Part 7 (1/2)

”That's the way this guy is,” he said. ”I never met him, either.”

Jeff dropped me off in front of the courthouse and went to park. I had no idea what to expect when I entered the building and quickly realized I was far from alone. The line wrapped three times around the lobby-at least three hundred people waiting to clear security. I took my place at the rear, called Jeff and told him I'd save him a spot in line. Jessie emailed while I was waiting. She was praying for me and gave me a verse to meditate upon, from Ephesians 5. ”Be imitators of G.o.d, therefore, as dearly loved children, and live a life of love, just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us.” I thanked her and said I would call as soon as I was done-then added I was crazy about her.

When Jeff entered, he saw me waving and stood beside me. I was quick to notice the look of annoyance on his face when he saw the number of people and stayed careful with my words. In his shoes, I'd be upset about having to stand in a thirty-minute line for a DUI hearing that wasn't mine. He never complained. He made two calls to his office, putting some items on hold and making arrangements for others.

How was this morning going to affect my life? I knew financial stability was, along with family concern, the main obstacle in our way. I took full responsibility for it. I made my choices and had to live with the consequences either way. I couldn't be bitter. I should have thought of these concerns when I was spending all my time and income on film and musical pursuits. How much had I spent over the years? Thousands. Photos, workshops, guitars, CDs, recording time, mailings, teeth-not to mention the hours spent. The real work always began when I'd finished my day job.

Since I'd known her, she had been honest about her feelings. She wanted to be able to quit her job one day and raise a family. Though she resented herself for feeling this way, she'd given up a lifestyle when she left the corporate firm and sometimes missed it. ”I see my friends living in beautiful houses in the city and making a ton of money. I struggle with it. It makes me wonder if I did the right thing.”

”I don't plan on being poor the rest of my life,” I said. ”I'm not asking you to be. I'll do whatever I have to do. If it means going back to school or switching careers, I will. Whatever it takes. But right now, it hasn't happened. I want you to be there with me as I work toward this. I need you to believe in me.”

When a man finds something worth his focus and attention, the thought of losing it becomes disheartening. What was going to happen that morning? And where was Stan? I'd been standing in the hall for ten minutes and hadn't seen anyone resembling an Italian man. Jeff could see my concern, the graven look on my face. He went to the opposite end of the hall, the other courtroom, to see if he spotted him there. Court was starting in less than five minutes and there was no sign of this guy.

”Are you Stan?” I asked an older man carrying a briefcase.

”No.”

To another man (He didn't look Italian, but I was getting desperate): ”Mr. Pugliese?”

”No.”

I called his office. The receptionist said she'd page him and have him call me. I texted Nick and asked, ”What does Pugliese look like?”

I went into the courtroom and sat in the back, sweating lightly. An email flashed on my phone. From Jon, the subject heading: Acts 20.

I know you are not in the office this morning, but I am sending this in hopes that you check your phone's email, for the reason stated in verse 2. ”He traveled through that area, speaking many words of encouragement to the people.” I hope these few verses encourage you today as you enter the courtroom. I know you don't want to be there. I know you made a mistake, but the important part is that YOU KNOW this does not define who you are. Be humbled but not shamed. See this as a learning experience for yourself and one that can be pa.s.sed on to those you love.

Another thing I got out of this pa.s.sage is how encouraging Paul was to others, so much so that many different people accompanied him on his trips, all from different areas and customs and cultures. All bound by this man and his pa.s.sion to spread the Good News. You too are a great encouragement to those around you, from your loving heart and generous time to give to those in need, as well as your pa.s.sion for Christ. You have those friends just like Paul that accompany you on your journey, whether physically or in spirit. Please know when you enter the courtroom today that you are not alone. I will be there in spirit, as well as many of your other friends. But most importantly, Jesus and the Holy Spirit and the Father will be surrounding you on all sides. You are not alone, brother. Love you.

I read the verses in my seat, as well as his kind words. Thank G.o.d for friends like Jon, who love me and would do anything for me.

A text arrived. It was Nick. ”Big fat guy,” was his reply.

