“You’re telling me you left the boat last night and it was locked up and you never came back and you never met Smitty before last night?” he said in a tone of disbelief while his eyes drilled through me.
“Yes sir.”
“I think that’s bullshit. Let’s see if you recognize the body,” the sergeant finally said.
I’d never seen a murdered body before and would just as soon have skipped the opportunity, but the cop kept a firm hand on me, pushing me toward the cockpit.
Once he had me where he wanted me, he pulled the blanket away from the face and, surprise, I did know him. I took a closer look to be sure.
“That’s the guy who hired me to sail the boat up here,”
Another long pause. “So you’re telling me you had a connection to this guy in San Diego and now you’re both up here and he’s dead and you’re mixed up with a known criminal and you had nothing to do with it?”
“Yes sir.”
“You think I’m some kind of an idiot?”
He turned to the cop that’d brought me down and said, “I think he killed the owner in an argument about his fee. Cuff him and take him up with pony tail.”
The cop grabbed my wrist and painfully twisted it in a rough way that made me fall to my knees. As I fell he put his knee in my back, yanked my other hand behind me and put the cuffs on.
I was in a lot of pain. It felt like he’d dislocated my shoulder.
I complained. “What the hell?”
“Shut the fuck up. You want special treatment? You’re gonna get it.” With that he shoved his hand under my arm, pulled me up to a standing position and dragged me off the pier.
“Clear the way, clear the way,” he yelled. He obviously was enjoying my pain as he frog walked me up the ramp.
I noticed a number of people taking pictures; people were yelling “who’s that?” “Is he the murderer?” “Are you arresting him?”
I stumbled and the audience quickly retreated. The officer kept saying “no comment, no comment.” I assumed that my picture would be in the evening papers.
Back up on land I found myself standing next to the motorcycle guy. He wasn’t looking too happy. I hadn’t noticed until then that he had his hands behind him, as in handcuffed, just like me. He also had a uniformed policeman standing behind him, with his hand on his gun butt. The crowd had formed a large open circle around the three of us. Even knowing I was innocent I felt guilty.
Turning so I could see the cuffs, he said, “Just my luck that goddamn sergeant in charge hates my guts. First thing he says when he got here was that he’s sure I’m involved in some way, that he’s gonna take me down. Hadn’t even looked at the body yet when he slapped the cuffs on me. I don’t need this shit,” he continued. “What the hell’ve you got me into?”
“I haven’t the slightest—” I started, when he interrupted me again.
“So what’d you tell the cop?”
I told him that I’d identified the dead guy and that it was the boat owner. Then I asked him how the body had been discovered.
“One of the live aboard’s that’d gotten up early to take a leak.” He paused, stabbed me with his eyes for a minute, then said,
“The dead guy’s the boat owner? The guy that hired you?” Another pause. “You’re in this up to your ears, aren’t you?”
“All I did was deliver the boat and leave,” I tried to tell him. “I didn’t have anything to do with whatever’s happened since.”
“Nuts to that,” he said. “It’s your boat, your owner. Sure as hell, you’re involved. No wonder he cuffed you. Did he say he was arresting you?”
“Arrest me? God no. I told him I was in bed all night and my landlady would probably tell him that.”
“You sleep with your landlady?”
“No, no. She’s old, like eighty or so. Her room’s below mine and she can’t sleep at night. She hears everything. If I sneeze she shows up with a Kleenex. He just said he had more questions.”
“That’s not much of an alibi, but it’s better than mine. Slept alone on the boat all night. That damn Horning’s gonna use that against me, last thing he told me,” he went on, “was that he was going to use this murder to put me away somehow. I don’t think he can hold me, no way. As soon as these cuffs are off, you and me are gonna compare notes and try to figure out what’s happened.” Then he added, “Before the freaking sergeant railroads me.”
The last thing I wanted to do was spend any time with this neanderthal. He was big, he had a gang, he looked dangerous and he might be a murderer.
“Do you think he’ll arrest us?”
