“Just under two grand to get it back,” I say to Rob, over the phone, while I’m unloading wine and an impressive amount of junk food in the kitchen. “And then another sixty or so to have it cleaned. You should have seen the poor kid’s face at White Horse Car Wash. And that’s after I got all the crap out of it.”
“You took it to the car wash?” Rob asks, incredulous. “That’s his responsibility.”
“I know,” I reply, shoving several bottles of chardonnay into the fridge and a few more in the cabinets above it, “but I have to drive it. I have to go meet with Chris and Cary. If I step out of the car smelling like a Big Mac, I’m going to be mortified. They might even charge me more!”
“A fear and loathing fee,” he says laughing.
I love this about Rob. The situation sucks and, at this point, we don’t know exactly how long we might be apart but we have the sense it’s going to be awhile and instead of making me feel worse than I already do, instead of playing the “what about me?” card, he goes with humor. Why? Because he loves me. He loves me so much that this kid shit is just that. Kid shit. It has no power to destroy us.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, “about all of this. I miss you. And I’ll probably never be able to retire. I hope you’re cool with wheeling me to my desk when I’m 80.”
“Babe,” he says, “how could we enjoy our retirement if one of our kids is in jail? We can’t. We couldn’t.”
Is it just me, or is that response not the most wonderful thing he could have said?
Maybe after Stu died, maybe after my awful, misguided second marriage, Mother Mary tugged on her son’s sleeve, pointed down at me, and said “Jesus, listen up. This one. She’s been through enough and she’s got more shit headed her way. Let’s send her a really good guy this time, k?”
I think that’s what happened, because how else can I explain Rob?
“I can come for the arraignment,” he offers.
“No, you can’t,” I respond. “You’ll be in Texas, so Jenn’s coming with me. I’ll be in good hands. Jenn’s smart, tough, and she has a tremendous sense of direction!”
“How many map apps do you have on your phone these days?” he replies.
“I have Maps, Google Maps, and Wayze. Charity installed it,” I reply.
“Did it help?”
‘“Are you kidding?” I respond. “I didn't open it. I just rode her bumper the whole way home.”
I have no sense of direction. I can hop in the car, positive I know where I’m going, and suddenly West Virginia is welcoming me. When I was headed to Herndon.
Anyway, thank God I have wonderful friends who not only love me, they know where they’re going. And in this case, they – with me – were going to the Spotsylvania courthouse in Spotsylvania county, a place I didn’t even know existed until Cary and Chris, the “million dollars, so I better not smell like a Big Mac attorneys” said “See you there” and I was terrified they meant Transylvania. And Jenn said, “What are you talking about? Just be dressed. I’m driving.”
I wish you could have seen us. Or, more accurately, Jenn.
Form fitting blue dress on her kick ass Cindy Crawford frame. Just this side of “do me, baby” black pumps. Hair and makeup done to perfection. Designer bag. Designer notebook. Designer attitude. She waltzed me in my “Please give me my baby back Talbots meets Chicos meets hide me attire” into the courthouse and held onto my arm while we waited and waited and waited for my kid’s case to be called.
And all the while, everyone, my attorneys, all the other attorneys, family members of those whose cases were arraigned before my son’s, the court reporter, the bailiffs, kept checking her out and I just know they wondered, “Who’s the babe holding up the traumatized blonde?”
Jenn will tell you I’m exaggerating. I’m not. Watching everyone in the courthouse do a double take when they saw Wonder Woman sitting among them is something I will never forget.
When my son’s case was finally, mercifully called, the judge asked me to step up to the podium. I knew there was the possibility this would happen, but still, the room spun for a second and Jenn gave my arm a “you got this” squeeze.
I walked up to the podium, stood next to my attorney, and got a good look at my son. My poor baby in his gray-green prison garb, his hair unwashed and unruly, the “I’m sorry, mom,” look on his face, his wrists cuffed and his legs shackled.
Shackled.
I wanted to be sick, to cry, and scream at the injustice of all of it. I wanted to go completely Jersey on all of their asses.
