Mitch cleared his throat. “Are you up for something to eat?”
“Maybe later, when it’s over.”
“Okay.” He held the door open. “Shall we?”
The courthouse located in the downtown beach community of Santa Barbara was a white, Spanish-style building, with red tiles and thick walls, its courtyard surrounding a sea of green grass and lush foliage. The interior was cool and dim. The doors were wood and so low that a man six feet or taller had to bend his head to step into the various rooms lining the corridor. People gathered in small groups, lawyers clutching briefcases dressed in expensive suits, their clients wary, nervous, arms crossed protectively against their chests, all speaking in hushed voices. Mitch looked around for Drew’s attorney. He hadn’t yet arrived.
“Do you think I’ll go to jail?” Drew asked.
“Of course not.” Mitch’s voice was sharp.
Drew released his breath. “Good.”
“Have you been worrying?”
The boy nodded.
“I told you it wouldn’t come to that. Yours is a first offense. You’ve never been in trouble before and you’re fifteen years old. All of that will be taken into consideration.”
Drew decided not to tell his father that he’d never told him any such thing. They’d never discussed what might happen or even the circumstances of the crime. Beyond a terse “This will never happen again,” Drew’s dabble in the drug trade was a taboo subject. As far as he knew there was a chance he could be led away in handcuffs.
A large man in a rumpled suit with a swath of hair combed over his freckled head sat down on the bench beside them. He was breathing heavily. “Hello, Mitch.” He held out his hand.
Mitch shook it. “This is Drew.”
“A pleasure.” The man pumped Drew’s hand and smiled so that his eyes disappeared in folds of skin. “I’m Declan O’Shea. I’ll be representing you in court.”
“Nice to meet you,” Drew mumbled.
He spoke directly to Drew. “Let’s get down to business. It’s an open-and-shut case if you plead guilty. You’ll be released, put on probation and assigned community service. If you’re not guilty, there will be a trial and we’ll have to prove your innocence. The judge won’t like that.”
“I thought I was innocent until proven guilty.”
“Nice idealistic principle. But not in juvenile court.” Again the attorney’s eyes disappeared with his smile. “Actually, not in any court I’ve ever been in. The truth is, here in California, if you’re white, rich, can post bail and are represented by an outside attorney, you’ll probably walk. Small brown people who come before the judge in handcuffs and orange jumpsuits serve time. So, what’s it gonna be?”
Did he really need a lawyer for this? Was this a real lawyer? He looked at his father. “Dad?”
Mitch frowned. “Mr. O’Shea has been practicing law here for a long time, Drew. You were caught with a large amount of marijuana, more than you could possibly use yourself. The charges could be very serious. The choice is yours, but the evidence is against you. I suggest you plead guilty and accept the consequences. You’re a minor. You can have your record sealed when you’re eighteen.”
“Or, you could leave it as is,” said O’Shea. “Sometimes a minor drug conviction isn’t as much of a deterrent to a future employer as a sealed record. It’s up to you.”
Drew hung his head. “I’ll plead guilty.”
“Hey.” The lawyer held up his hands. “If you’re not guilty, just say so. If you’re up front with me and you’re really innocent, I’ll get you off. If not, a plea is the way to go.” Suddenly the folksy accent disappeared altogether. “Are you innocent, Drew?”
The boy shook his head. “No.”
O’Shea sighed. “No. I didn’t think so. You guys never are. It’s a good thing you spilled the beans on your friend, Saunders, and that his story agreed with yours. That will go in your favor. So will the fact that your involvement was minor. I understand you’re an honors student. Does that still stand?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anyone who can vouch for your character, teachers, family friends?”
“I work for Julianne Harris at DeAngelo Vineyards. She said she’d be here.”
Mitch cleared his throat. “We can’t assume that, Drew. Something might have come up. Let’s just go with what we have now.”
O’Shea nodded. “Fine by me.” He looked at his watch. “It’s time to go in.”
He led the way down an aisle flanked by auditorium seats. Drew and Mitch followed him to the first row of seats. They watched as their lawyer and the prosecuting attorney conferred. After several minutes, O’Shea sat down beside Drew.
After a minute, the flutterings in Drew’s stomach settled and he looked around as the courtroom slowly filled from back to front. Nearly everyone his own age was accompanied by parents, work-weary mothers and fathers, more shabbily dressed than not, who looked as if they would rather be anywhere else than here. His father’s dark suit and crisp tie stood out.
Drew was cold, with an empty, barren, bone-aching cold. It was the uncomfortable kind that no amount of heat from the outside, no warm jacket or hot drink could change. It began at the base of his spine and radiated up and outward to his fingers and toes, his ears and the tip of his nose. Gingerly he touched his nose. It didn’t feel cold.
Someone slid into the seat beside him. He glanced sideways. Julianne Harris caught his eye and smiled at him. He smiled back. The cold receded.
“Sorry I’m late,” she whispered. “I couldn’t find a parking space.”
“It’s okay,” Drew whispered back. “Nothing’s started yet.”
The bailiff turned to the courtroom. “All rise for The Honorable Susannah Merriman.”
