As Ken relayed this story, I sat on the phone, dumbfounded. Five hundred dollars. It was almost what I needed for the rent, though I was still one hundred dollars short.

"Oh," Ken continued, interrupting my thoughts, "I'm sending a one-hundred-dollar check with it-as a belated birthday gift."

I hung up after thanking and saying good-bye to Ken, and began dancing around the room thanking God. Neither Ken nor Bill Logue knew that I didn't have my next month's rent. Neither knew I needed exactly six hundred dollars. No one knew but God.

I sent Bill a thank-you card. I've never heard from him since. But I've never forgotten him and what he did for me.

- I also had a scary experience in law school that reminded me that I needed to continue to work on, and be aware of, my speech. The lesson was that I couldn't risk complacency.

I was externing for the Honorable Justice Joyce Kennard of the California Supreme Court. Depending on the judge, extern responsibilities vary, but generally include researching various legal issues, drafting legal memoranda and opinions, and providing any other legal assistance the judge, and his or her chamber attorneys, require. I enjoyed working for the justice and recognized the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity it afforded me. Justice Kennard had two externs working for her. The other was a young, handsome Vietnamese man named Khoi (pronounced "Coy"). Khoi and I had a lot in common. Although he wasn't from the streets, he too was an outsider, coming from Vietnam and having to start from scratch in America with no knowledge of the language or culture. So he was familiar with struggle and hardship. But what I liked about him most was his sense of humor. He found humor in everything and always made me laugh, regardless of the situation. So it wasn't surprising that we hit it off from the jump and became fast friends.

One day, one of the justice's chamber attorneys stopped me in the corridor and questioned me about a case. No longer nervous about working in the supreme court, and extremely confident that I could relay the facts, I began.

"Okay, I'm going to tell you what went down."

When I said "down," she looked at the floor.

"No," I said, waving my hands as I realized she hadn't understood me, "I'm going to tell you what went down in the case."

Again she looked down.

Aw, shit! I exclaimed to myself. How do I translate "what went down"? I couldn't remember how to say it any other way. The part of my mind that did the "proper" talking had gone on vacation.

I'm gon' give you the 411! I'm gon' hip you to the skip! All I could think of was slang.

She remained poised in front of me, growing impatient waiting for a response.

Okay, okay, I told myself. Don't panic. Maybe if you say it slower, she'll get it.

Speaking very slowly, I said it again.

"O-k-a-y. I'm . . . going . . . to . . . tell . . . you . . . what . . . went . . . down."

Again she looked down, this time visibly puzzled that every time she did, there was nothing there to see.

My mind raced frantically. For the life of me, I couldn't think of any other way to say it. It was as though slang had taken my mind hostage, and wouldn't set it free.

Oh, Lord! I shouted in my mind. What do I do? HELP! I was at my wits' end.

Just then, Khoi came around the corner. As he walked toward us, the chamber attorney and I repeated our song and dance.

"No, no. I'm going to tell you what went down." I figured putting emphasis on "down," would help with the translation.

It didn't. Again, she looked down.

Now I was becoming frustrated. Shouldn't it be that if "we" have to learn proper English, "they" should have to learn slang? Of course, my philosophical views weren't going to help at that moment.

We stood staring at each other, mutually perplexed. She, wondering why I wasn't answering her question; and I, wondering why she couldn't understand my answer.

Khoi was now upon us. As he passed, he spoke softly. "She means she's going to tell you what occurred."

He looked at me and winked, but kept walking.

"Yeah-yeah," I stuttered, startled by his unexpected assistance, "I'm going to tell you what occurred."

"Oh," she said, glad she could comprehend what I'd been trying to say. When I'd finished talking, she gave me a terse "good job" and walked away. As soon as she was out of sight, I let out the anxiety and tension I'd been holding in.

"Whew!" I sighed as my body slumped against the wall. That was a close one!

I immediately went into the extern office and thanked Khoi for coming to my rescue.

