Page 60 of The 1 Lawyer

Behind me, a car door slammed, and I heard footsteps pounding on the dirt road. Jenny caught up to me and grabbed my arm right where it had been bruised by the cop’s flashlight.

“Shit!” I yelled, jerking my arm free.

Sounding contrite, Jenny said, “Sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you. But you have to get back in the car.”

No goddamn way, I thought. “I’m not enjoying the ride. Or the conversation.”

“Get. Back. In the car. I mean it.” Her face wore a savage look.

“You think you can take me down, Jenny?” Judging from her expression, she intended to try. The idea made me laugh despite my foul mood. “Even in my weakened state, there’s no way you can win a wrestling match with me.”

She grasped my wrist. “I’m not letting go. I won’t stand by and watch you kill yourself.” Her face crumpled and she let out a sob. The reaction shocked me. Jenny never cried.

Mason laid on the horn. I could see him through the windshield; he was watching us. “What’s going on out there?” he shouted.

“Jenny’s flipping out on me,” I called back. “Tell her I’m okay.”

He just shook his head.

Jenny tugged on my arm, but gently this time. “You can’t hitch back to town. No one is going to pick you up and give you a ride, Stafford Lee. You look like an escaped felon. A serial killer.” Then in a cajoling voice, she said, “Come on back to the car. Just give us a chance to make our case.”

She had a valid point about my hitchhiking chances. I let her lead me back to the car. This time, she slid into the back seat beside me.

“You really need to go for treatment,” she said. “You’re in a crisis. The situation is urgent—”

I interrupted. “Is this an intervention?” When she said it was, I looked at Mason. He nodded and started driving again. I said, “Huh. Well, that’s a first for me.”

“Mason and I found a good residential facility in Louisiana, and we talked to the administrator and one of the therapists. Can I share what they told us?”

“Sure. Fire away.”

She grabbed her purse, pulled out two sheets of paper, and started to read aloud. It appeared that she’d prepared a pitch in anticipation of our road trip. I slumped down in the seat and sat, not interrupting but also not paying much heed. While Jenny preached the benefits of rehab and Mason drove us toward Louisiana, I tried to think of other things.

CHAPTER 47

SEVENTY-TWO MILES after the state sign welcomed us to Louisiana—and warned us to keep it beautiful—Mason made a turn into the Hope Springs Recovery Center.

We drove down a path lined with oaks draped in Spanish moss that led to a huge white house at the top of a sloping green lawn. Two groundskeepers were hard at work; one was operating a riding mower, the other toiled in a flower bed.

Mason braked in front of the house, and Jenny faced me with an expectant expression.

“It’s Tara!” I said.

She frowned. “Don’t be a smart-ass.”

“It was a compliment. I thought you were taking me someplace with a more institutional vibe. You know, like in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, the facility where Jack Nicholson landed for his lobotomy. This is much nicer.”

“Hell yeah, it’s nice. Mason and I have dedicated a lot of time to finding the best treatment center in the South. This was a historic property before it was converted into a rehab facility with the feel of a B and B. It’s on the National Register of Historic Places.”

Mason added, “You can work out while you’re here. They’ve got a great gym. I checked it out. And there’s a pool out back.”

Deadpan, I said, “Oh my God. I’m on vacation.”

Jenny gave me a pleading look. “Stop it, Stafford Lee. Of course it’s not gonna be a vacation. But it’s beautiful here, right? We wanted to find a place where you could be comfortable while you worked on your problem.”

Problem? Was that the diagnosis? Her cautious description of my plight was comical. “Right. It looks exceedingly comfortable. But y’all might as well turn this car around. Ain’t no way I can afford this place. I can tell by the landscaping alone.”

In a suspiciously casual tone, Mason said, “That’s not going to be an issue. Your old man is picking up the tab.”

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