Collectively, everyone stood.
“Raise your right hands,” the bailiff intoned. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? Answer I do.”
“I do.” The chant filled the high-ceilinged room.
“Please be seated.”
One by one the accused stood before the judge. After a while, Drew relaxed and listened, drawn into the personal dramas around him.
Judge Merriman was fair. She listened, asked questions and meted out sentences with a calculated impartiality that could only have been learned through long years on the bench.
Finally it was Drew’s turn. The bailiff called his name. Slowly, he walked to the front of the courtroom. Declan O’Shea stood on one side of him, his father on the other.
The judge read the charges. Then she looked at him over the rim of her glasses. “Do you understand the charges?”
Drew nodded.
“Answer the question for the court reporter,” the bailiff ordered.
“Yes.”
“Your Honor,” O’Shea whispered.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Drew repeated.
“How do you plead?”
“My client pleads guilty, Your Honor. This is Drew Gillette’s first offense. There are mitigating circumstances, which have been discussed with the prosecution. They have agreed to community service and probation. In addition, his high school has allowed him to return in good standing.”
Judge Merriman fixed her gaze on the young female prosecutor. “Is that correct, Miss Shaw?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“I’m inclined to agree except for the amount of the goods he was carrying.” She looked at Drew. “I’m concerned about that.”
Julianne stood. She looked very crisp and sincere in her white suit and pearl earrings. “Your Honor, I’d like to say something.”
“State your name.”
“Julianne Harris.”
The judge smiled. “I thought I recognized you. Do you remember me, Mrs. Harris?”
“I do, Your Honor.”
“Are you still teaching?”
“No. I’m in the catering business.”
“I’ll tell my daughter. She still talks about you.”
/>
Julianne laughed. “Oh, dear.”
Judge Merriman returned her smile. “How do you know Drew Gillette, Mrs. Harris?”
“He works for me. He’s conscientious and intelligent. I think he had a difficult time when he first came. He recently lost his mother to cancer. To move away from everything familiar was difficult for him. Please take that into consideration.”
The judge was silent for a minute. “Very well,” she said. “So ruled, with the added stipulation that the boy’s driver’s license be suspended for an additional year.” She looked at Drew. “That means you won’t be able to apply for a license or drive alone until your seventeenth birthday, even with drivers’ training. Do you understand that, Drew?”
Relief left him weak. “Yes, Your Honor.”
Outside, Mitch, Drew, Julianne and Declan O’Shea gathered at the bottom of the steps. Drew shook his lawyer’s hand. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. You got lucky with this lady.” He nodded at Julianne. “How often do you find a character witness who taught the judge’s daughter?” He grinned. “I’ll be on my way. Don’t get into any more trouble. You won’t be so lucky next time.”
Julianne kissed Drew on the cheek. “I’m happy for you. It could have been much worse.”
“Thanks to you, it wasn’t,” said Mitch. “Can we take you to lunch?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got things to do at home. Will I see you tomorrow, Drew?”
The boy nodded. “Right after school.”
Man and boy watched her walk away. “She’s a nice lady,” Drew said.
Mitch nodded. Then he looked at his son. “There isn’t much point into driving back to school today. How about choosing a restaurant for lunch? There’s got to be something vegetarian around here.”
“You choose. I can get a salad anywhere.”
Mitch checked his watch. “Let’s leave a message for Sarah. She’s worried sick about you.”
“She’s at school.”
“I told her to check in with the office.”
Drew looked skeptical.
“I won’t be specific, Drew,” his father reassured him, pulling out his cell phone. “I’ll just say everything worked out well.”
Drew waited for his father to fill Sarah in on the morning. Then they walked side by side down State Street, Santa Barbara’s trendy shopping district. Drew looked at the menu of an outdoor café and pronounced it acceptable.
They ordered and had made serious inroads on the bread and butter, when Drew cleared his throat. “I don’t think I thanked you, Dad.”
Mitch smiled. “No. You didn’t.”
“This hasn’t been easy for you either, has it?”
“It’s been hell.” He shook his head. “My hat’s off to your mother. I had no idea raising children could be such an emotional roller coaster. She did most of it alone and I’m sorry for that.”
“I guess I didn’t think you cared all that much.”
Mitch’s eyes were very bright. “You’re damn right I care. I couldn’t sleep last night worrying about the worst that could happen to you. Why did you do it, Drew?”
Drew shrugged. “I don’t know, really. Nothing seemed to matter.” He looked at his father. “It’s hard to explain. I wasn’t feeling anything anymore. At first, that was okay. I didn’t want to feel. When Mom died it hurt so much, all I wanted was to sleep everything away. Then, things changed. I couldn’t feel even when I wanted to. I guess I wanted something bad to happen to me, just to see if I could care about anything.”
“What have you learned from this?”
Drew returned his father’s look steadily. “I’ve learned that what I do affects other people, good people. Sarah and you and Mrs. Harris, even the teachers at school. I won’t be doing anything stupid again.”
Mitch’s eyes twinkled. “Let’s not go that far. After all, you are a teenager.”
