The Archangel Drones

by Joe Nobody

  Turning to Sandy, he explained, “I have a really bad feeling about this. If that phone call was any indication of what Jacob is facing, we’re in for a rough ride.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I’m going to try and find out where he is. They said we should wait for a phone call with further information, but I’m not going to be able to do that. I want to be wherever Jacob is or as close as they’ll let me get to him. I’m going to start looking up phone numbers and making calls.”

  Sandy nodded, bending to kiss the top of her husband’s head. “We’ll get through this; we always do. Jacob is smart and strong,” she reassured him. “He’ll be fine.”

  Gabe nodded blankly, a victim of cognitive overload, the chaotic barrage of thoughts tangling as each message competed for the forefront of his attention. “You’re probably right, but I won’t be able to just sit here and wait. Our son has been gobbled up by a very large, very uncaring machine that is designed to deal with the absolute worst society can produce. I just pray they don’t chew him up and spit out a damaged young man.”

  “Do we need to call a lawyer?”

  “I thought about that, but I don’t know one. We’ve used attorneys at the office before, but they do contracts and business things. I don’t even know a criminal lawyer. Besides, it’s nearly 3 AM in the morning. I’m sure they don’t list their home phone numbers in the yellow pages.”

  Sandy took a bit to digest her husband’s words, her own nervous energy suppressing the need to do something… anything. “How about I make some coffee? It sounds like we’re going to have a long night.”

  Gabe stood, pulling his wife close, the parents drawing comfort from the embrace. “The java sounds like a great idea. We’ll be fine. I bet we have this all cleared up by tomorrow evening.”

  The now-motivated father hit the internet with a vengeance, dialing a long list of often contradicting phone numbers displayed on overlapping law enforcement websites. A few lines were disconnected, some rang on for eternity without answer by human or machine, and the remainder led him into a bottomless abyss of automated attendant menus boasting vague descriptions and dead ends. Within an hour, the frustration was driving him to thoughts of committing his own criminal activity.

  “I can’t believe this,” he spouted to Sandy in frustration. “Our son, a minor, has basically been kidnapped by the police. There is no way to locate his whereabouts or know his status. It’s maddening.”

  The mother’s face was drawn, her eyes becoming as desperate as her husband’s voice. “Do we need to go down there? Find someone to talk to in person? Make them locate our son?”

  At one point in his fruitless barrage of telephoning, Gabe had come to the same conclusion, but then reconsidered. His web travels had made him realize the Harris County law enforcement infrastructure was gargantuan, with stations, sub-stations, incarceration facilities, and offices all over the vast area known as metropolitan Houston. In addition, if the detained individual required medical care, there was no specific hospital where he/she might be sent.

  Manny had said Jacob was hurt. Had they driven the boy to an emergency room instead of a jail? There was no way to know.

  “I hate to say this… the thought of doing this is about to drive me nuts, but I think we have to wait until our son calls, or the day-shift people start arriving at their desks and answer the phone. I think our driving around downtown is a waste of energy and time. Waiting seems to be our only option.”

  Sandy didn’t like it either but realized she had to trust her mate’s judgment. Sipping their coffee, the distraught couple sat, their eyes shifting between the wall clock and Gabe’s cell phone charging beside the computer.

  Jacob’s 6’5” frame was beyond the design of the squad car’s tiny back seat. When the tried and true Ford Crown Victoria police model had been retired a few years before, law enforcement agencies hadn’t had any choice but to go with the newer, smaller sedans offered from Detroit. Being handcuffed didn’t help the young man’s ergonomics.

  He had no choice but to sit nearly doubled over, his head resting on the wire cage that separated potentially dangerous prisoners from the driver’s compartment. The officer transporting Jacob could only see the top of the boy’s head.

  After several blows to the head and torso, loss of blood, and overwhelming waves of pain from his knee, the teenager was going into shock. While the arresting officers had attempted to clean his wounds at the site, they had completely misjudged the severity of his injuries, both internal and external.

  The transporting constable arrived at the main jail’s unloading area, met there by the guards charged with assisting officers with their often-unruly passengers. They found Jacob unresponsive and unmoving.

  “Look at that fucking mess in my backseat,” complained the officer. “This son of a bitch has bled and puked all over the place. Now I’ll be stuck here waiting on maintenance to hose this shit out.”

  “He’s playing possum,” remarked one of the burly guards, trying to get Jacob to respond. “There’s not enough blood on the floor for him to be out. He’s faking it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, we see them do it all the time. They think if they act as if they’re out cold, they’ll get a ride to the ER instead of our 5-star facility. Let’s yank his ass out of there. If he keeps it up, we’ll just carry him into the holding area. I’ll bet a cup of coffee he snaps out of it as soon as he realizes we’re onto him.”

  The guard reached into the backseat and grabbed Jacob by the ear, pulling and twisting the boy’s head with the painful technique. But Jacob didn’t react, his body slumping sideways in the seat.

  “Did this dude take a blow to the head or something?” the now second-guessing guard asked. “Twisting a handful of cartilage normally brings them right out of their little act.”

  “I don’t know,” replied the deputy. “I arrived late to the scene, and since I was the junior man, I was given transport duty. He looks damn pale though.”

