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“It’s not her first offense with low blood sugar,” Wannabe Jenny replied. “She seems well aware of the potential effects of alcohol on her condition.”
So was Wannabe Jenny. Not even the shroudlike black robe could hide the effects of sitting on the bench. Once upon a time Wannabe Jenny had been petite and fit. Not so much anymore.
On the other hand, Karan’s condition forced her to eat small meals every few hours to steady her sugar, which had the added benefit of running her metabolism at full tilt. No complaints there.
“Yet even knowing the potential effects,” Wannabe Jenny continued, “your client chose to toast the senator then get behind the wheel of her car before her body had adequately processed the alcohol. By serving the full sentence, I hope her first offense will also be her last.”
Karan waited for her attorney to earn his astronomical fee—a fee she’d insisted on paying even though she’d hosted him in her homes many times throughout her three years of marriage to his close friend.
“May I approach the bench, Your Honor?” Her attorney waited until Wannabe Jenny nodded and then he crossed the courtroom.
Karan waited, too, barely daring to breathe, not allowing herself to react in any visible way. She reminded herself that her attorney was more than competent. The only thing she could do was trust him to do his job.
This situation was a nightmare. Of course she should never have gotten in her car tipsy. Not even to drive the few miles of lonely highway to her house. If she could relive the night over, she would make a different decision. Because Wannabe Jenny was right about one thing—Karan knew the limitations of her condition. She didn’t go near alcohol for that very reason. She drank club soda with lime to keep the servers busy at functions, but the only alcohol that ever passed her lips was the odd glass of champagne for toasts. And then only the very best champagne.
Sometimes she toasted with no trouble whatsoever and barely felt the effects of a glass, but when her sugar was low, even a few sips could hit her like a truck. So she always sipped cautiously until she knew what the effect would be.
That night Karan had broken all her usual rules and now paid the price. Resisting the urge to turn around, she sensed Susanna’s presence behind her, a good friend who’d taken time off work to be moral support. At the rate they were going today, Karan might need Susanna to post her bail.
But she refused to react, refused to give Wannabe Jenny the satisfaction. So Karan stood her ground and watched silently as judge and attorney spoke in hushed tones, discussing her actions and punishment without any input from her. The minutes were marked only by the sounds in the courtroom.
A whisper of polyester from the bailiff’s pants as he shifted restlessly from side to side.
The mechanical hiss of a vent when the air-conditioning cycled on, barely keeping the summer heat outside.
The creak of a hinge from the rear of the courtroom as a door opened and shut again.
The muted patter of footsteps as someone strode confidently between the rows of seats, nearer and nearer.
The sound of Susanna’s urgent whispering was the final straw, and Karan glanced over her shoulder to find her best friend talking to Jack Sloan, who looked as handsome as ever in his official blue-and-brass uniform.
Well, well, well. Bluestone Mountain’s police chief had decided to grace her with his presence.
Back in the cheerleading captain/Wannabe Jenny days, Karan had envisioned a brilliant future with this man. They’d dated through to the end of high school and well into college. Then Jack had switched his career from law to law enforcement. Karan had no intention of becoming a cop’s wife when she’d been born to be a society bride to a high-powered husband.
Such a shame, too, as Jack had only grown more handsome in the years since college. And if his defection hadn’t been criminal enough, he’d recently married the very woman who’d been a source of major irritation to Karan all through high school.
As far as Karan was concerned, Jack owed her big, and she’d told him as much at the station during booking. Of course, he’d promised to help but hadn’t done a thing as far as she could tell. In all fairness, Karan knew he couldn’t simply make her situation vanish as easily as he might have a parking ticket. Still, she’d hoped for something more than the busy, newly married police chief’s appearance in the courtroom. Men. Not a damned one of them ever delivered.
Wannabe Jenny glanced up and noticed the new arrival. “Chief Sloan. Nice of you to join our little reunion.”
Only Wannabe Jenny would point that out. What were the chances that her thirst for blood would be quenched after this nightmare was finally over?