“Horning? Hell yes. He always goes off half cocked. What’d he say to you?
“He said he thought I probably murdered him. He thought we had a fight over getting paid.”
“Did you?”
“No, no. Like I said, I was in bed all night. I can’t go to jail, I gotta see if I have any jobs lined up.”
“Horning’ll probably try to book us, but he ain’t got any evidence, just a bunch of suppositions. We’ll get right out. But forget about your damn jobs, you’re coming with me.”
“I can’t.”
“I wasn’t asking. I’mtelling you what you and me are gonna do as soon as the cuffs come off. Get it?” Again the threatening growl.
I’m standing next to him, handcuffed, surrounded by police. He’s bigger’n me and has a gang. I didn’t argue. I figured I’d go along with him ‘til the first chance I had to split. I nodded.
“As soon as some brass gets here, they’ll probably overrule the asshole sergeant and let us go, you’ll see.”
We stood around for a couple of hours watching a number of both uniformed and non-uniformed police come and go. Finally a black and white van pulled up and the body bag was loaded into it. By that time a gaggle of reporters were trying to get past the yellow tape. Even a TV helicopter was hovering overhead.
Shortly after, the Sergeant came up off the pier and told the cop holding us to take us in. Speaking to my pigtailed friend he said, “Smitty, I got you now. I’m taking you and your buddy in on withholding evidence in a murder case and resisting arrest charges.”
Before I could object, Smitty (I’d deduced that was his name) let out a roar, “Horning, you son of a bitch, you know damn well I didn’t murder no one, and neither one of us resisted nothing’”
The sergeant sneered, “Prove it” and to the cop said, “Book ‘em.”
The cop read us our rights and shoved us into the back seat of a police car. He had trouble with Smitty because he was so big. When the cop put his hand on top of Smitty’s head to push him in it was a struggle. He wasn’t made for the normal car sedan.
Smitty was fuming mad. For a while he just glared at the back of the drivers head. Finally he turned to me and whispered some questions.
“Did they tell you how he was killed?’”
“Yeah, they said he’d been shot.”
Smitty said, “That’s what they told me, too. They wanted to know if I owned a 9 millimeter semi-automatic. They were pretty sure of the gun used, they said, ’cuz the bullet went clean through him. Said the slug wasn’t in the boat, and they were gonna search underwater and see if they could find it. Lots of luck to them,” he continued, sarcastically. “There’s so much old metal and junk down there, underneath these old boats, they’ll never find a single bullet. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if they found hundreds of them.”
Still handcuffed, we were marched into the police station and a jailer had us searched and relieved of all our personal items. Nobody asked us anything.
A jailer took our thumb prints, asked us if we had a special medical problems or were members of any gangs and put us into what Smitty said was a holding cell.
“What was that all about,” I asked Smitty.
“We ain’t been booked yet, all that was just preliminary stuff.”
“What about the gang question?”
“They don’t want a turf war to start
in a holding cell. They’ll separate gang members.” He paused, “You got any priors?”
“Arrests?”
“Yeah, you got any?”
“No, nothing.”
Two hours went by before the jailer showed up again. This time a full set of prints were taken. We were booked under suspicion of murder and resisting arrest. I was numb with fear. I’d never been in jail before for anything. I felt that my life was being taken away from me. I had no control over what was happening and nowhere to turn.
They read us our rights and searched us thoroughly again, including a cavity search. After that we were led to a dormitory and told that we had a right to make one phone call.
Smitty said, “Congratulations, you’re now in jail.”
“You know why you’re here?” he whispered.
“I haven’t the slightest,” I began and he interrupted me.
“Keep you’re voice down. Some of these guys might be snitches. The reason you’re here? It’s because, like you said, Horning has a theory that you did it. He’d told the desk sarge that it looked simple to him. His theory was that the dead guy hires you in San Diego and tells you he’ll meet you here and pay you. Up here you two get in an argument over the bill and in a fit of anger, the owner pulls a gun. You probably wrestled over it. You’re younger and stronger. You get the gun and kill him. Maybe it was an accident but sure as hell, you did it. And you know what? it sounds reasonable to me too. I know sure as hell I didn’t do it. Anyway, Horning said that amounted to probable cause and he could arrest you.”
