"Aren't you supposed to use a female officer for this?"
“For finger prints?"
“Yeah. For finger prints."
"Hey Diane," the officer said, calling over a very tall, gaunt middle aged woman with stringy blond hair. "Fingerprint her royal highness. She doesn't want a man touching her dainty little hands."
Diane sighed heavily.
"Oh Jesus there's always one."
Diane grabbed Cathy Chegoffgan's two hands, and mashed them on the screen.
"Hold still. You're making me mess up your prints," she said.
Diane was so incompetent that it took 5 tries before she could get a set of prints that the machine would accept. The thumbprints took almost as long. The palm prints took even longer. Diane repeatedly slapped Cathy Chegoffgan's hands down onto the glass screen, repeatedly getting the message "too much pressure, please scan again." When it was finally done, and she saved the prints to the computer, she slapped her head.
"Oh fuck me. This one's already in the system."
The male officer laughed.
"Why am I not surprised?" he said. "I got a message from Steve. Take this one to interrogation room 106B."
"Why's Quinn interested in this little chippie?" Diane said.
"I have no clue. They don't tell me anything. You should know that."
The officer put Cathy Chegoffgan back into handcuffs. Another officer took her down a maze like series of stairways to interrogation room 106B. The room had brick walls, a hard linoleum floor, and no windows. It was empty except for a metal table and two chairs.
"Hey. Uncuff me."
"Someone will be right in," the officer said, opening the door. "It'll only be for a few minutes."
"Thanks," she said as he walked back out into the hallway. "Thanks."
Three hours later, the door opened, and a small, skinny man in an ill-fitting dark suit sat down at the table. He was in his 40s. He had black, greasy hair slicked down over the top of his head in a comb over, and a nervous, uneasy manner. Cathy Chegoffgan seemed happy to see him.
“Lenny?" she said, smiling, then trying to muss up his hair before she realized she was still in handcuffs.
"Oh Cathy Chegoffgan," he said. "What am I going to do with you?"
"You can start by taking off my handcuffs."
Lenny got up, took out his keys, and uncuffed her. She immediately jumped up, messed up his comb over, sat back down and started laughing.
"I'm going to miss you Lenny," she said. "This isn't going to extend my probation, is it?"
"It could have," he said, as he took his out his comb. "You're just lucky I was on duty. They were going to charge you with felonious assault on a police officer."
"What?"
"One of the officers who arrested you broke his finger."
"I didn't break his finger."
"He must have broken it taking you down."
"Yeah right. Fucking Godzilla picks me up, throws me to the ground like a little rag doll, and I assaulted him?"
"I know. I know. Believe me I know. I've spoken to the judge and he's agreed to cut you a deal. I've been able to convince them to drop the charges to misdemeanors in exchange for a guilty plea."
"I didn't do anything."
"It's only a day of community service."
"I'm sick of community service. I think I'm going to take my chances with the judge. Dan told me I should always plead not-guilty."
"Dan, whoever he is, is giving you bad advice. Some cop is all hardcore to pile up the charges. I don't know why, but he's a senior detective."
"Is his name Steve Quinn?"
"I think so. The particular judge on duty tonight thinks he's crazy, but there's no reason he can't draw another judge a few weeks down the road if you decide to go to trial."
"I don't know."
Lenny put a form in front of her.
"Just sign that. It's a guilty plea."
She picked up the form and read.
"One count of disorderly conduct, one count of interfering with government administration, and two counts of resisting arrest? You've got to be kidding me?"
"It sounds worse than it really is, but you could still spend up to a year in jail if you draw the wrong judge. That's a year in jail versus a day of community service. It seems like an easy choice to me."
Cathy Chegoffgan sighed violently, taking a deep breath, and exhaling as loudly as she could.
"Yeah whatever," she said, mumbling under her breath. "I'll pick up leaves in the park for an afternoon. I'm just fucking sick of it."
"Good girl," Lenny said patting her on the hand. "Good girl."