"No big deal," he said nonchalantly, then returned to his work.

No big deal? It was a big deal to me. You see, it wasn't just his rescue that I was grateful for; it was the way he'd done it. He didn't explain what I had said condescendingly or patronizingly, or like he was talking to the chamber attorney about an idiot. Most people would have. I honestly believe most people would have responded to my predicament with a "You dumb shit, can't you talk?" attitude.

"Cup," he said when I continued to express my gratitude, "don't mention it."

And he hasn't-ever again. To this day, Khoi never talks about that incident. If anyone tells the story, it's me.

Besides helping me to realize I had a true friend, the incident provided me with a rude awakening to the fact that I still had some things to work on.

- I had never had a graduation party before. So I decided to throw myself one for my last and final stroll across the stage. I picked a nearby restaurant and reserved the banquet room for a sit-down dinner and party. The restaurant manager informed me that if I had at least thirty people for dinner, the room would be free. I prayed thirty people would come!

I went all out: purple and red decorations consisting of fancy streamers and balloon pillars, fresh roses on tables covered with purple and red linen tablecloths and napkins.

I sent out invitations and waited. Slowly, the RSVPs began to filter in. Still, the number was nowhere near thirty. I kept praying.

The night of the party, ninety-five people filled the room, eighty sat for dinner. I couldn't believe it.When I walked in, they gave me a standing ovation. A long table that had been set up for gifts was piled high with pretty, decorative boxes. There were so many, that some of them were sitting on the floor.

People traveled far and wide to share in my special celebration. Of course, my "Diego peeps" were there: Daddy, Jr., my mom Gail and her husband, LeRoy, and Ken and his family. V flew in from Washington, D.C. (she'd moved there to go to law school and remained there to practice). One of Daddy's sisters and her husband came from Ohio. Carol and my legal writing professor were there. Even Mona and Rose came up. (I hadn't spoken to them since I'd had two years sober.) The room was filled with people who wanted to celebrate with me. I was flabbergasted Uncle Jr. led the blessing of the food. During dinner, I allowed a few people to say a lil something. It was a trip sitting there listening to the wonderful things people said about me. After the speeches, we danced and partied until two in the morning. Then everyone retired to their hotels to rest up for the graduation ceremony the next day. I went to bed that night, filled with love and appreciation. I didn't think the joy could get any greater. I had no idea of the surprise that awaited me the next day.

Although I'd gotten only three hours sleep, I was hyped, excited, and nervous at the graduation ceremony the next day. I'd donned the black robe and square black cap twice before, but the robe I wore that day was different because it was draped with beautifully colored layers of material across the back. I learned it was actually called a "hood" and was part of the doctorate graduation attire. Since a law degree (a J.D.) is a doctorate, we donned the hoods.

"I'll be damned," I said as the student next to me explained the purpose behind the hood. "You learn something new every day!"

"Cup, you're so funny!" she exclaimed, obviously thinking I was playing when I said I didn't know about the hood's significance.

The familiar graduation march started as we walked, two by two, into the large church that was facilitating the ceremony. Just the sound of the music made me want to cry. I could see my people jumping up and down and screaming like crazy as we entered.

That's when reality hit me and the tears began to fall.

"I'm actually graduating law school!" I shouted to anyone and everyone I passed as I marched on. "I'm actually graduating!"

The people I was shouting at probably couldn't hear a word I said. They were too busy shouting and cheering for their own loved ones. I didn't care. They didn't need to hear me. I just needed to say it.

Once all the graduates had been seated, the ceremony began. Jeff Brand, the dean of the law school, stood up and began talking about the various awards being handed out. First, he gave the award for the highest grade point average in the class. Then, he went on to the "Judge Harold J. Haley Award for Exceptional Distinction in Scholarship, Character, and Activities."

I never heard of that award, I said to myself, but the name is sure long as hell! I giggled at my own joke.