Jack only inclined his head and said, “Judge Malone.”
“Your ears must have been ringing because we were just talking about you. Thought for sure you’d decided to skip today.” She motioned him forward. “Please approach the bench.”
Jack came through the gate the bailiff held open. “Didn’t want to miss the fun.”
Fun? Karan positively hated this small town, hated the gossip mill and everyone knowing everyone else’s business. Having everyone know hers. She had a gorgeous apartment in Manhattan and a bungalow on the Connecticut shore, so why did she even bother keeping a house here again?
A good question that she didn’t have an answer for. But as she watched the Ashokan High reunion, Karan vowed to call a real estate agent as soon as she walked out of this courtroom. She’d had enough of this nonsense. Quite enough.
She waited for her invitation to the bench, but one never came. Obviously, she was expected to stand by while everyone else made decisions about her life. She tried to squelch her annoyance, knowing there was no one to blame but herself. But knowing didn’t take the edge off. Not her anger at herself for this mess. Not her fear that Wannabe Jenny wanted blood for long-ago wounds to her pride. Not Karan’s annoyance that the years hadn’t turned Jack from high school football star into a balding cop with a doughnut belly.
Then Susanna’s fingers slid against Karan’s and gave a light squeeze. She wasn’t much for overt signs of emotion, and her best friend since middle school knew it. But Susanna also knew Karan better than anyone in the world. She knew how much Karan hated feeling out of control because they’d been weathering life together—boyfriends, graduations, weddings, divorces and funerals. Susanna didn’t mind sharing how she felt. She actually liked overt signs of emotion. Unexpected hugs. Reassuring touches.
She seemed to like them even more since her husband had died. Karan wished she could be as open as Susanna. Always there. Always caring for the people she loved. Even when life threw devastating curves.
Of course all that emotion came with a dark side, and Susanna could worry like no one Karan had ever met. She got positively insane sometimes, but life wouldn’t be life without Susanna. They were as close as sisters—or what Karan imagined a sister would be like given she was an only child.
“Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece,” Wannabe Jenny announced in her I’m-the-shark-in-the-fishbowl voice. “With Chief Sloan’s help, I think we’ve worked out an arrangement that may be more to your liking.”
Susanna gave another squeeze then her hand slipped away. Karan faced the firing squad stoically. Her attorney narrowed his gaze, warning her to stay quiet. He didn’t have to because Karan had a gift for reading people. She kept her mouth shut.
“Since you’re a low-risk offender, there is an alternative sentence that, if you agree, will take the place of your jail time.”
Karan didn’t dare to breathe. So far so good. The thought of living behind bars for more than two weeks made her faint. She looked dreadful in orange. So not her color.
“In lieu of incarceration,” Wannabe Jenny continued, dragging out the suspense. “you’ll be required to complete three hundred and sixty hours of community service.”
Karan mentally calculated. Three hundred and sixty hours translated into fifteen days. Okay, still good.
“Chief Sloan has been working with Mayor Trant and a number of community leaders to launch New Hope, Bluestone Mountain’s first domestic violence shelter. You can assist their efforts by completing your service hours under the supervision of one of the program directors. You can complete the hours at your convenience, Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece, but be aware you’re also required to attend weekly group and private treatment sessions for the duration and your driving privileges will remain suspended until you complete the mandated hours and appear back in court before me.
“At that time I’ll review your case and reinstate your privileges if you’ve satisfactorily met the terms of this ruling. If you do choose this alternative sentencing, I’ll waive the three-hour substance-abuse education class you’re otherwise required to take by law. Would you like a few moments to speak with counsel?”
Waive the three-hour class? How generous. But visions of windowless rooms filled with drug addicts danced in her head, so she managed to say politely, “Yes, Your Honor.”
Her attorney returned to the table, and Karan sank to the chair for a powwow.
“Paris Hilton only got two hundred hours of community service and she’s gone way past her first offense,” Karan hissed in his ear.
“Don’t forget she got a year’s probation.” He shot a glance at the bench as if worried they might be overheard. Jack and Wannabe Jenny were too busy chitchatting to pay attention. “Japan wouldn’t even let her enter the country.”
