Finding Ultra by Rich Roll Page B

hit, pushing the painful image deep into my unconscious.
Let the insurance company handle that one
. To truly consider my actions would require a change in behavior—something I wasn’t yet ready for.
    In fact, not two months later, I was driving home after the firm’s Christmas party when the cops once again pulled me over—this time for driving the wrong way down a one-way street in Beverly Hills.
The wrong way!
It was 3:30 A.M . on a Friday night. And this time I blew a 0.27 percent. After a stern lecture, it was back to jail for the night. My second DUI, just weeks after my first.
    Come Monday morning, I was summoned to Skip’s office. I knew something was terribly wrong when he shut the door behind me and looked me right in the eye.
    â€œTake a seat. We need to talk.”
    Uh-oh
.
    â€œI got an interesting call yesterday from my friends over at BHPD. Driving the wrong way down a one-way street? A blood alcohol level of 0.27 percent? And from what I understand, this isn’t the first time?”
    Skip handled a lot of work for both the Los Angeles and Beverly Hills Police Departments. And these people weren’t just his clients, they were his friends. In fact, Skip had a personal relationship with the very officer who arrested me. When I was booked, the officer lifted my business card from my wallet, noticed I worked at Skip’s firm, and promptly gave him a heads-up call.
I’m screwed
.
    â€œAre you firing me?”
    At the time, Skip and I were knee-deep in preparing for trial in defense of the general manager of the Rose Bowl, who was being sued for sexual harassment. I’d devoted myself entirely to this case, spending countless hours with the client at the Rose Bowl, interviewing witnesses, taking all the depositions, and drafting all the pretrial briefs and motions. In classic Skip form, we had declined all plaintiff attempts to settle and were just weeks away from the jury trial I was meant to second chair.
My first trial
.
    â€œI thought about it. But no. I don’t take pleasure in getting into your personal life. But you have a problem. A big problem. I don’t want to get any more calls. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Just deal with it.”
    He handed me a card for a top criminal defense attorney friend of his named Charlie English and made it abundantly clear that I’d be hiring him immediately.
    â€œWe’re about to go to war. I can’t have you in jail. I need to know that you can show up and do what’s required.”
    â€œI won’t let you down.”
    True to his word, that was the last we ever spoke about what happened.

    I’d never been so scared in my entire life. And so I was determined to live up to my promise. The next day, I paid Charlie my first visit.
    â€œYou’re probably going to jail,” he told me straight off. Intimidatingly tall, he was a silver-haired old-school hardass who pulled no punches.
    â€œI
can’t
go to jail,” I replied, quaking, my armpits drenched in sweat. Just thinking about it made me want to vomit.
    â€œWhy not? You’re a criminal,” he replied. They’d do what they could, but with two DUI arrests looming, dodging jail time was a tall order, even for the best attorney. And he was the best.
    While he was serving up the truth, he also pointed out that I was a straight-up alcoholic.
    Of course, I
knew
I was. On some level I’d always known. It’s why I never tried hard drugs. If I tried cocaine or heroin, I knew instinctively that I’d love it immediately. I was susceptible to the pull of anything that would take me out of myself. Yet Charlie was the first person to attach to me the label I deserved.
Alcoholic …
It was jarring. But on some weird level, a relief to finally hear. No more innuendo. All the cards were on the table.
    â€œGet your ass to an A.A. meeting. Today,” Charlie commanded, and I was ready to oblige. But then