“I didn’t kill anybody. He’d already paid me. Before I left San Diego.”
“Can you prove that?”
“Yeah, I got a receipt.”
“Show me.”
“The Sergeant’s got it; he got the owners address off it.”
“You’re dead. That piece of paper’ll never see the light of day. Not with Horning running the case, he’s crooked’er than a corkscrew. As far as I’m concerned, I think there’s a good chance you did it.”
“I didn’t. I was in bed when you called.”
“Don’t prove nothin’. Look, I’ve had lots of run ins with Horning before. He’s gonna make it as rough as he can on us. He’s a vindictive prick and right now we’re at his mercy. A couple of years ago he kept me hidden in a jail cell for two weeks before I could get an attorney to get me out. You got an attorney to call?”
I realized I didn’t. Who the hell could I phone? Not my parents, they wouldn’t have the slightest idea of what to do. It began to sink in that I was really a murder suspect. No alibi, no friends, no money, I may end up in prison for something I didn’t do.
“What about bail,” I asked.
“You don’t know from nothin’ do you,” he said. “You don’t get bail until after you’re charged with the crime. We’re stuck in here until Horning convinces an investigator that there’s enough evidence to justify charging us. He’ll probably take his own sweet time to do that; we may be here several days.
“So what do we do?”
“We wait. I called my guys, so I’ll have someone working for me. I don’t know about you. In the meantime, pick out a cot and make yourself as comfortable as you can, this is home for a night or two at least. You better stick close to me to be safe. You blue eyed, young looking blondes look pretty attractive to some of these guys.
I looked around. There were nine guys in the dorm, including us. About 12 double decked cots and one toilet and wash basin. Several of the guys looked dangerous, tattoos and attitudes. I thought I’d stick as close to Smitty as I could and hope for the best. Nobody spoke to us. I took a top bunk above Smitty, crawled up, covered up and tried to think.
Eventually I fell asleep and had horrible dreams. In my dream I’d been convicted of murder and was facing execution. I woke up early covered with sweat. Quietly I looked over the side of my bunk to see if Smitty was still there. He was, laying on his back arms crossed behind his head, wide awake, looking at me.
“You look like shit.” He greeted me.
“I feel like shit and frankly I’m scared.”
“Relax. You gotta go with the flow or you’ll go nuts in here. There’s nothin’ you can do until you face the arraignment. Unless you got someone to call.”
The day went by very slowly. We had some old tattered magazines and paperbacks to read and nothing else. I couldn’t get interested in anything, my mind kept returning to my quandary.
Early mid afternoon the jailor came in took Smitty and me out of the dorm. No explanation to either of us just walked us over to a courtroom. As we entered I saw lieutenant Horning in the back of the room, arguing with a guy in a suit. As we were brought in the guy in the suit left Horning and walked up to the judge.
“What’s going on?” I whispered to Smitty.
“I don’t know’, but he’s from the D.A.’s office.”
The judge conferred with the district attorney for a moment or two with his hand over the microphone and then turned in our direction and said,
The investigator from the district attorneys office has concluded that there’s insufficient evidence to hold or charge Mr. Smith, therefore direct that he be released from custody under penal code 849b without charges.
For a moment, I thought I was free.
“Mr. Alton will be returned to his cell and held under the original charges, pending further investigation.”
It took a second for what he said to register. I was going back to the cell, alone without my protector.
Smitty spoke to me as they were returning his valuables. “Be careful, I’ll get you out.”
Be careful? My protector leaving shortly after he’d warned me about the possible sexual tastes of some my cellmates? I had no idea how to accomplish that but had little time to worry about it as they hustled me out of the courtroom and back to the cell.
“Where’s your buddy?” was my greeting. The jailer answered them. “He’s out,” he volunteered, shoved me into the cell, slammed the door and left.