Unaware of the comedy taking place in my head, Dean Brand continued explaining that the award recipient was determined by a vote of the faculty. The winner would have his or her name engraved on a plaque that would forever hang in the school's foyer.

"And that student is . . ."

"Wow, someone's gon' be really blessed," I whispered to my girlfriend Lourdes, who was sitting next to me.

". . . Cupcake Brown!"

At first I didn't move. I wasn't sure I'd heard him right.

"It's you, Cup!" Lourdes yelled as she pulled me up out of my chair. "It's YOU!"

I made my way toward the stage, but as I did so, I felt as though I were moving in slow motion. I looked out over the crowd and saw all my friends and family wildly jumping up and down, cheering, screaming, crying. It looked as though they were moving in slow motion too.

"Congratulations, Cup," Dean Brand said as he shook my hand and gave me the award. "It was one of the rare times we had an almost unanimous vote!"

I still couldn't believe it. As I slowly walked back to my chair, several questions kept running through my mind.

They think I'm outstanding? They think I have character? Don't they know who I am?

The quiet Voice responded.

Of course they do.

EPILOGUE.

I thought you might want to know what happened to some of the main people who were a part of my story. Let's start with me. Even though I'd graduated law school, I still had to study for and pass the bar exam. Each state has one; California's is one of the hardest, with less than a 50 percent passage rate for first-time takers. The pressure was on to pass, especially since it felt like the whole world was watching-several newspapers and local news stations interviewed me at graduation and each had asked that I report whether I'd passed or not. On top of that, I couldn't be a lawyer unless I passed. Then, of course, all of my friends and family expected me to pass. The pressure was overwhelming.

For eight weeks I gave up my life and put everything I had into studying. In July 2001, I took the California bar exam. And then waited for four agonizing months.

Results are available at the bar's website on the third Friday of every November. I asked Carol to do it with me so she could type in the necessary information. I was afraid I'd be too nervous and would type in the wrong information. I still remember it like it was yesterday.

We held hands and said a prayer. Then she typed in my name and social security number. The screen blinked at us to "wait-retrieving results." It seemed to take forever. Finally, a message came up.

"Cupcake Brown has successfully completed the July bar exam." Instantly, Carol began jumping up and down.

"I knew it! I knew it!" she shouted.

You knew what?! At first, I didn't understand what the message was saying. Hell, I was looking for something that said, "You passed, girl!"

Seeing the puzzled look on my face, Carol explained. "Cup, you passed! You passed!"

"I passed?" I asked unbelievingly.

The tears began to fall.

"I passed?" I repeated, still unsure of what she'd said.

"Yes!" she shouted as she grabbed my hand and pulled me up off the chair, "You passed!"

Like a bullet, it hit me.

"I PASSED!" I began screaming as I jumped and cried and danced. "I PASSED!" I just kept saying it over and over as the tears continued to fall.

Several days later, I (with Daddy and Uncle Jr. present) and Khoi (with his parents present), had a private swearing-in ceremony by U.S. District Court Judge Martin Jenkins and California Supreme Court Justice Joyce Kennard. Justice Kennard administered the oath with me in tears the entire time.

Today, I'm still clean and sober; I practice law and do quite a bit of motivational speaking.

I haven't seen Larry since 1976. When I had about a year sober, he tracked me down (through Social Security) and we would talk every now and then by phone. Unfortunately, we still don't get along and have mutually agreed that it's best we don't talk. He does, however, stay in communication with Daddy and Uncle Jr., who regularly give each of us updates on the other.

My daddy and Uncle Jr. are both still very much a part of my life, and in fact, are the two most important men in my life. And although my mom's been dead over thirty years, they still refer to each other as brother-in-law and remain the best of friends.

Venita is still my sponsor and best friend. She lives in Texas with her daughter, Monique, and sister, Faith. She always told me that working with me was a blessing to her. Even now she says, "In working with you, Cup, I always got more than I gave. Always."

