I tell her everything. The bar where I was trying to drink alone and mind my own business. The three guys who wouldn't leave me alone, their comments, their pushing, their constant harassment. The fight that spiraled out of control, that ended with me on the ground with a cop's knee in my back.
She takes notes in neat handwriting, nodding occasionally.
"Did the other men get arrested too? Or was it just you?"
"I don't know. I was in the back of a cop car by that point, hands cuffed behind my back. I couldn't see what was happening with them."
"I'll find out. That's one of the first things I need to check, whether they were charged as well. If they were charged, that helps establish significantly that you were defending yourself." She sets down her pen and looks at me directly. "Here's what I think we're looking at, Mr. Morrow. The assault charge is the serious one. That's what we need to fight. Disorderly conduct is relatively minor, basically like a ticket. My goal is to get the assault charge either reduced to something minimal or dismissed entirely."
"How do you do that? What's the process?"
"A first offense is working in your favor, no prior record at all, evidence that you were provoked and defending yourself. I'll talk to the prosecutor assigned to your case, see what they're willing to deal on. Present your side of the story. See if there's security camera footage from the bar or parking lot. Track down witnesses if possible." She taps her pen on the notepad. "Best case scenario, we get it dismissed entirely and you walk away with a clean record. Worst case scenario, we plead down to disorderly conduct, you pay a fine, maybe do some community service hours. Either way, we keep assault off your permanent record. That's the priority."
"And if we can't? If they won't deal?"
"Then we go to trial and make the case that you acted in self-defense. Present evidence, call witnesses if we can find any, challenge the prosecution's version of events." She looks at me steadily. "But I don't think it'll come to that. Prosecutors don't like wasting time and resources on bar fights. They want to clear cases efficiently. This is exactly the kind of case they typically deal out."
I nod, trying to absorb all of this. It sounds manageable when she says it like this. It sounds like maybe I'm not completely screwed.
"I need you to sign some paperwork," Patricia says, pulling a thick stack of documents from the file. "Standard representation agreement, fee structure breakdown, authorization forms allowing me to act on your behalf."
She slides the papers across the desk. I pick up the pen she offers and hesitate.
"The retainer," I say. "Has Ivan already paid it?"
" Not yet. He told me he’s ready to pay it as soon as you sign and we finalize representation."
I sign the papers. One after another, my hand moving mechanically. When I'm done, Patricia gathers them up.
"Your court date is in twelve days. I'll be in touch before then, probably early next week to prep you. We'll go over what to expect, what to wear, what to say and not say." She looks at me seriously. "In the meantime, I need you to stay completely out of trouble. No drinking, no fighting, no situations at all that could complicate this case."
"No drinking," I repeat.
"Is that going to be a problem for you? I need to know now if it is."
"No," I say, wondering if I'm lying. "It won't be a problem."
She studies me for a moment, and I get the distinct feeling she doesn't entirely believe me. But she doesn't push.
"I'll be in touch. My direct number is on my card. Call me if anything comes up."
"I will. Thank you."
I leave her office and stand on the sidewalk outside, blinking in the bright afternoon sun. It's done. I have a lawyer who is going to help me fix this mess. All thanks to Ivan.
I get to Betty's five minutes early for my evening shift. I tie on my apron, roll up my sleeves, and start washing dishes before the dinner rush even begins.
The evening is brutal. Plates and cups and silverware piling up faster than I can scrub them. My hands are raw and pruned halfway through the shift. My back aches from standing in one spot. My mind goes numb, which is almost a relief.
The exhaustion is good. When I'm this tired, when my body hurts this much, I don't have energy to think about drinking.
At ten, I hang up my apron and head home. The night air is cool on my face. I pull out my phone and check the time. Ivan will be calling soon. I make it back to the motel with two minutes to spare. I kick off my shoes, collapse on the bed, and wait.
My phone rings.
"Hey." Ivan's voice is warm. Hearing it is the absolute best part of my day.
"Hey yourself."