She took the pen and signed the form.
"Is that it? Can I go get my stuff?"
He slid a summons for community service across the table.
"That's it. Just take those two documents to the clerk and you're free to leave. You don't even have to see the judge."
"Can I get my stuff?"
"Unfortunately the property room closes at 3 on Fridays, so you'll have to wait until Monday to pick up your property."
She made a pouty expression.
"Can't you talk to someone?" she said. "I really want my stuff."
"I wish I could, but I'm only a probation officer, not a judge."
She sighed again, but then, suddenly, got up and hugged him.
"I'm sorry. I must sound like a spoiled little brat. I don't know how you've put up with me for the past three, long years."
"It's all over tomorrow," he said. "Just try to get home tonight without getting arrested and your probation is done."
Chapter 11 - A vigilante
John Avellanos got off the Number 81 bus that evening in a foul mood. He had gone up to the courthouse to look for Cathy Chegoffgan, but unable to find out when she would be released, he decided to take Dan Sedgwick's advice and go to work. He would see her on Saturday morning.
But when he walked into the employee locker room at WillyMart was looking for a fight, over anything, with anyone. He got his first opportunity when Bob Yapper tapped him on the shoulder, and ordered him to come into the office.
"So are you keeping an eye on the new guy?"
"You mean am I spying on him? You want me to take him out into the parking lot and break his knees? I can do that too."
"Are you keeping an eye on him? That's your job."
"My job is to drive a forklift, not to spy on my coworkers. I'm not a company detective."
"You job is whatever I say it is."
"I'm keeping an eye on him," Avellanos said. "There's nothing I've observed about his behavior that would indicate that he will in any way become a troublesome employee, just the opposite, in fact. I think you made a good decision in hiring him."
"Get out of here."
Avellanos left the office with a smile on his face, proud of himself for having stood up to Bob Yapper at his surliest. The smile became a frown, however, when he walked out onto the warehouse floor to see that the "temps" were already at work unloading a truck full of cheap Chinese made jeans. When Carlos, the man who hated George Kozlowski, saw him, he walked up, and asked in Spanish if they would have any trouble getting paid for the overtime.
"Yes you will," Avellanos said, answering the question honestly, "but I'll make sure to remind Bob about it before he leaves."
Carlos laughed bitterly as John Avellanos went back to the office. Bob Yapper said he'd look into it, grunting without looking up. Avellanos asked him if he would come out to the loading dock. Yapper refused, but assured him that the "temps" would get paid for the extra two hours. When Avellanos pressed him even further, he stood up and screamed at the top of his lungs.
"I told you I'd take care of it. Now get the fuck out of here."
When John Avellanos went back out to the loading dock floor, he told Carlos that Bob Yapper would initial their time cards before he left. Carlos just laughed at him as if he held him in too much contempt even to respond. After Yapper left early, briefcase in ha
nd, walking out through the loading dock and down the stairs into the parking lot without so much as acknowledging anybody, Carlos and the other temps started looking around for a scapegoat. When he arrived a little after 6, that scapegoat was George Kozlowski.
A new "temp," who did not know that Avellanos spoke fluent Spanish, started talking about robbing Kozlowski of the gold he had flashed the previous evening. When Avellanos noticed the man show Carlos a small Corsican Vendetta knife, he walked very conspicuously into their space. He was more explicit after the last break, asking them flat out if they were planning to rob George Kozlowski.
"Fresa and his college boy Spanish," Carlos said, "accusing us of robbery, when we're the ones being robbed."
Avellanos was dismayed. Short of trying to overpower the two men and search them for the weapon, which they might have hidden anyway, he had no way of proving they were planning to do anything. He didn't want to tell George Kozlowski, who had mentioned having a gun in the cab of his truck. If he didn't tell him, however, Carlos and the new man could murder him, and he would be partly responsible. He came up with a desperate plan. He would shadow George Kozlowski after work, hoping to catch the two men in the act.