That helped. Now I knew I was looking for a fat Italian guy. I returned to the hallway; the proceedings had yet to start. I told Jeff he could leave if he wanted. He said to call when I was done and he'd pick me up and take me to breakfast. I thanked him and returned to the courtroom, looking desperately every time the door opened to see if it was a fat Italian. The bailiff, a thin, young white girl, began shouting instructions to everyone, and was most adamant with the command, ”Turn off your cell phones. If I see your phone, I will take it from you and you will not get it back until the end of the day.” I checked once more to see if Stan had called and put my phone in my pocket. The judge soon entered. What was I going to do if he called my name and Stan wasn't there? The bailiff said the docket was not in specific order. I felt the sweat under my arms. I raised my hand and called the bailiff over.

”My lawyer's not here. What do I do if the judge calls for me?”

”Your attorney's got your file. The judge can't call your name until he gets here.”

I thanked her and breathed a sigh of relief. I chewed upon Jon's email, encouraged by its words. I prayed for Jessie-for her work that day, her relations.h.i.+p with her family and our relations.h.i.+p, thanking G.o.d I had met a woman who prayed for me during difficult circ.u.mstances. The door opened and I turned to look. This time there could be no doubt. He was as heavy as advertised. Sweat on his brow. Circles under his armpits. I motioned to him.

”Stan?”

”Are you Michael?”

”Good to meet you.”

”Stay here. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

He went to the front and I returned to my seat. I listened as the first few people appeared before the judge. One was a young guy, tattooed out, wearing a black concert t-s.h.i.+rt. Did appearance factor into these things? The judge seemed to be giving most of them a similar sentence, a fine and a court-ordered alcohol program. I noticed they were up and out pretty quickly. There wasn't a maelstrom of shame cast down from the bench to their shoulders, no thundering voice from above proclaiming them the worst citizens to ever own a driver's license. Pugliese approached and told me to follow him to the booth at the rear wall. He pulled a thick folder of doc.u.ments from his briefcase and instructed me to initial the places marked with an ”X.”

”Stay here. I'll tell you when it's time.”

I prayed the Psalms. Surely goodness and loving-kindness will follow me all the days of my life, and I walk in the house of the Lord forever. I thought about Jon's words. ”This does not define you.” David was a murderer but it didn't define him. He was still able to write Psalm 23. His sin would always be attached to him but he was loved by G.o.d regardless. The same with me. I could say, ”I will walk in the house of the Lord forever,” because I knew I was loved by G.o.d. I'd been shown grace by so many-most importantly G.o.d, but also Jessie, Jeff and Jon-and I knew goodness and loving-kindness would follow me all the days of my life. When the judge called my name, I walked to the front of the courtroom, stood next to Pugliese and said exactly what he told me to say. If I appeared humble to the judge, it was because I was sorry for what I'd done. He ordered the 541 cla.s.s. The prosecutor interjected and requested an additional MADD program, to which he agreed. And of course, the mandatory fine.

I walked through the courtroom door into the cas.h.i.+er's office. She handed me the necessary paperwork. I had a year to complete the 541 program, the MADD cla.s.s, and pay the $2000 fine. In lieu of the fine, I could do eleven Sat.u.r.days of community service. I briefly considered it but chose not to. Yes, it would save me $2000, but eleven Sat.u.r.days? I'd never see Jessie in such case. Leaving the courthouse, I didn't see Pugliese again. (Evidently, $4000 doesn't buy what it used to.) He emailed later that day, advising me to enroll in the 541 cla.s.s immediately. Hopefully it would help with my DMV hearing. He sent me a list of cla.s.s locations throughout the city. It was the last I heard from him.

541 cla.s.s. What was it? I started calling around and asking. It was a three-month alcohol training cla.s.s, once a week. I called the ones closest to work first, then those close to home. The more I called, the more reality sunk in and the higher my anxiety grew. The cla.s.ses were all in the $750 to $800 range. I called a few more, hoping to find one cheaper, but the only one under $700 was in Inglewood by the Forum. I wasn't sure how much longer I'd have a license and didn't want to commit to one that far, especially if I'd have to bus the last few weeks. I found one on Overland and Braddock, close to the YMCA where I teach. Maybe I could establish a rhythm to my Tuesdays: leave work, fit in a quick workout and attend cla.s.s from 6 to 9 p.m. The woman on the phone told me to come the following Monday to sign up.

Unfortunately, the cla.s.s fell on the same night as Celebrate Recovery. That week, realizing it was going to be my last meeting for a while, I thanked Erin and the others for the support they'd given me. ”I'm going to miss you guys. You've been a huge encouragement to me during the most difficult time of my life.”