I'm still very close to my mom Gail (and her husband LeRoy). My mom is a constant source of encouragement, guidance, inspiration, and love. She's always been there for me and, knowing her, she probably always will be.

Momma Chaney died during my second year of law school. But I'll be forever grateful for the wisdom she gave me and the lessons she taught me. And I'll always cherish the memories she left me.

Maria moved to another state shortly after I graduated from San Diego State. We didn't keep in contact and I haven't spoken to her in years. But I will always appreciate the support, encouragement, and love she gave me during my early years of recovery.

Ken and I remain extremely close. He continues to encourage and support me in everything I do. He and his family have been at every major event in my life since I got sober.

Frank Brown is still a San Diego Superior Court judge and continues to be one of my best rooters. He regularly shares my story with defendants, juries, and spectators that come into his courtroom.

Larry Burns is now a U.S. District Court judge for the Southern District of California and also continues to be one of my best rooters. Larry and Frank also remain close friends.

After Brett left my doorstep that night, I didn't see or talk to him for the next eight years. He really did just disappear. During my second year of law school, I was invited to a church in San Jose. That same day, a friend of Brett's invited him to the same church. (The people who invited us did not know each other.) It was wonderful to see Brett after so long. However, to tell what happened would require the writing of another book. Let's just say that this time I was able to say good-bye.

Tommy is remarried and has several children. We don't talk, though he and his parents did attend my graduation from San Diego State. I was finally able to thank his mom for giving me such a beautiful wedding, and I was able to apologize for being too loaded to appreciate it.

Once I moved into my own apartment shortly after getting out of rehab, I spoke with Mona and James very infrequently. After my relapse, I spoke with Rose even less. By the time I'd celebrated two years sober, I'd completely ceased communication with all of them. I hadn't seen or spoken to any of them until Mona and Rose came to my law school graduation party. Even though we hadn't seen or talked to one another in eleven and a half years, their attendance was special for all of us.

Fly is married, has four children, and no longer bangs. When writing this book, I contacted him to verify some facts. Prior to that conversation, we hadn't spoken in many, many years, and we haven't spoken since that conversation. But he'll always be my favorite "homie."

Speaking of homies, several years ago I went to L.A. to try to catch up with Rabbit and Trish. I was able to locate Trish, who told me that Rabbit was the mother of a baby boy and had moved to Mississippi. Trish quit banging and was a single mom raising five children-one of which was fathered by Hoover Rick. Rick was in jail and would be there for a while. I wasn't upset that Trish and Rick had hooked up. In fact, I was happy about it. The cool thing was that, while I was at Trish's, Rick called from jail. We spoke briefly and he caught me up on what had been happening in his world: most of his brothers were dead. The saddest news was that his nephew, lil Timmy, was killed during his teenage years. I never learned if it was gang related or not.

Since getting sober I've seen one other homie: Yokey. We ran into each other in Los Angeles at a women's convention. We 'bout lost our minds when we saw each other. At first we just stared at each other, mouths wide open in shock, each of us wondering if the other was who we really thought she was. Then, in unison, we screamed, "What's up, cuzzz?!" and embraced each other for a long time. We then spent hours talking and catching up. Of course, we reflected on good, and bad, times with the set. All in all it was a great visit. It felt good to see that someone else had made it out alive. She had been sober for a couple of years, was married, and had a couple of children.

Shortly after I graduated from law school, Dave Curnow read an article about me in a San Diego newspaper and tracked me down. We've remained in contact ever since. The accident rendered him a quadriplegic, but not helpless.

Carol still runs USF's Academic Support Program and is still one of my closest friends.

Kelly and I saw each other every so often (usually to get high) after she moved out of our dilapidated shack. Once I got sober, and continued to stay clean and sober, we grew apart. She said sobriety made me too "uppidity." I haven't seen or talked to her or Lori for over eleven years. Daddy hasn't talked to or seen either of them in over ten years.