Like Karan wanted to go to Japan. “Is this honestly the best you can do?”
He scowled. “I don’t know what you did to this woman, but I promise you won’t get a better offer. Jail or alternative sentence. Your call.”
Visions of Lindsay Lohan’s latest trip to the pokey replaced images of windowless rooms. The local press would have a field day if Karan went to jail since the woman who ran the Bluestone Mountain Gazette was another Ashokan High alumnus who hadn’t had any use for Karan and her circle of friends.
At least she could spin community service in a domestic violence shelter into something not as humiliating as jail. “Alternative sentence.”
“Good choice.” Her attorney popped to his feet. “Your Honor, my client would like to accept the alternative sentence in lieu of jail time and thanks you for your consideration.”
Wannabe Jenny looked smug. “Good luck then, Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece. I’ll look forward to reviewing updates about your progress.”
No doubt. Probably didn’t have anything else to do while eating her microwave-frozen dinners at night.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” That was as polite as Karan could manage. Wannabe Jenny might have the gavel in her hand right now, but the accompanying black robe washed out her sallow skin. She needed to either invest in decent makeup primer or have a conversation with whomever had chosen black as the color of choice in the courtroom.
Karan jumped when the gavel cracked with aggressive finality and Wannabe Jenny said, “Court adjourned.”
For today, anyway, because Karan would be back.
Unfortunately.
CHAPTER TWO
CHARLES STEINBERG WHEELED HIS Jeep Wrangler into the parking lot behind the three-story Victorian where he’d spent more time during the past eight months than he had anywhere but in the operating room. Releasing the clutch, he pulled up the emergency brake, noticing how the sun sparkled on the newly installed windows, as bright and promising as the place itself.
He felt a satisfaction as if he’d personally installed those windows rather than cutting the check that released funds to the contractor who’d done the job.
Charles’s contribution had been in the coordination and decision making, in determining essential need to balance the budget, in the long-range planning and development of outreach programs. He’d done his fair share.
And though he hadn’t originally chosen to become one of the directors of this project, Charles prided himself on living by his grandmother’s oft-spoken saying: “Bloom where you’re planted.”
He had. With the help of other dedicated volunteers, New Hope of Bluestone Mountain, Inc. had been born. The town’s first certified domestic violence prevention and emergency shelter.
The front porch light now shone 24/7, a welcome to families in crisis and the promise of help. Behind freshly painted gingerbread trim, every room had been transformed to become a multiservice facility with offices, counseling rooms and two complete floors of suites that served as temporary shelter for women and children in need.
For such a noble endeavor, the neighborhood wasn’t all that much to look at. In the years since Charles had come to town, the large property lots in this area had attracted enough businesses to be zoned commercial. Still, there were a few residences like this one tucked away on forested acreage between auto repair shops and convenience stores. The out-of-the-way location was what made the house perfect as a shelter.
Charles got out, noticing the sleek gray Jaguar that looked out of place in a parking lot separated only by a security wall and evergreens from the loading docks of Bluestone Mountain’s only Walmart Supercenter.
He didn’t bother pulling on the Jeep’s cover. There wasn’t a hint of uncertain weather in the summer sky. Besides, he wouldn’t be here that long, and only had to touch base with his codirector about some volunteer scheduling decisions that couldn’t wait until Monday.
He’d already had a long day in surgery, having arrived at the hospital way before the sun had come up this morning. Five surgeries later then rounds and he’d earned the right to this weekend’s fishing trip.
Charles had made it to the flagstone path when the security gate ground open again. A familiar white Toyota Camry appeared, slipping into the space on the opposite side of the Jaguar and coming to a sharp stop.
Rhonda Camden, Ph.D., New Hope’s codirector and his partner in crime. Running late as usual.