At midnight, after the shift was over, Avellanos said goodbye to George Kozlowski and the temps, went back to the locker room, changed into his street clothes, and punched out. Instead of catching his bus, however, he circled around to the back of the parking lot, hid in the bushes behind Kozlowski's truck, and waited. He cursed when he noticed it begin to drizzle, but his attention was suddenly riveted when he saw Kozlowski walk out to his truck. A few minutes later, he saw Carlos and the new man emerge from a hole in the fence a few yards away on the other side of the cab. When Kozlowski reached inside his pocket for his keys, they jumped him.
George Kozlowski couldn't even scream. Carlos, who was short and squat, but heavily muscled, had put his hand over his mouth. The new man pressed the Corsican vendetta knife up to his throat. But Avellanos saw his chance when the new man lowered the knife to sift through Kozlowski's pockets. Avellanos ran in their direction yelling "don't move, store security," slammed into the new man, and knocked the Corsican vendetta knife to the ground. He grabbed Carlos, and almost wrestled him into a full nelson, but Carlos broke the hold, and ran through the gap in the fence. The new man followed him.
"What the hell?" Kozlowski said.
Avellanos picked up the Corsican vendetta knife, and put it in his pocket.
“What the hell is wrong with you?" he shouted into the now steadily falling rain. "I told you not to flash your god damned gold. Now I've missed my bus and I've got to walk home in this fucking rain. Thanks a lot asshole. Thanks a lot."
Kozlowski opened the door of his truck.
"Where do you live?"
Avellanos pointed in the direction of the city skyline.
"East Poison Springs."
"Get in," Kozlowski said. "You saved my life. I can at least offer you a ride."
"Thanks," Avellanos said. "Do you know how to get to East Poison Springs?"
"Young man, I was driving in this town before you were born."
Avellanos jumped up into the passenger side of the cab. He opened up the sodden wet canvas messenger bag, took out the waterproof plastic envelope, and put it on his lap. He threw the bag down onto the floor between his feet, then took the Corsican vendetta knife out of his pocket, and threw it down on top of the bag.
"Jesus Christ look at this rain. It's going to ruin my whole day tomorrow."
"No it won't. It's going to stop in a few hours."
"You fucking idiot," Avellanos said, making an effort to calm himself down. "You fucking idiot."
"I'll give you this," Kozlowski said, starting up his truck. "You sure know how to handle yourself in a fight. Two guys. They had a knife, and you kicked both their asses. Not bad at all."
“None of it would have been necessary if you hadn't acted like a complete fucking idiot."
"I'll make it up to you," Kozlowski said. "A big guy like you? You'd probably make a great bouncer. That's a pretty good job in this town. There are a lot of mean drunks, so there's a lot of work. I know a guy who could use someone like you. Why don't I give you his number? You'll make twice the money you make at WillyMart."
“No thanks," Avellanos said.
He reached down and picked up the Corsican vendetta knife.
"I don't like the idea of getting one of these stuck in my gut."
"Vengeance is mine," it said on the blade.
"That's the knife I had at my throat," Kozlowski said. "Holy shit."
"Holy Shit is right," Avellanos said. "Of course it's not a real Corsican Vendetta knife. It's only an American knockoff."
"How do you know?"
Avellanos threw the knife back down on top of his messenger bag.
"They sell them at that pawn shop in back of City Hall. The inscription's in English. They speak French in Corsica."
"Well, whatever they speak in Corsica that was pretty damned impressive what you did," Kozlowski said. "Young man. You are a fucking badass."
“Badass my ass," Avellanos said. "Those two guys got cheated out of their wages. Now they don't get paid at all. You know what? I'm glad he got away. What do you think of that? But if you want to file a police report, I guess a witness and you can have me subpoenaed. There's nothing I can do about it."
"Forget about it," Kozlowski said. "Let them go."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Let them go," Kozlowski added, tapping the holster of a pistol he had in front of him on the dashboard. "I don't take my problems to the government."