Afterward, Kyle Fowlkes, an older man from church arrested for DUI a year earlier, pulled me aside to tell me he'd taken the 541 cla.s.s on Overland and Braddock. ”It was terrible. We had to sit in a cramped, hot room in the most uncomfortable seats for three hours while a boring speaker talked. I watched the clock the entire time.”

Downcast, I drove home that night. I was going to miss those guys. They had given me valuable teaching and inspiration. Now my Tuesday nights would be spent in a hot cla.s.sroom, bored out of my mind. ”Lord,” I prayed, ”Let me find grace in everything. Show me your love, even in a 541 cla.s.s.”

I dreaded the cla.s.s. I expected to be judged, shamed and frowned upon with scorn. I expected to walk in, find seats facing frontward, a podium and a lecturer standing in front, showing slides and PowerPoint presentations detailing deaths by drunk drivers over the years with a rolling graph to ill.u.s.trate the marked escalation. The only prayer I could make was that somehow I could be a witness. I went to sign up. I wasn't alone; four others were sitting in chairs, waiting. The woman behind the Plexiglas gave me a mound of paperwork to fill out and told me to sit down and do it.

The first page was a survey on drinking habits. ”Have you ever blacked out from drinking too much? Grayed out?”

”Wouldn't be here if I hadn't,” I thought.

That was a sarcastic quip, but my att.i.tude was anything but. I didn't need a lecturer with PowerPoint to highlight I had done wrong. I had never denied it and was determined to make sure drinking didn't become a problem. I finished filling out the forms. I shudder to think about one day, years down the road, seeing my arrest doc.u.ments (complete with mug shot), the mound of paperwork I signed for Pugliese and the 541 contract. The day of that bonfire will be a celebration.

I turned in my paperwork. The woman behind the Plexiglas instructed me to wait in the hall and someone would come for me shortly.

Ten minutes later, I heard the door open. ”Michael Green?”

”That's me,” I replied softly, shaking hands with an older, small Hispanic man. He escorted me into an empty room and asked me to sit in front of him as he read through my file, including the section that listed my BAC. ”That's really high,” he mentioned.

”I know.” There was nothing else to say.

He asked questions about how much I drank and when I drank. I told him the truth. I went out several nights a week and had two or three drinks. He spoke about the dangers of alcohol and signs of alcoholism and the purpose of the cla.s.s, then handed me a yellow card. ”Make sure you don't lose that,” he said. ”It's the record you'll need for the court. Bring it to cla.s.s each week.”

The cla.s.s was twelve weeks. The first nine were three hours long; for the final three, I could leave after the first hour. Also, I was required to attend six AA meetings, one a week. I could go to any of the locations around the city. The man handed me a stapled sheet of meetings in the Santa Monica/Culver City area. I asked if he'd be the one leading the 541 group. He said no but that the leader was very good. His name was Walter. I thanked him and left.

I looked at the card: The front was a log for the 541 meetings, the back a record of AA meetings attended. Welcome to my life for the next three months, I thought. Good thing I was staying in town for Christmas. Missing a cla.s.s was a $40 dollar penalty and it pushed the exit back a week. I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could-and with as few penalty fines as possible. I asked if I could start in two weeks time. Jessie was coming to town on the 26th and leaving the following Tuesday night. I wanted to be the one to take her to the airport.

Chapter Eleven.

A few years ago, I traveled with a group of friends to Puerto Rico. My friend TJ's parents own a house on the southern coast. A month before we left, two of the women requested a meeting to plan the trip, including scheduling each day's activities and meals.

”Hold on a minute,” said one of the men in the group. ”Some of us are more interested in relaxing by the pool with a drink in hand.”

That week, those two went off by themselves, either driving into Ponce to see the architecture, sightseeing or collecting fruit to use for that night's supper. While they were gone, the rest of us relaxed by the pool or the beach. The trip reminded me how differently people are wired. Some prefer to stay on the go constantly, whereas others enjoy turning off their minds for a few days and baking in the sun. I'm an almost 50-50 split, though in Puerto Rico I erred on the side of baking.

Jessie and I were compatible in that regard. Neither was high maintenance and we often planned simple, low-key activities, ones that allowed us to relax, while still keeping busy. Our goals for her trip to Los Angeles were: Ferris wheel-She'd never ridden one, which I found hard to believe. Not riding a Ferris wheel was like not having seen ”Star Wars” or eaten cotton candy or heard an Elvis song. It was part of Americana, something I a.s.sumed everyone had done at some point or another. I was determined to change that.