My Fair Junkie by Amy Dresner

Author:Amy Dresner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography / Personal Memoirs
Publisher: Hachette Books
Published: 2017-09-12T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

My court date is coming up and I’m only half done with my community labor. I’ve heard from my other fuck-up friends that a first extension is easy to get. However, my lawyer has long since abandoned me, so I’m doing the self-service legal thing now. I have no idea who my judge is or which court I’m supposed to go to. Trina, my bail bondswoman buddy, gives me my case number, and I call the courthouse. Turns out that criminal cases are no longer heard at the Beverly Hills Courthouse. I have to go to Airport Court. And a new judge has my case, and—praise Jesus—it’s a man. This is good. Men like me better.

Still, I’m nervous. If the judge, for whatever reason, chooses not to give me an extension, I go to jail.

“Call me tomorrow after court and let me know everything went okay,” Trina says.

“Yeah, I’ll be calling you. Either to tell you it all went fine or to ask you to bail me out… again.”

I put on my hippie shirt (it’s the most court-friendly thing I own) and drive down to Airport Court. I really feel like I’m going to have a heart attack. Why do I always think it’s a good idea to drink a five-shot latte and vape my brains out when I’m already nervous? So fucking stupid. I call Linda and cry briefly on the phone with her.

“What if the judge doesn’t give me an extension and I go to jail?” I whimper.

“That’s not going to happen,” she says calmly.

“How do you know?”

“It’s going to be okay, I promise.”

“If he’s having a bad day and throws me in the clink, will you come visit?”

“Of course.”

“Will you smuggle little bags of coke up your vaj like they do in the movies?”

“Whatever you want.”

I hang up and look at myself in the rearview mirror.

“You got this,” I whisper.

I wait my turn in the long, crowded line at the building entrance. My bag finally goes through the X-ray machine, and I walk through the metal detector unscathed. We’re good to go.

I take the elevator up to the fifth floor and enter the courtroom. I sign in with the bailiff and sit down and wait for my case to be called. I’m fussing with the papers I brought: a letter from the rehab saying that I was in treatment for seven months, the paper that proves I completed the year of domestic violence class with stellar ratings, and my sign-in sheet from community labor, showing that I have completed about 120 of the 240 hours of community labor.

A full-blown debate starts waging in my head: You should have brought a bag of clothes and stuff, in case you go straight to jail.

Okay… no… that’s ridiculous; this is the first extension, and I’m half done with the hours.

But really… what if you go to jail? Your car is just on a meter.

Oh, come on… I’m not going to jail. I didn’t even violate the restraining order.

But look

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