn’t they? One would think she’d have all that extra skin on her neck nipped and tucked. It was distracting. My mother knew a guy. Hell, she had her own parking space at her plastic surgeon's office in Atlanta.
She turned to speak to her bailiff and I shuffled in place, a grimace temporarily replacing the pleased expression I’d had plastered on my face for going on half an hour. My pain meds were wearing off, and the painful pressure that standing so long was putting on my midsection was building like a siren. I was becoming increasingly grateful my attorney had insisted on flats instead of the stilettos (purchased in France from new designer Louboutin) I’d originally chosen as the crowning jewel of my courtroom attire.
“Now that these charges are formally on record, you need to be notified formally of the charges being brought against you.”
This again? Really? It’s a done deal, lady!
This backroom deal had been made before my sweet little BMW Z1 Roadster had even been towed away from the accident site. I’m sure my father never anticipated my having to stand at the defense table with a broken pelvis, while some queen of the boondocks county judge made me relive one of the less than stellar moments of my life over and over.
The portly and poorly dressed assistant district attorney stood from the table where he’d been slumped in an uncomfortable chair that looked to be circa 1940, and lumbered toward me. From what I could see out of the corner of my eye, I was relatively certain he’d been working the New York Times crossword puzzle while Judge Turkey Neck droned on and on.
“Can you please state your name for the record?” His voice was much too high for his bloated body and he was sweating profusely. My disgust turned to relief when he stopped a few feet from the table where I stood, placing me just out of his perspiration splash zone.
“Jillian Walker, sir.” That sir at the end was to show respect, of which I had none.
“Ms. Walker, you are being charged with driving while intoxicated, an incident occurring on April 1, 1992. I am asking your attorney to acknowledge this accusation, waiving a more formal reading, and enter a plea for the record.”
“We acknowledge the reading and we enter a plea of not guilty.” Jamison patted me on the back, causing my shirt to stick to my skin where he made contact. The month of May in Texas wasn’t exactly known for its pleasant weather, but the room was cool. I, on the other hand, was not. The pain was becoming unbearable.
“Your Honor,” the mealy DA addressed the judge, who now appeared about as bored as the rest of us. “The defendant has been accepted into the DIVERT program and we are in agreement with that decision, assuming the following conditions.” He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief he’d retrieved from his back pocket and focused his beady eyes on mine.
“Pretrial Diversion will be for a term of 18 months, and will require community service and drug and alcohol conditions.”
Community service? Was he kidding?
“But I was told I could pay a fine!” I shrieked. My momentary loss of control earned a stern look from Jamison and I popped my pleasant smile back into its place.
“And based on a prior inadmissible charge, the state also requires Ms. Walker only drive to and from school and community service and she may not be on the roads between the hours of ten p.m. and six a.m.”
Excuse me, what? Seems if that little misstep from last year was inadmissible… it would be inadmissible… but here it is, being admissed. This wasn’t part of the plan either.
Not liking being caught off guard, Jamison’s hackles rose and he moved in closer to the DA, letting his proximity and intimidating size betray the syrupy, Southern drawl he’d been using to charm the court.
“Now, let’s stop for just a minute here.” He closed his portfolio and strolled into the empty space separating the judge from the accused. “I think it’s important to mention, Ms. Walker has been an active member of her community, both here in College Station during her time at Texas A&M University and back home in Savannah. She was a model student at her high school in Georgia, maintaining a 4.0 average all four years, and likewise, has been no less impressive while attending school in Texas.” Yeah. One would think my position as Director of Philanthropy within my sorority would count for something.
“She comes from a well-known family, and they have high expectations for her future. Surely, Your Honor, as you can see, this is merely one bad decision made by a respectable young lady with a bright future ahead of her.”
Judge Kirby was leaning over the bench, her glasses resting on the tip of her beak as she pinned him with a glare of epic proportions. Her penciled-on eyebrows had long disappeared into her thinning hairline, making the wrinkles marking her face even more severe than when it was at rest. It didn’t appear his Southern charm worked on bitter old hags with Northern accents.
“I have read the entire pretrial packet, Mister Jamison. I am well-aware of Ms. Walker’s character.” Her sarcasm was unnerving. “In addition, I have read the full report, all responses to those reports, and while I may not understand or agree with this resolution, I respect the decision of the State.”
Then, I found myself the recipient of said glare. “The fact you’ve been admitted into the DIVERT program is no guarantee you'll complete the program, you do understand this, Ms. Walker?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” My hands shook.
“And the person responsible for the completion of this program, ultimately, is you. Are we clear?”
My stomach rolled like thunder, not at her words, but at the pain shooting through my body. A quick nod acknowledged her question, and Jamison wrapped his arm around me, easing my body down into a chair, seconds before I would’ve melted onto the cold tile floor. My body had had enough. When documents were signed and hands were shaken, I stood, with help, just as the judge called out.
“Mr. Jamison, I’d like to address your client personally.” Pain meds were officially out of my system and I worried if I didn’t lie down soon, I’d find myself in the ER. But I soldiered on, standing a little taller as I faced the old woman.
“Ms. Walker, I’ll put it to you plainly. I think you are a spoiled brat. Your family’s relationship with our state’s governor and your father’s political influence are the main reasons you aren’t serving time for such reckless endangerment… coupled with the fact that it was a single vehicle accident… and I have no doubt you’ll be suffering the consequences of your choices in the weeks, months, and even years to come.” She stood. The legs of her chair scraped the floor, creating a screech I’d imagine coming from the throat of a pterodactyl.
“This time, Daddy was able to swoop in and save you. But if you’re not careful, there will come a day when you find yourself in a mess that even your father’s long arms can’t reach. I hope you will view this as the second chance it is and take full advantage. It’s time for you to get your life on track.” She was tall… incredibly tall. And given the judge’s bench already stood a good four feet above everything else, I strained my neck to maintain eye contact. I’m sure this was part of her scare tactic.
“You need to see how the other half live. Then, maybe you’ll learn to appreciate what you have. I want you out in the field, serving the people of this community, and I know just the place for you to do it. I want you to push yourself, get out of your comfort zone, get your hands dirty. And when your time is up, I’d like to see you again.”
The feeling was most definitely not mutual.
“I know this might be a bitter pill to swallow, but I think it is the best medicine when it comes to someone like you. So, I order you to come back here when you’ve finished your community service and prove me right. Don’t make me regret allowing you to leave my court without more than this pathetic attempt at a slap on the wrist.”