Page 61 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“The police found a small fraction of that amount on Mr. Rollo’s person, which he has admitted was for personal use. He has a bad drug habit. The real culprit here is Samuel Womack. I’m sure the prosecutor would have liked to come down hard on Mr. Womack, but the wrath of God beat her to the punch.”

“Some might say that’s one dealer down, one to go, Mr. Tucker,” the judge said. He turned to me. “God can’t smite them all, Mrs. Dunn. Why aren’t the people stepping up to the plate? Wouldn’t you at least like to take this to a grand jury?”

“Your Honor, if we were confident we could secure an indictment, we would go forward, but the coke we found on the defendant was separate from what was found in the trunk, and without the ability to link the two, we don’t feel we’d be able to meet the threshold of a higher charge.”

Vanderbergen frowned. He wasn’t buying it. “Counselor, the man was booked Saturday afternoon. It’s Monday morning. The people are entitled to more than a day and a half to make a case.”

“I realize that, Your Honor, but in that short period of time Mr. Rollo provided us with information that will assist us in ongoing narcotic investigations. He also admitted that he has a substantial narcotic addiction, and he is willing to plead guilty today if Your Honor would remand him to inpatient drug treatment at a substance-abuse community residence.”

The judge rubbed his chin. He was wavering.

“Your Honor, my client is desperate to get clean,” Tucker said. “And I strongly believe that this is one of those cases where rehabilitation would be more effective than incarceration.”

“I will take it under consideration, Mr. Tucker, but for now I am inclined to give the people a few more days to?—”

I felt the pop and let out a yelp as the water gushed out of me and splashed to the floor.

“Maggie!” It was the court stenographer.

“Mrs. Dunn, are you all right?” the judge asked.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said meekly. “A little embarrassed.”

“Nonsense,” he said, peering over the bench at the puddle beneath my feet. “There’s nothing embarrassing about going into labor. However, my thought to give you more time to formulate a convincing argument for the grand jury seems academic at this point. Step back, please. Mr. Tucker, help counsel to her seat.”

Tucker, his shoes and pants cuffs wet, did as he was told.

“Mr. Rollo,” the judge said.

Johnny stood. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Do you understand that you have been charged with a misdemeanor seventh-degree possession of a controlled substance with a recommendation of drug treatment in exchange for a guilty plea today?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“How do you plead?”

“Guilty, Your Honor,” Johnny said.

“The court accepts the guilty plea, and you are sentenced to six months of inpatient drug treatment. I want you back here in ninety days with a status report... and it better be glowing.”

“Yes, Judge, it will be.”

“And Mr. Rollo, I hope you understand that you just got the best Christmas gift ever. Don’t squander it.”

He banged his gavel. “Bailiff, get an ambulance. And get someone from maintenance up here with a mop.”

THIRTY-SIX

That day I brought three new lives into the world. Mary Katherine, named after my mother; Kevin William, named after Alex’s father; and Johnny Lee Rollo, a twenty-nine-year-old battle-scarred drug dealer most people were ready to give up on, lock up, and forget.

But I’m too bullheaded to give up. I believed in Johnny, Judge Vanderbergen believed in me, and somewhere along the way Johnny finally wound up believing in himself.

He stopped using, he stopped dealing, and he started recovering.

Three months after his arraignment he was back in court, and the report from the rehab was every bit as glowing as the judge had demanded. Afterward, the two of us stood on the courthouse steps while his drug counselor waited in the transport van.

“Congratulations,” I said. “You’ve come a long way in ninety days. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking this healthy.”

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