“You knew he was drinking,” Corinne says, her voice rising and falling in a panic. “For how long? How much? Why didn’t you tell me?” Her breath turns shallow and shaky.
“Corinne, take a deep breath,” Doug instructs.
I’m already walking away from the phone. My head is barely above water. If I stay in the conversation, there’s no telling what I’ll do or say.
“It wasn’t her place to tell you, Mom,” is the last thing I hear before I walk out the front door. I spend a quick second wondering where Gabriel’s truck is before I remember it is in police custody.Evidence.
I sit down behind a brick pillar at the end of the porch, where I’m hidden from the view of the street. My head drops into my hands, and my eyes close.
The tenor of Gabriel's voice floats through the front door. He's still talking to his parents, and soon it will be my turn to tell my dad and Lara. The rug will be ripped from under them, just as it has been for Doug and Corinne. At least Gabriel's parentsknew of his prior problem. For my dad and Lara, every facet of this will come as a shock. The same goes for Cam. I'll have to pull back the curtain, and reveal it all.
The therapist in me understands the trajectory.Ignoredgrief and guilt from Nash, triggered by Ryan.The wife in me is devastated that our life, thatI, wasn’t enough to keep him steady. I cannot comprehend all the tiny but impactful moments I saw but somehow still missed.
Me, of all people. The therapist.
I could draw a detailed map of our time together, and yet, here I am, wondering how we got here.
CHAPTER 24
“They’re goingto make an example out of you.” Our lawyer sits back, folding his hands on the table. He is a stout man, with dark, freshly cut hair and a red necktie. Gregory Decker, though the partners call him Deck. This makes me think of a fraternity, which in turn makes me think of someone not taking their job seriously. But he comes highly recommended, and has an impressive pedigree. We’re paying out the nose for him, using money we don’t have.
I grip the edge of the gleaming walnut desk with both hands and lean forward. “Is that what they said?”
Beside me, Gabriel is stoic. If it weren’t for the heavy set of his shoulders, the dip of his chin, someone wouldn’t be able to look at him and know what we’re doing.
“Not in those words, but based on the plea agreement, I’d say so.” His fancy pen taps the table. “I did everything I could to get the endangerment charge dropped down to a misdemeanor, but the pedestrian was hurt. Prosecutor is adamant it be charged as a felony.”
“The pedestrian was also drunk, and walked in front of his truck.” My hands rake through my hair. I cannot recall the lasttime I’ve washed it. “What if we don’t take what they’re offering? What if we let it go to trial?”
“As your lawyer, I advise you to take the deal. Maximum sentence was seven years. This is three, with the possibility of early out at two with good behavior.”
“Did you tell them about his heroic service to the public? The lives he’s saved?” Desperation sinks into my voice.
“Yes, Mrs. Woodruff. That’s how I got it reduced to three. This is a sensitive time. There are more eyes on the police than ever before. Oversight isn’t a bad thing,” he says diplomatically. “But it’s not helping your husband right now.”
“I’m not suggesting there shouldn’t be consequences for bad choices, especially ones that endanger others, but there should be better-fitting punishment. How is sitting in a prison cell going to help his mental health? He can go to a treatment facility. AA. Weekly check-ins, an accountability partner.” Hysteria dances on the edge of my words. I can’t let this happen. Gabriel can’t go to prison. “He has PTSD. And possibly major depressive disorder.” Neither of these diagnoses are official, but it wouldn’t be a stretch to make them. Especially not right now. “This man works a dangerous job so others don’t have to. Because of him, most of society does not worry themselves with learning how to fight a fire, or basic emergency medical care, or, for God’s sake, how to remove a rattlesnake.”
The lawyers’ eyebrows lift. “A rattlesnake?”
“You wouldn’t believe the number of rattlesnakes this man has removed from a frightened person’s yard.” I look at Gabriel. He nods once, a silent corroboration.
Gabriel has been mute since the moment we sat down across from the lawyer. He nods, swallows, his facial muscles move as he represses his emotions. He has nothing to say, and I have everything to say. Doesn’t he want to fight for himself?
If he won’t, I will.
“The fact is,” I continue, “he, and every other firefighter, are on the other end of that phone call.” I point at Gabriel. “He answers that call for help. Five years ago, he answered my call for help. Now he’s the one asking. Who’s going to do it for him? Who will answer his call?”
Appreciation glimmers in the lawyer’s eyes. “Impassioned speeches aside, we have to work with what we have. The prosecutor's job is to focus on the event. My job is to paint a picture broader than the one day the event occurred.” He pushes a file folder across the table to me. “That’s what I did with those letters. That photo.”
I take the folder, slipping it into my purse. It contains two letters, one from Gabriel’s father in his professional capacity as fire captain, and one from a longtime colleague of Gabriel’s. The photo is from the newspaper article, Gabriel carrying me out of a burning home.
Igathered those items.Irequested those letters. Gabriel has done very little to defend himself. It’s as though he has given up.
The lawyer taps the printed out plea deal in front of him. “Now we must work with what we have. And this is it.”
“Take it,” Gabriel says.
“What?” I stare at his stiff profile. “Gabriel, no.”