“Now what?” I thought. I sidled to a front corner of the cell and slid to the floor, hoping they’d ignore me. They didn’t.
Luckily for me, Smitty had been partially wrong. They didn’t want my rectal virginity, they wanted my clothes.
The mean one, the one with all the tattoos admired my jacket in a very direct way.
“Gimme’ your jacket!”
I gave it to him, along with my favorite jeans and began to shiver, sitting in my underwear on the cold cement floor. I was afraid to move, to call attention to myself. I spent the night like that, outnumbered nine to one. The jailer came by several times, shone a light on me and chortled.
Finally dawn came, and the lights. Guards showed up and didn’t leave, I felt a little safer. None of the guards commented on my semi nudity. I ignored the MacDonald's-like muffin served to us for breakfast and clung to the bars, hoping for reprieve.
Mid morning I was yanked out of the cell, led to the charging desk and had my papers returned.
“What about my clothes?” I demanded.
One of the jailers disappeared for a few minutes and then returned with my jacket and jeans. Nobody commented about their absence.
“You’re free, get out of here.”
Out in front, Smitty was waiting for me on a motorcycle, along with a couple of other bikers.
“Get on the bike with Red,” Smitty ordered, pointing to the tall red headed biker. “We need to hash this thing out. Either you murdered the guy or you’re gonna help me find out who did and you’re not getting out of my sight until I find out which.”
I got mad. “Dammit’ Smitty, I need to go home. I need a shower and clean clothes. My cellmates stole my clothes and wore them all night. I got ‘em back but they’re filthy. You may be used to spending a night in jail, but I’m not. I have to check my mail and my phone. You can get along without me for a few hours.”
“Hey Red, the kids got a little spunk.” Then to me, “Seems to me y
ou’re marooned with us, we got the wheels. Here’s what’s gonna happen. First you come with us. You can clean up at the warehouse. Then I’m going to quiz you about this dead guy and then we’ll see about you going home. If you do go home, one of the gang’s going with you. You’re mine until I get Horning off my tail, got it?”
First I’m a captive of the cops; accused of murder, now Smitty and his gang won’t let me go. They’re taking me to a warehouse? I desperately need to figure out a way to get away from this gang.
CHAPTER 3
Red told one of the guys to double up with another guy; he had to use his bike to take me to the warehouse. The cycle he pushed me toward was huge. I’d never been on a motorcycle before, and I wasn’t wild about getting on this one. He casually mounted it and told me to climb aboard behind him.
I did, feeling like a big jerk. I didn’t know what to do with my feet or hands. Reaching around he grabbed one foot and shoved it into a metal stirrup and told me to do the same with the other foot.
“Wrap your arms around me and hold on.” Easier said than done. His chest was so massive I couldn’t reach all the way around him. Speaking into the middle of his back, I told him so.
“Shut up and hang onto my pockets.” Concise and to the point.
He kick-started the engine, rolled the bike forward a couple of inches, nonchalantly booted the kickstand off the ground, let the clutch in and we were off. I had no idea where he was taking me, but I was going. It was a little like being on a bicycle – except for the acceleration. Actually, it wasn’t at all like being on a bike. I really had to hang on. Every time he turned his head his ponytail swiped my face.
Riding along my brain was trying to catch up with my body. Kidnapped on a motorcycle with a motorcycle gang chief, without a clue as to where we were headed, my employer’s been murdered and I’m a suspect in a murder case.
On the face of it, I suppose it could make it a lot of sense to a cop. ’Course I knew it wasn’t true, but others might not. It seemed like the sergeant was locked in on Smitty and me, and ignoring the facts. If it wasn’t for the D.A.’s office dismissing the charges on Smitty, I might still be in jail. He hadn’t talked about the murder at all in jail, just whispered that the place was probably bugged. As far as I was concerned, in spite of his protestations of innocence, my driver made a much better suspect than I did.
Casey's Slip Page 2
