Page 20 of The River Is Waiting

At the funeral home, we’re met by solicitous husband-and-wife morticians who make no references to the circumstances of our son’s death but mostly address Emily. I just sit there, one hand cupped around my wife’s shoulder, the other fisting the tissue they’ve offered me. I nod in agreement with whatever Emily decides: a private, secular service; no calling hours; no to embalming; no to cremation. He is to be buried in the forty-two-inch “Precious Moments” casket—twenty-inch gauge steel construction, blue crepe interior, embroidery on the inner lid. Ours for $1,999.

On the way back to the house, I ask how Maisie’s been that morning. “She kept saying his name,” Emily says. “Looking for him. It’s been brutal.” She drops open the glove compartment and grabs some napkins. Wipes her tears, blows her nose.

“Did she ask where I was?”

“Once,” she says. “It was mostly about him.”

“Who’s with her?” I ask.

“My mother.”

I pull in behind Betsy’s car and keep the motor running. Emily gets out and comes around to the driver’s side. “You coming in?” she asks. I tell her I have to do something first. She nods and starts toward the house.

I roll down the window and call her name. When she comes back, I say there’s something I need to tell her. She waits. I take a deep breath and say, “I started drinking during the day a while back. Liquor, not just beer. In the afternoon and the morning both, hiding the bottles from you. And I’ve been lying about looking for a job. I kind of gave up on that a whileago. Surrendered, I guess you’d say. And that prescription I got for my anxiety? I’ve been overdoing that, too. I think I may be addicted. I’m sorry.”

She just stands there, wide-eyed, trying to take it in.

“Yesterday? When it happened? I was already kind of wasted. I was… I started drinking when I was making breakfast. My lawyer has an idea about how I might beat getting charged, but I can’t lie anymore. Not to you, not to the police.”

She doesn’t cry or yell or call me a son of a bitch. Her face betrays no emotion whatsoever when she says, “I can’t have you living here anymore.”

“You mean temporarily, right? Can we discuss it?”

“No. I’ll pack some of your things and you can pick them up.” She turns away and walks toward the house. After the front door closes, I back up, put the car in drive, and head to the police station.

In the parking lot, I pull into one of the visitor spaces and head toward the building. Halfway there that falling sensation comes over me again and I have to stop and put my hand on someone’s truck fender to steady myself. It passes quickly and I keep going. I see Detective Sparks walking in ahead of me. She’s holding a coffee in one hand, her cell phone in the other. “No means no, Chanel,” I hear her say. “I don’t care what your boyfriend wants.”

I follow her into the lobby. Call her name. When she turns around, she says, “Oh, hi. You’re early. We agreed that you’d come in later this afternoon. We’re still waiting for those results to come back from the lab.”

I tell her there’s no need. “You were right. I’d been drinking and drugging yesterday morning when I got in the car. That was why I didn’t check the back seat before I started backing up. Why he died. I guess you better arrest me.”

CHAPTER TEN

May 5, 2017

Eight days after Niko’s death, I’m brought before the court on the charge of second-degree involuntary manslaughter due to operating a motor vehicle while under the influence of alcohol and a controlled substance. Because I plead guilty, there will be no trial. A probation officer will be assigned to research and write a presentence investigation report, partly based on his or her assessment of my degree of remorse and the sincerity of my resolve to rehabilitate myself. I will be sentenced at a future date. “Could be several weeks from now,” Attorney Dixon explains. Where I will spend those weeks—in or out of jail—is the judge’s decision, to be made on the day I’m arraigned.

Rachel Dixon makes the case before Superior Court Judge Vincent Pelto that, prior to sentencing, I should remain out of jail on a bond-free Promise to Appear. “He’s a low flight risk, Your Honor, and has no long list of priors. He attended his first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting yesterday and plans to continue going daily. He and the boy’s mother have an appointment with a bereavement counselor in hopes that they can work on things together. For the time being, Mr. Ledbetter is living at his mother’s residence, but he sees his daughter every day and his stabilizing presence is helping the child cope with the loss of her twin brother. In addition, Mr. Ledbetter has filled out applications for stopgap employment and is hoping to find work soon. The efforts my client already has made torehabilitate himself are impressive and we are confident that, during the next weeks, these efforts can continue if he is not detained in a presentence lockup facility.”

All of what my lawyer is saying is true, but the judge’s face is unreadable. Not so the prosecutor’s. Bettina Reitland is smirking. Dixon and Reitland are probably both in their midforties but, physically, they’re a study in opposites. Attorney Dixon is short, squat, and pink-haired. Attorney Reitland is tall and fit. Her sleek black hair falls to her shoulders and her sleeveless black dress shows off some powerful-looking biceps and calves. As she stands to counter Dixon’s argument, her smirk falls away, replaced by a look of earnest intent.

“That’s an impressive number of mitigating factors, Your Honor,” she begins. “But as you know, it’shighlyunusual for someone who’s been charged with a violent crime to be granted a no-cost bail and released on his own recognizance. And although the defendant has no longlistof priors, there is a previous DUI on his record. Despite the suspension of his license, who’s to say he won’t drink and drive again and harm or kill someone else?”

I cringe at the gut shot she’s just landed, but she isn’t done yet.

“Attorney Dixon makes the point that, if prior to his sentencing, he has daily contact with the Ledbetters’ surviving child, this will help her cope with the sudden absence of her twin brother. That may or may not be so; neither Attorney Dixon nor I have expertise in child psychology. But let’s keep in mind that little Niko Ledbetter’s ‘absence’ is the result of his father’s negligence while he was drugged and intoxicated.”

I look over at Emily. Her face is turned away from me, but Betsy is nodding in agreement with Reitland.

“I would also remind the court thatapplyingfor jobs is not the same as being hired and working responsibly at them over time. And I can’t help but wonder why, if Mr. Ledbetter is so motivated to find stopgap employment now, he didn’t look for temporary work in the nine months between the time he was laid off and the day he committed the crime for which he’s been charged.”

Turning to me, Judge Pelto asks whether I want to respond. Dixon attempts to intervene on my behalf, but I say I’d like to answer him. “Iwaslooking for work,” I tell the judge. “But there was nothing in my field.”

“What field is that?” he asks.

“Commercial art. I sent out résumés and went to interviews pretty steadily, but I couldn’t find anything. Plus, I was the stay-at-home parent for our kids. When my wife and I were both working, we had daycare for the twins. Once we were down to one income, we couldn’t afford it anymore, so I took care of the kids. And when I was out looking for work, my mother-in-law babysat for us.”

The judge asks what kinds of jobs I’ve filled out applications for since my arrest. “You name it, Your Honor. Third-shift convenience store clerk; warehouse worker at Lowe’s, Home Depot, and Target; packer at the Amazon warehouse; nighttime group home supervisor. I’ve gotten a couple of callbacks, but I’ve been waiting to follow up because I didn’t know what was going to happen here today. In terms of, you know, my availability.”

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