“Where’d you park this time?” Trey asked.
“In the Old Town Stock House lot. I had a couple drinks with friends and told them I was meeting someone. Once they’d left, I put on my cap and hoodie and walked this way.”
“Stealth,” Trey said, adding, “You look good in my old jersey.”
She winked at him. Covering her chest, she wore his mesh crimson-and-white number 12 with Guntersville High embroidered across the front. She was lying on top of the covers with nothing on but the relic of Trey’s past. “You like?”
Trey nodded and began to take off his shirt. “Have you figured out what we’re doing here?”
Colleen crawled to the end of the bed and began unbuttoning his jeans. “You know exactly what we’re doing,” she whispered in his ear.
Trey closed his eyes. For a split second, he pictured Waylon Pike as he’d last seen him at the Brick. Bright eyed. Eager. Determined.
I should have stopped it, he thought.
Then, as Colleen reached inside his pants, all conscious thought melted away.
43
An hour after receiving his reprimand from the commissioners of the Alabama State Bar, Jason sat in one of the bar’s many conference rooms and gazed across a mahogany table at Ashley Sullivan, the president of the Lawyer Assistance Program. Sullivan wore a forest-green suit, which contrasted nicely with her thick red hair and freckles.
“So tell me how it’s going?”
Jason gave his instinctual, trademark smile. “Great. Practice is thriving. I’ve moved back to Guntersville to be closer to family. Can’t complain.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He peered down at the table. “I know.”
“Mr. Rich, you were supposed to reach out to my office when you returned to practice. If you’d done so, I would have assigned you a mentor to check in with regarding your recovery. Someone who’s been through what you have.”
He fiddled with his hands.
“Have you fallen off the wagon yet?”
“No,” Jason said, looking at her.
“Thought about it?”
“Every day.”
She leaned across the table. “Jason, you can’t do this alone. If you try, you’ll eventually fail.”
“Does my mentor have to be another lawyer?”
“This is the Lawyer Assistance Program. All of our members are attorneys. Besides, who better to know what you’re going through than someone who’s in the same profession.”
Jason stood, then walked to a window that looked out on Dexter Avenue. He could see the columns of the Alabama Supreme Court building. “Did you watch the reprimand?”
“I did,” she said, her voice matter of fact.
“Then you saw . . . or felt . . . the way my peers think about me.”
“That’s in your head, Jason. I’ve watched hundreds of those reprimands. They’re all the same. A lot of folks look down. Some stare off into space. And others seem to get some kind of sick enjoyment out of seeing another lawyer suffer.”
“And you?”
She stood and walked over to where he was standing. “I feel empathy.”
“Why?”
“Because I know, if I hadn’t gone to treatment, I would have been right there too. Being disciplined like you were today.”
Jason groaned. “People have your back, Ashley. You’re likeable. They wouldn’t enjoy your shame like they did mine today.”
“I didn’t enjoy it.”
He glanced at her. “Well, you were the only one.”
She walked to the end of the table and took a seat. “Jason, if you don’t take a mentor, I’m going to have to tell Ted that you’re not cooperating. As I understand it, you haven’t gone to an AA meeting either, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And you aren’t seeing a counselor.”
“None of the above,” he snapped.
“And what about your counselor from the PAC?”
“We had one call. A week out of rehab.”
“Well . . . that’s good. What’d she say?”
“That it was unwise to take on my sister’s murder case. Too stressful. Too much pressure. Too soon.”
“I agree with her on all points,” Ashley said.
“I figured you would, but Jana and my nieces are the only family I have, and there are extraneous circumstances.”
“What are you talking about?”
He turned from the window. “I can’t tell you. But Jana didn’t have many other alternatives. I give her the best shot at a fair trial.”