By Jordan Sonnenblick
One vehicle crash.
One measly little vehicle crash. And without notice, I’m a few type of convicted felon.
My mom and dad have become divorced, my dad is shacking up with my third-grade instructor, i would be in love with a woman who may possibly kill me with one finger, and now I’m sentenced to babysit a few insane previous guy.
What else might be able to cross wrong?
this is often the tale of Alex Gregory, his guitar, his top gal good friend Laurie, and the friendship of an entire life that he never may have expected.
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Extra info for Notes from the Midnight Driver
The following September, the video became a truly legendary show-and-tell, but Laurie has never been one for looking on the bright side where my adventures are concerned. Which, again, is why I wasn’t in a rush to consult with her on this latest escapade. ”), the month passed. And I got my day in court. You wake up in the morning on your court date, and it’s Showtime. You brush, floss, brush again, gargle mouthwash, and still worry that you might get sent to jail due to bad breath. Your mom supervises you as you garb yourself for the battle in your only suit.
Huh? ” “I told your mom this—didn’t she fill you in? You’ve got no priors, you’re a decent student, you play in the school jazz band, for Chrissakes. ” He clearly thought this was no big deal, and was kind of staring off distractedly over my shoulder at this point. “A year or two late? All of my friends are going to have their licenses this year. I can’t believe this. Am I supposed to get a ride to the prom from my mother? How am I going to get to a summer job this year? This is so STUPID. I’m not a criminal.
You wait in line, go through the metal detectors, meet your lawyer at the door of the courtroom, and walk in. I was shocked when I first saw this particular courtroom, by the way. I had been expecting a big marble gallery-type room, with vaulted ceilings, dark wood everywhere, and maybe gargoyles of justice on top of Greek columns. But this place was just a tiny, plain box, with folding tables, which were for the defense and prosecutors, facing a metal desk. A smooth-looking old guy with greased-back hair and a suit so dark that it seemed to suck in the sickly fluorescent light was sitting sort of sideways in the prosecution chair, chatting with the judge and drinking coffee out of a paper Manhattan Bagel cup.