Page 150 of A Million To Fall

But only a minute later, the courtroom door swings open and my throat goes dry.

Archer’s dad.

Holy fucking shit. They sent the district attorney? To prosecute my mom’s case?

Look, I’m not saying what she’s alleged to have done is akin to something as petty as shoplifting or speeding, but do drug and prostitution charges really require the head of the entire D.A.’s office?

In the past, I’d only ever seen Mr. Longfellow’s name attached to high-profile cases like when a whole sex trafficking ring got busted or they prosecuted that triple murder where a guy killed his wife and two children in their sleep because he wanted to start a new life with the twenty-two-year-old babysitter. The guy even went so far as to off the family dog.

Clearly I’m not the only one surprised by Mr. Longfellow striding confidently to the prosecution desk.

“Mr. Longfellow,” the judge says, as he places his brown leather briefcase atop the table. His pressed navy three-piece suit and shiny brown oxfords scream money. “To what do I owe the pleasure of having you grace my courtroom this morning? Don’t tell me you’re handling this matter,” she adds like even the idea of Mr. Longfellow handling a case as insignificant as my mom’s is absurd.

Mr. Longfellow chuckles, low and practiced. “As a matter of fact, I am. My apologies for my tardiness, Your Honor. Judge Wiseburn’s calendar ran over.”

The judge nods. “Not a problem. Is the state ready to proceed?”

“Your Honor, if I may have a brief moment to confer with Ms. Hughes?”

“Sure, do you want to meet in my chambers or—”

“Not necessary, Your Honor,” he cuts in.

Seems rude to interrupt a judge, but okay.

He cuts across the aisle, then begins talking with my mom’s lawyer.

His voice is too low for me to overhear, so I study my mom instead. Her expression goes from intimidated and regretful to incredulous—then grateful. Even her lawyer smiles.

“Your Honor.” Mr. Longfellow retakes his position behind his desk. He’s not particularly tall—maybe 5’10”— but he carries himself with the kind of confidence that makes him seem bigger than he is. “At this time, the people are prepared to dismiss the prostitution charge and offer the defendant the opportunity to complete a twenty-four-month diversion program. Ninety days of that at an in-patient facility, and the remaining twenty-one months will be outpatient. Upon successful completion of the program, all pending charges will be fully dismissed.”

For a moment, I’m convinced I misheard—that the blood rushing in my ears distorted the sound.

“That’s quite generous,” the judge says.

“Seeing as this is the defendant’s first encounter with the law and her record is otherwise clean,” Mr. Longfellow says, “the people feel as though she’s a good candidate for rehabilitation.”

The judge turns her attention to my mom. “You understand what is being offered to you?”

My eyes are pinned to the back of my mom’s head as she nods. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“You will be remanded to an in-patient drug rehabilitation center and will remain there for a period of no less than ninety days, following which you will continue outpatient treatment. Dismissal of all pending criminal charges will be dependent upon the successful completion of the entire twenty-four-month-program. Failure to complete the program or a violation of the terms and conditions of the diversion program, including renewed arrests, will result in the termination of the program and the people will proceed with the trial. It is imperative that you understand that, Ms. Rawlings.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” my mom repeats, voice thin. She sounds younger than she is, almost like a little girl. “May I ask a question, Your Honor?”

The judge nods

“Will I be able to have my children back?”

My heart lurches into my throat. Truth is, I no longer trust my mom with Cassie and Bronx’s wellbeing. Not after she exposed them to so much trauma. Not after she chose drugs and her boyfriend over her own offspring. Repeatedly.

“That’s a matter for a family court to decide and not within my purview. At least while you’re in-patient, I don’t foresee a court returning your children to you. Not until you can adequately show rehabilitation. But again, not my call.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” my mom says for a third time.

The judge and the attorneys go back and forth for another minute, ironing out the details.

“Ms. Rawlings, until a bed opens up you’ll remain in custody, but hopefully not for too long before you’re moved.”