It was good to see his father smile. “All right. Stupid, maybe. Illegal, no.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
Jake hung up the phone and stared glumly at the desk calendar. He’d asked Gene Cappiello to wait thirty days before accepting GGI’s offer, hoping he could get loan approval in plenty of time. Now that the news about the valley’s water-table problems and the crack in the dam was out, property values had dropped. DeAngelo Winery’s appraisal had come in too low, even though the damage had been isolated and repairs on the dam were in progress. He would need more collateral to purchase Soledad, and all he had was two weeks before his thirty days were up. If he didn’t find more money immediately, Gene would sell to GGI.
Francesca walked into the office from the cave. She rubbed her arms. “I’m freezing.”
He pulled off his sweatshirt and threw it at her. She tugged it over her head and thrust her arms through the sleeves. “Mmm. It’s warm and it smells like you. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
His tone gave his mood away. She frowned. “What’s the matter?”
He looked at her, tom between working it through himself or telling her and allowing her to rescue him. More than anything, he wanted to tell her what was on his mind. She was great when the chips were down. Francesca was smart, with an analytical mind designed for problem solving. She was also his best friend, all of which should have had him spilling his worries. Two years ago he wouldn’t have hesitated. But this time he held back. This time he wanted to rise to the occasion, handle it himself, make her proud. Francesca loved him. He knew that. He also knew that she wasn’t sold on him. He had the feeling that if he didn’t manage this one on his own, she would forever find him wanting.
She stood there, long hair falling over her shoulders, Bambi eyes, dark and watchful, filling up her face. She was so beautiful his heart hurt.
His forehead cleared. “I’m thinking that we should lock the door, spread a blanket on the floor and make love until we’re dizzy.”
She blushed. “All right.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He pushed the chair away from the desk and walked toward her slowly, a smile starting in his eyes. The winery could wait. Everything could wait but this moment and this feeling with this woman, his woman.
She met him halfway, clasping her arms around his neck, pulling his head down to meet her lips. Her cheeks were cold from the cave and her mouth tasted like blackberries. “Have you been sampling the must?” he asked, coming out of the kiss.
She nodded. Her eyes were closed. Tenderly, he kissed both eyelids, her cheeks and her nose. “There’s only one thing I want more than this.”
Francesca pulled back to look at him. “What’s that?” “I want you to tell me we’ll always have this, whenever we want, when we’re old and shriveled.”
“I’ll never be shriveled,” she teased him.
“I won’t care if you are.”
She searched his face and her arms dropped to her sides. “We’re not going to do this, are we?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it isn’t enough. Not without the rest of it. Because if we keep doing this and then you decide it’s over for good, I won’t be able to stand it.”
“I thought men were different.”
“How so?”
“I thought sex and love were two different things for a man.”
“Not this one. Not with you.”
Then she asked the question she’d wanted to ask for two long years. “Has there been anyone else, Jake?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped him, her fingers against his lips. “Please tell me the truth. I can take the truth, but I can’t take a lie if I found out later.”
“There’s been no one else, Francie. There never has been. Not for me.”
She looked into his eyes. They were blue and clear and serious. She believed him.
“Thank you. I needed to hear that.”
He nodded.
“Aren’t you going to ask me the same qu
estion?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if there has been someone else, I don’t want to know. I don’t think I could take it.”
“Would you still want me if there had been?”
His eyes clouded. “Yes. I’d still want you. I know you, Francie. If you commit, it means forever. If it’s me you want, there won’t be anyone else.”
“I wanted there to be,” she confessed. “I wanted to forget all about you and find someone wonderful.”
“I deserved that.”
“But it never happened. No one appealed to me.”
He grinned. “I’m flattered and more than a little relieved.”
She looked at her watch. “Nick will be out of school soon. Shall we pick him up together?”
“How about the three of us grabbing a bite to eat in town?”
“What about our mothers?”
“Now that you mention it, I was hoping to avoid them.”
Francesca frowned. “It’s not going very well, is it?”
“No.”
“Shall I ask mine to leave?”
“Is that what you want, Francie?”
“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “She isn’t what I expected.”
“Don’t do anything until you know for sure what you want. It’ll come to you.”
“Meanwhile, what do we do?”
“We collect our son and eat in town.”
Francesca picked up the desk phone. “I’ll relay the news.”
Thirty
Mitch stared in disbelief at the television screen. Voting results were in and GGI’s winery had gone down two to one. The citizens of the Santa Ynez Valley had chosen no growth over jobs. Who would have thought such a thing would happen? Mitch was stunned. He’d never judged a situation so poorly. There would be no conglomerate vineyard and winery in Santa Ynez. All the blueprints, the land purchases, the contractors waiting to break ground were moot. For the first time in his career, he’d been dead wrong.
The telephone rang. He looked at the clock. It was after 11:00 p.m. Using the remote, he turned off the television and glanced at the caller-ID screen. Then he answered the phone.
Leland Hawkins, chairman of the board, didn’t bother to identify himself. “What happened, Mitch?”
A Delicate Finish Page 27