"OK. I apologize for calling you an idiot," Avellanos said. "I'm OK now. Are you OK?"
"Never been better."
George Kozlowski turned on the windshield wipers and heat, pulled out of the parking lot onto Route 1081, and continued past the immense darkness of abandoned construction site at Winterborn II. Avellanos stared at the pile of half demolished buildings through the front windshield, then over Kozlowski's shoulder, then in the rear view mirror, becoming conscious of his companion again only after the great wreck was no longer visible. The lights of downtown Poison Springs glittered through the rain in the front windshield, then all around as George Kozlowski pulled off Route 1081 onto Reagan Plaza North, then stopped at the light in front of Scahentoarrhonon Station.
Avellanos opened up the waterproof plastic envelope. He checked the wallet sized photograph and the copy of the old newspaper article, made sure they were dry, and put them both back inside. He checked the packet of opposition research, which had protected both. It was a little moist, but otherwise OK. It went back into the envelope along with the wallet sized photo and the Xerox copy of the newspaper article. Finally, he took out the 8 x 10 photograph, breathing a sigh of relief when he realized it too was dry, and put it down on his lap. Kozlowski made a right turn and continued up the bluff towards East Poison Springs. The lights of the city skyline faded in the side view mirror, the houses getting bigger and better kept as they went along, from dilapidated old Victorians that had been chopped up into apartments to neat, well-kept colonial revivals, then finally grand old Victorian and Georgian mansions that had never been allowed to decay. Avellanos he pointed to a towering white church steeple ahead in the rain.
"You can let me off at the house next to the church."
Kozlowski pulled alongside the curb in front of a big, blue turreted old Victorian mansion.
"How can you afford to live around here?"
"I have family in this town that goes way back."
"You do?"
“You'll find out soon enough."
Avellanos looked back down at the 8x10 photograph. On a sudden impulse he handed it to George Kozlowski.
"So what do you think?"
Kozlowski looked at the photograph. There were three people. There was a short, squat woman with dark skin and thick, straight black hair. Standing next to her, holding her hand, was a young boy, about
eleven or twelve years old with olive colored skin, dark brown hair, and green eyes. The landscape around them was desert like. In the background you could see un-snowcapped, muddy looking brown mountains. A little further off to the left was a woman in her early 50s. She was wearing a straw hat, and a Nirvana "Nevermind" t-shirt with no bra, but, with her pale skin, oval face, and soft regular features, she could have been an aristocratic lady in a painting by Thomas Gainsborough. She bore a striking resemblance to John Avellanos.
"Is that your mother?" Kozlowski said, handing him back the photo. "She looks just like you."
"That's her," Avellanos said, putting it back in the waterproof plastic envelope. "Hey look," he added, pointing at the windshield. "It stopped raining."
"I told you so," Kozlowski said.
He extended his hand.
"Don't think I'm going to forget what you did tonight."
"Forget about it," Avellanos said, shaking his hand. "Just don't flash your gold around."
"I mean it," Kozlowski said.
He pointed to a photo of a man on the dashboard. He was in his late 30s or early 40s, handsome with a square jaw, blond hair and blue eyes. Behind him was a tall redheaded woman. Sitting in his lap was a little girl of about 10 or 11.
"That's my friend Bobby," Kozlowski said. "He died ten years ago."
He took a deep breath.
"I could have ended up just like him. That's his daughter. You know I bet you two would hit it off. I should introduce you. Here, let me give you her number."
Avellanos laughed.
"She looks like she's ten," he said. "Are you trying to get me put in jail?"
“That was 10 years go. She's your age now, well, maybe a little younger. How old did you say you were?"
"It says on my driver's license I'm 30."
"She's more like 20 but that's OK. She scares guys her own age. She's kind of a tough kid, kind of a bully. She's done a little time, nothing serious. But I think you two would get along. She also lives in kind of a bad neighborhood downtown. Her mother worries about her. Now if she were going out with a guy like you it would put her mind at ease."
NOT AN AMERICAN Page 10