On the police for setting him up (you idiots had no idea he’s autistic, that he’d be like a fly to honey at the thought of making a friend? Or maybe you did and you knew he was an easy mark. Bastards). On the first attorneys I hired, for leaving him in jail for 13 days. For not forcing the bond issue sooner. For visiting him once, just once, the entire time and that was by video. Video. You know my son, I wanted to scream, you see him in town, you pretend to be his friend, and you know his disabilities. You couldn’t go see the kid in person? Tell him it’ll be ok? Where’s your humanity? I paid you ten grand and you did jack shit for my kid. On the prosecutor. Standing over her papers, her posture screaming, let’s just put this pedophile away already. Had she read anything I supplied the court? Did she take it upon herself to do a little, just a very, very little bit of research on autism? My gut (and we all know how incredible my gut is) said absolutely not. She doesn’t care. She’s eyeing the next job. The big job. The more perverts she can put away, the better. Hell, they don‘t even need to be perverts.
Obviously.
So, there I am, at the podium, trying not to lose my mind or shoot off my mouth. And I have to tell you, the judge saved me. He was such a nice man. It was clear to me that he read what I supplied the court. Just in what he said, I could tell. That he knew we’d had a hard road. That he knew it wasn’t easy to parent a child with a disability. That it was exhausting and frustrating and heartbreaking.
I don’t remember the judge’s name, but I’ll bet my last dollar that he’s a dad and a granddad. Because he understood. He felt my pain and my fear. And then he said something like, “I’m sorry mom, I know that this is not your favorite day.”
I nodded. No, it wasn’t. And I know he saw I was crying.
Then he addressed my son. He told him his behavior was egregious. And my boy, somehow - thank God - knowing the best he could do was be polite and contrite, said, yes, I’m sorry, your honor.
The judge looked back at me, and we got down to it.
“Mrs. McCorkindale,” he said, “You are willing and able to keep an eye on him 24 hours a day, seven days a week?”
“Yes, your honor, I am,” I replied, thinking, "Oh God, Rob, I’m so sorry.
And then there was some bitching by the prosecutor who didn’t want my kid granted bond and if so she wanted an ankle monitor and for him not to be able to leave the house at all, not even for work, and the judge was like, nope. Not happening.
I have no recollection of the rest of what the judge said. I remember only that my son was granted bond not just with permission to go to work but with the stipulation that he had to work. I also remember thinking I could take him home right then and there but, no. The jail wanted its shackles and designer garb back, so we’d have to come back later in the day to retrieve him.
More driving.
I looked at Jenn.
“Do you—?” I started.
“No,” she replied, “but Google does.”
For a split second, I started to thank God for Google. But then I thought, screw that. And just thanked God for Jenn.
This is part of a piece called “Life On The Inside.” You can read parts 1-11 here, if you’d like to catch up.
It was particularly difficult for me to write this installment. It meant reliving that day, the day my first born might or might not come home with me. I can’t tell you distraught I was. How wracked with fear. And how angry I was.
Where my son lives, and where I am with him now, is in Fauquier County, Virginia. Here, the police and the Sheriff’s deputies are all taught how to deal with, talk to, and approach those with autism. I strongly suspect that law enforcement in Spotsylvania doesn’t receive that kind of training. If they did, I don’t think we’d be in this position.
As always, thank you so very much for reading Life On The Inside and for encouraging others to do the same. And please, please, note that there is no fee for my newsletter. Don’t be duped by Substack. (I love this platform and appreciate that it wants me to make money, but that’s not why I’m here.) Please share Life On The Inside far and wide. This journey my son and I are on is important, and it’s one I don’t want other families to ever have to take.
Love,
Susan
I'm so sorry to hear that you are going through this Susan. We mama bears will do anything to protect our babies even if they are adults. I haven't been able to piece together what prompted your son to be jailed, but I pray that justice prevails for you and for him. -- Yvonne
Heart braking to see your precious son shackled. Your pain you must have been incredible. Rob.... what a prince!!