David Meets His Attorney


"David, I hope you've learned your lesson." 

Barnett's mother was standing at the foot of the bed.

"Mom, what are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here? Why are you here, David?"

His eyes darted around the room. I'm in the hospital! An IV was running in his right arm. He had a crushing headache and felt nauseated.

David's father entered with a glaring look of disgust. "Well, Dr. Barnett, you've really screwed up this time, haven't you?"

David was dumbfounded. What are they talking about? "What do you mean, Dad? How'd I screw up?"

"I warned you about the booze, didn't I. I told you a thousand times, but you wouldn't listen. Hot-shot doctor, too smart for the rest of us, right? Now look at you, no wife, no family, no job. All you have is your alcohol. I hope you enjoy the rest of your decadent life, you scum!"

"David, how could you do this?" His mother asked as she looked toward the far side of the bed. "Look what you've done to poor Susan. She's terrified!"

He shot a glance to his right, shocked to find Sue standing inches away.

"Your parents are right. You've destroyed everything we had, David. You and your drinking. I hate you! The children hate you!  And now you're dying!"

Dying? "What are you saying? I'm not dying, am I?"

His father, red faced with buldging neck veins, bellowed, "Damn right you're dying! The doctor says your liver's a wreck, ruined by alcohol. You're a dead man."

David was stunned. My liver?

His father screamed even louder. "You're a piece of shit, David. We all hate you. We all hate you."

His mother and Sue joined in. "We all hate you. We all hate you. We all . . . ."

Overwhelmed with shame, he rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. The pillow was hard, smelling of plastic. The bed was as hard as a board. He turned back to his family.

Susan and his parents were gone. Bright light bathed him with warmth. He was a young boy, lying on a hard, concrete driveway, watching clouds float by on a sunny day. He was happy, having escaped the shame of his adult life. A bell rang.

David awoke and opened his eyes, staring directly into brilliant fluorescent lights.

"Time for breakfast, gentleman. Rise and shine."

He shot upright. A police officer was standing at a gate, passing plastic trays of food through an opening in steel bars.

"Oh, my God. I'm in jail."

A cell mate, no more than a teenager, was sitting on the floor next to him. "Course, you in jail, Bro. What ya think, you was home in bed?" Two others laughed.

David's head was pounding from a hangover. Jail, I can't believe it. What happened? He felt like a piece of shit, just as he had dreamed. He was on the floor, sitting on a thin, plastic mattress--his bed for the night. Dressed in a suit, he stood out in a room full of derelicts. His shoes, tie, belt, wallet, and wrist watch were missing--confiscated by the night supervisors.

The cell, standing room only, was packed with men: whites, blacks and Hispanics, jammed into an overnight holding area, the bull pen. Most looked disheveled and hardcore--many still sleeping on mats scattered around the room. Nearly all appeared younger than Barnett. The bull pen smelled of sweat, body odor, booze, and bad breath. David sighed and breathed deeply to clear his head--trying to remember what he had done.

I phoned Dad in Detroit. But why? Why did I call my father? His memory slowly returned. Last night the police at Lucas County Jail told him he was allowed one call. They advised calling an attorney. He didn't have an attorney. He called his father. David raised his hands to bury his face. His finger tips were stained black. I was finger printed! He lay down on his mat, trying hard to recall the prior evening's events.

Ten-minutes later, he sat up. A clock outside the cell read six-thirty a.m. It was Saturday morning. Time passed slowly, excruciatingly slowly. After what seemed like hours, he checked the clock again. It was seven-fifteen. Impossible, it's got to be at least nine or later.

Every twenty-minutes or so, an officer would call the name of an inmate to be released. At ten-forty-five, a guard  yelled out, "Barnett. I need David Barnett."

Thank God! He stood and walked to the gate. 

"Barnett?"

"Yes, sir."

"Your attorney's here. Come on out."

He was escorted to an interview room with a small table and two chairs. A short, stout ,bearded man in a three-piece suit was seated at the table. "Doctor, I'm attorney Jacobs, Allen Jacobs. Your father called me last night."

They shook hands. David took a seat.

"Doctor, your father couldn't tell me much. I got most of the details from the police report. Sounds like you had a bad night. Why don't you tell me about it? I'll see if I can get you outta here this morning."

The comment caught David off guard. "Mr. Jacobs, are you saying I might not be released today?"

"No, no. Don't worry about that. The Sylvania judge, Larry Scott, and I are friends. I'll call him. You'll be ok."

David felt relieved. "That sounds good."

"Okay, tell me what went on."

