Page 22 of Rebel Summer

“I mean,” Dax drawled on while I dug my nails into the armrest, “how is she ever going to learn to never drink and drive again if we just let her write a check and be on her way? The way she lost control?—“

“I wasn’t drinking!” I stood up, my hands at my waist.

“Shhhh,” my lawyer whispered furiously, hopelessly mortified because his lady doth protest too much.

“You were under the influence, Ms. Brooks,” the judge said.

“Right. Yes. But it was an accident,” I protested.

“I, for one, believe the children in this good town would feel safer if?—”

“Mr. Miller?”

Dax paused in his stride. “Yes, sir?”

“Sit down.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dax sat down and shot me a glance so brimming with mischief my stomach tightened with nerves. He was playing me. Playing the judge. Playing everybody. Getting his reactions. This wasn’t about the car. It couldn’t be. This was about him wanting nothing more than to mess with me.

The next few minutes were spent watching a ping pong match go down in the courtroom between both attorneys. Realizing he didn’t have much choice but to go along with my plea, Mr. Frost began arguing back and forth between the prosecuting attorney about negligence versus recklessness. How it was my first and only offense. I sat back in my chair while the scene played out around me, unable to do anything but watch with growing unease.

Mr. Frost elbowed me lightly in the arm. When I glanced at him, he nodded toward the judge. “He’s talking to you.”

My attention shot back to the judge to find that yes, he had indeed been talking to me. “Sorry, Your Honor. What was that?”

Judge Baylor closed his eyes briefly before saying, “Wasn’t it you who worked in the cafe when you lived here? Back in high school, right? I think I remember you. You were a good waitress.”

I was confused, and also slightly flattered he remembered, but I tried not to show it as I answered him. “Yes. That was me. I worked there for three years.”

He nodded, and I wondered if that was just small talk, like how he and Dax had chatted about his golf cart. It had been ten years since I hung up my apron at the cafe. I was surprised he remembered.

He cleared his throat. “Well, I think I may have the solution for our predicament.”

Predicament? As long as I was willing to fork out the check, it seemed like there didn’t have to be a predicament at all, but I knew better than to say that out loud. Instead, I kept my gaze focused on Judge Baylor and any emotions off of my face.

“For your information,” he began, looking at me, “Harold and Judy, the owners of the Sunrise Cafe here in town, have had to take a significant amount of time off due to Harold receiving cancer treatments off the island. My wife received word from Judy the other day that they’ll be detained for a couple of months. They might be in and out, but the cafe is in need of some help, and we as a community are determined to keep them up and running.”

My mind reeled at this information. Harold and Judy were basically my second parents all through high school. Harold, the sweet man who used to quiz me on math problems and showed up to my volleyball games, was fighting cancer.

“Ms. Brooks, I mentioned the cafe because I’m hopeful that, while you are here rebuilding what you’ve broken, you’ll also give some of your time to help at the cafe. Since you’re already somewhat familiar with how the restaurant runs, I can’t help but think it would be a great way to give back to the community you’ve wronged. Is this something you are able to do?”

I swallowed and nodded, my brain having a hard time registering everything he was saying before he spoke again—leveling me completely.

“So, with that in mind, Ms. Brooks, in regard to your charge of driving under the influence in the town of Sunset Harbor, I sentence you to ninety days in jail. But I will suspend all ninety days and put you on probation for twelve months. I also impose a fine to the court for the cost of $500. You will serve two hundred hours of community service, to be performed within the next seven weeks. All two hundred hours will go toward helping Mr. Miller rebuild his Lego car and whatever else his business stands in need of. Since this is your first offense in the courts, Ms. Brooks, I will withhold adjudication.”

I stared at the judge in growing trepidation, a hand over my mouth.

“Adjudication?” I whispered frantically to my attorney. “What does that mean?”

“He’ll remove the charge from your record after you pay your fines and serve your hours,” he whispered back. “That’s very generous.”

I sat back in my chair. Two hundred hours of community service.

To Dax Miller.

The judge went on about how teaching a lesson to the community in times like these was important. Getting our hands dirty to fix what we had broken was a trait this nation was losing a generation at a time.

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