The door swung open and she hopped out, dragging a briefcase that overflowed with papers. She looked as windblown and hurried as she always did, and after eight months of working together, Charles knew why—she juggled more balls in the air than most people between her job as director of the town’s crisis center and her private practice. Add volunteer endeavors such as New Hope…
Smiling broadly, Rhonda gestured to the house and all they’d accomplished together in the past eight months.
“Matthew impressed yet?” she asked, referring to the chief at St. Joseph’s Hospital where Charles was on staff.
“You’d think. I’m either in surgery or I’m here. But the man is a hard sell. Maybe you should put in a good word for me.”
Not that he thought anything would impress St. Joseph’s chief. Matthew West was going to make Charles sweat out an invitation to join the Catskill Center for Cardiothoracic Surgery, the most professional and highly regarded team in the area, and projects like New Hope were a part of the process. He’d already reconciled himself to running the gauntlet until the chief was satisfied. Or until he found another candidate to join the coveted team. Whichever came first.
She rolled her eyes. “Right. Your boss has even less of a regard for my field than you do if that’s possible.”
Charles thought it might be, and he couldn’t deny her claim, either. He hadn’t known much about, or had much use for, clinical psychology before seeing Rhonda in action. He was a surgeon. His interest was all about what was happening inside the body, not speculation about why.
“I told you I’ve revised my opinion of your field.”
She passed him and headed up the steps. “You mentioned it. I’m not convinced I should believe you.”
“You read minds for a living. You should know if I’m lying.”
She didn’t take the bait, only laughed, and he launched himself up two steps at a time to reach the entrance before she did. After inputting his security code, he held the door for her.
“Thank you, Dr. Steinberg.”
“My pleasure, Dr. Camden.” He stepped inside. “So what’s this new program that needs immediate attention?”
Turning around, she peered pointedly over the rim of her glasses. “See that showy Jag parked between our cars?”
“I do.”
“I suspect that belongs to our court-ordered volunteer.”
Charles came to a stop with the door still half-open. “Court ordered? I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Some folks need a little help recognizing the merits of helping others.”
“You’re killing me with suspense.” Actually, the suspense wasn’t killing him, but the need to get home, pack a bag and get the hell out of Dodge was.
This was Rhonda’s expertise, and after working beside her, Charles had the utmost of confidence in her decisions. If she said they should take on a court-ordered volunteer program, then Charles accepted her word.
“No felons or pedophiles, I promise,” she assured him.
“Never even crossed my mind.” He pulled the door shut until the lock clicked tight. Another thing about Rhonda—she was crazy invested in helping women. So much so that he’d wondered more than once whom she knew or what might have happened in her life to make her such a passionate advocate.
“Hey, Deputy Doug,” she greeted the sheriff as they passed the room that had been transformed into the on-site Sheriff’s Department substation.
The deputy, spit-polished in a uniform that lent an air of authority and safety to New Hope, glanced up from the desk where he monitored video surveillance of the property with the phone cradled against his ear. He waved.
Charles inclined his head as he passed. “Our resident deputy is okay with you inviting criminals onto the property?”
“Not criminals.” Rhonda huffed over her shoulder and headed down the hallway toward the administrative offices. “They’re women the court feels have something to offer and deserve a chance to get back on more productive paths.”
“That’s very…politically correct.”
“I couldn’t say no, Charles. It’s a worthy cause and we need the help. Our volunteer base is a third of what it needs to be, and with the screenings, orientations and training, that won’t change for some time.”
Charles was personally acquainted with the duties around here and wondered what these formerly upstanding women might have to offer. He didn’t bother asking since they had arrived in the office and the administrative volunteer sitting at the desk said, “Your appointment is here, Dr. Camden.”
“Thanks.” She motioned Charles into their shared office. “Close the door.”
He did as she asked, surprised when she dropped her things on the desk and went straight for the observation panel on the wall. Sliding the shutter open, she peered through the viewing glass into the reception area.
“Nicely dressed felon,” Rhonda said drily.
The observation panel had been established as a security measure in a place filled with them. They’d modeled New Hope after other domestic violence programs around the country. The unfortunate truth was that domestic violence could erupt anywhere and often followed its victims.