"I'll do the best I can. I have to admit I had way too much to drink, but I think I remember most of it. You know I have a restraining order against me, right?"

"Yep, I know."

"My wife and I separated six weeks ago. It was her idea, not mine. I've been despondent ever since. Frankly, I'm heartbroken and scared. My whole world's changed." 

"I've been there myself. Your whole world has changed. It's frightening, isn't it?"

"Very. Much worse than I would have imagined."

"How long have you and your wife been together?"

"We met at seventeen--been a couple ever since--almost twenty years." 

"Twenty years. That is rough. I feel for ya. Any children?"

"Three--two girls and a boy."

"That adds a lot, doesn't it?"

"It's terrible. I haven't seen them for weeks."

"I interrupted your story. Please go on."

"As I said, I've been a mess. I can barely get through a day at work. My patients can tell I'm distracted. It makes them nervous. My office staff is freaked out. Worst of all, I've been drinking more. I've always been a drinker, more so than most. But now it worries me. I'm out of control."

"Doctor, are you drinking during the day, at work?"

"No. I've never done that. It's always in the evening, usually late. I'm alone. I can't sleep. I'm not doing well, Mr. Jacobs."

"Please call me Allen. And if it's alright with you, I'll call you David?"

"Sure, that's fine."

"David, we'll work together on the drinking problem. For now, let's stick to what happened last night." 

"I've been going to the house. I drive by every night. Sometimes I stop and look in the windows. A week ago, the police warned me to stay away--said they know my car and they've seen me in the neighborhood. They told me I'd be arrested if I didn't stop. The restraining order, as you know."

"Yes, go on."

"I know I'll get in trouble, but I can't stop. I miss my wife and children so much. It's killing me. After a few drinks I don't care about the police. I go to the house anyway."

"Have they seen you since the warning?"

"I don't know. I'm pretty careful. Either they haven't seen me or they're being very generous."

"I doubt that, David. They've already given you one warning. Don't count on a second."

"I suppose not. Anyway, two nights ago there was a  truck in the driveway, a black pickup, parked behind Sue's car. When I saw it my heart sank. I knew it had to belong to a guy--certainly not one of Sue's girlfriends. Some guy was in my house with my wife and children. I couldn't believe it. It really shook me up." 

"I sympathize. I know how that feels--from my own experience."

"It made me sick inside. After seeing the truck my heartbreak turned to anger. You know, what the hell's she doing with some guy in our house with the children? For God's sake, Maddie's only six years old. It really pissed me off!"

Jacobs gave a nod of understanding.

"I parked my car about three blocks away and walked to the backyard, where the police couldn't see me. I went to the family room window. Allen, I couldn't believe it. The guy was wearing boxer shorts and a tank top. The son of a bitch was walkin' around in front of my children in his Goddamn underwear. He has a shaved head, an earring, and his arms are covered with tattoos. I watched him strut around the house like he owned the place. Allen, my wife has gone off the deep end. It was like I was watching a movie. It didn't seem real."

Jacobs frowned and shook his head.

"Then this tattooed son-of-a-bitch went to the kitchen. I was outside hiding in the shrubs like some moron. I scrambled over to the kitchen window. The guy opened the refrigerator, pulled out a gallon of milk, looked back, as if to make sure no one was watching, and took a big swig right out of the bottle--the bottle of milk my children drink!  He capped it and slipped it back in the fridge. Allen, I was so fuckin' mad I wanted to crash the door in and strangle the asshole!"

"David, I really feel for you. You're in a bad spot and I understand your anger. Go on with your story, but try to settle down. Take a breath and relax."

"I'm sorry about my language."

"Hey, it's no problem. I'd wanna kill the son-of-a-bitch, too."

"I was about to kick the door in when I heard a car coming down the street. It was a police cruiser. I backed out of sight. The cops slowly drove past and kept going. Seeing them snapped me back to reality. I didn't want to go to jail. So I left." 

"I'm confused. You left? How'd you get arrested?"

"Allen, I apologize for dragging this out. This happened two nights ago. I got arrested last night."

"Okay. Go on."

"As I was I leaving, I walked past the truck. Suddenly a dog, a Doberman, lunges at the truck window, barking. It scared the shit out of me. It was the icing on the cake, Allen. We have two little Westies and this guy's got a Doberman."

"Yeah, I know the breed. West Highland Whites--great dogs."

"The dogs are mine. I raised them, trained them, bathed and groomed them. Now they're with Sue and some jerk with a Doberman."

"So you left?"

"Yeah, I drove to my motel. I barely slept and had an exhausting day at work yesterday. Allen, what happened next was unbelievable."