Page 115 of A Million To Fall

“Stop, Wilder,” Archer complains, freeing himself.

“Aww, Archie,” Wilder says with a laugh, and proceeds to give me a gentle hug before dropping into his seat with a groan.

“Finally escaped the land of bad plea deals and even worse coffee,” he says. “Drug court’s a nightmare, Dad. The cops don’t give a shit, everyone says they were holding five kilos of meth ‘for a friend,’ and I’m pretty sure the judge thinks I’m still in law school.”

Mr. Longfellow chuckles, clapping his son on the back. “Welcome to the trenches, son. You gotta cut your teeth like the rest of us.”

“I guess,” Wilder says with a nod. “Although, I was really hoping to make a little more of an impact, you know? Maybe I went in too rosy-eyed, but, man, I’ve been offering deals for drug diversion programs instead of jail time probably in eighty percent of my cases, but it rarely sticks. The defendants either won’t take it or they’ll immediately do something stupid again landing them right back in front of the judge.”

My ears perk up.

“What’s a drug diversion program?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.

“It’s basically a get-out-of-jail-free card for first-time drug offenders. It’s focused on rehabilitation rather than punishment,” Wilder explains. “The defendant goes to a rehab program instead of jail.”

“It’s very much up to the discretion of the individual district attorney and dependent on the particular defendant,” Mr. Longfellow says. “There are limitations as to when it may be offered. It has to be a first time drug offense and it cannot be charged alongside other offenses, for example.”

I nod. “Are the rehab programs in-patient?”

“Sometimes,” Wilder says. “And they’re paid for by the state. The defendant has to successfully complete the program and then all charges are dismissed. It allows them to keep a clean record.”

“That seems like a really nice option,” I say. “How long are those programs, usually?”

Mr. Longfellow regards me, sharp but not unkind. “It ranges. Sometimes as little as twelve months, other times as long as three years. It all depends on the particular facts of the case, history, mitigating circumstances.”

Before I can ask the next question buzzing in my chest, our server arrives. It’s the guy from the bar. The manager. The one who shut Archer down without blinking.

“Ronan!” Wilder lights up. “Man, you’re like always here. Do you ever leave?”

Ronan smirks. “Nope. Got my sleeping bag and toothbrush stashed behind the bar.”

“Sure as heck seems like you do,” Wilder says with a chuckle. “Well, let’s make it count. I’ll have a Long Island iced tea.”

“Noted.” Ronan turns to the rest of us. “What can I get you all to drink?”

Mr. Longfellow orders a rye whiskey old-fashioned, while Mrs. Longfellow orders a glass of chardonnay. I just point at my half-full glass of water with a smile. When he lands on Archer, amusement flickers behind his eyes.

Ronan cocks his head, lets the silence stretch for just long enough, then asks, “How about you? Shirley Temple?”

I brace, even while Archer’s family chuckles.

Archer, of course, does not. His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring while his ears turn dark red. “You got a problem with me?” he snaps, already half upright.

I move my hand to his forearm. “Archer,” I murmur under my breath.

But it’s Wilder who cuts in before things escalate.

“Jesus, Archie,” he says, a wide grin on his lips like this entire situation is one big joke. “Learn how to take a joke. I don’t need you to get me banned from my favorite pub in all of New York because your ego can’t handle a soda.”

“I’ll just have a Coke,” Archer mutters and sinks a little lower in his seat. His arm is rigid next to me, the heat of his embarrassment radiating off him like steam.

Ronan nods and walks off with an amused half-smile.

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, then try for a change in subject. “So are the diversion programs only for drug crimes? Or could they apply to something else?”

Wilder tilts his head.

I force myself to sound nonchalant. “Like prostitution?”