  They lifted Jacob out of the car, a muscular jailer on each arm.

  With feet dragging and head flopping, they carried him into the building via his handcuffed upper arms.

  The Harris County Jail’s staging room looked more like the waiting area at an airport gate than a lockup. Rows of plastic chairs filled the space, televisions hanging from ceiling mounts.

  As soon as Jacob was arranged in one of the plastic seats, the officer removed the handcuffs. They tried three times to prop the unresponsive kid in a chair, each attempt resulting with the prisoner’s lanky body sliding to the floor. Finally, they pulled him to a corner and left him prone.

  “I’ll call the medical people to come down here and check him out,” said the jailer. “I don’t think he’s faking it.”

  “Should I load him up and take him to the ER?” the young deputy asked, now worried he might be held responsible somehow.

  “Naw. He might be drunk, passed out from drugs… any number of things. Scalp wounds always bleed like crazy, but no way has he lost enough red corpuscles to be in danger. The nurse will be down to check him out in a bit. Give me his packet, and you can go have your car cleaned out.”

  Shrugging, the officer handed over the envelope and then returned the handcuffs to his duty belt.

  It would be difficult to find a position in the medical field more troubling than that of the admission review staff at a big city jail.

  Exposed daily to the most troubled examples of the human race, the tainted, mind-numb registered nurse and aides were witness to a constant parade of drug users, prostitutes, alcoholics, lice-infested homeless, and hardened criminals.

  Often, the incoming detainees were belligerent, fighting, spitting, and kicking balls of filthy humanity, either unwilling, or unable to respond to the medical questionnaires or attempts at examination. Exposure to blood, vomit, urine, and feces were as common as the foul language, combative attitudes, and hostile profile displayed toward anyone who wor
ked for “the man.”

  It was a thankless, low-paying, exceedingly dangerous job that created calloused individuals who basically operated with one cardinal rule - nobody was to die while in custody. Beyond that, the examination process was haphazard at best, often at the benevolence of the individual healthcare worker’s mood at the time.

  In this regard, Jacob was lucky. The nurse aide who was called to the staging area was in a reasonable frame of mind, having just spent 20 minutes with a business executive hauled in for a DUI. The man had made her laugh and had been cooperative, a rarity for the graveyard shift.

  Escorted by two massive jailers, the aide had recognized immediately Jacob was in trouble. Rushing to the prone teen’s side, her first check was the lividity of his arm. After watching the flaccid limb flop uncontrollably to the floor, she then pulled back his eyelid. She found him cold and clammy, his diaphoretic state coinciding with all of the other symptoms.

  “Get him out of here – stat,” she turned and instructed the idling hulks. “He’s in trouble, and I don’t want him dying on my shift. Get an ambulance here… now.”

  “Are you sure?” asked the guard who had helped drag Jacob in.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Bluto…. Get him to Central right now.”

  Rising from Jacob’s side, she heaved the radio from her belt, lifting to speak into the black box’s grill. “I need the RN and a cart to the staging area, stat,” she said.

  She then returned to Jacob and started patting down his body, searching for other injuries. With her patient’s shirt soaked in blood, her first inclination was that he was suffering from a gunshot wound that had somehow been overlooked, but that was rare.

  As she worked down his right leg, she suddenly stopped, pulling a pair of sheers from her breast pocket. After a few snips on Jacob’s pants leg, she pulled apart the denim material and inhaled sharply. “Holy shit… look at this kid’s knee.”

  Stretching to gawk over her shoulder, the two jailers were impressed as well. Purple and red, the tortured joint was the size of a mature grapefruit. “That’s why he’s out,” one of them commented. “That has to hurt like hell.”

  About then the registered nurse arrived with another aide and a toolbox-sized container of basic medical supplies. The team quickly set about its business, cleaning and bandaging the head wound and elevating Jacob’s upper body.

  It took longer than usual for the EMTs to arrive, a major accident on I-10 involving two semis and a car full of vacationers had pulled several ambulances to the scene.

  And then there was the delay waiting for a deputy to accompany the prisoner.

  Over 90 minutes after being delivered to the jail, Jacob Chase was on his way to the emergency room, IV in his arm, ice pack on his knee, and bandages wrapping his head.

  The ambulance was less than three blocks away when the jailer strolled back to the booking area and noticed Jacob’s packet sitting on the counter. “Shit,” he hissed, picking up the thin folder, “This should have gone with that kid.”

  Central Hospital ER was one of the few left open in the entire area. One by one, the major facilities in the nation’s fourth largest city had closed their emergency rooms, the deluge of uninsured patients making such accommodations unprofitable.

  Much like the jail, the massive facility was always functioning at near capacity… in a state of barely controlled chaos.

  The Houston Fire and Rescue ambulance that had responded to the jail’s call had to wait in line, the six unloading bays all occupied by other emergency vehicles. Despite the fact that this was a weekday and not even the chickens were yet awake, the facility was running with a shortage of emergency beds. The weekend shifts were marked by total ER gridlock.

  Finally able to pull forward and unload their patient, the two fireman wheeled Jacob’s stretcher into one of the few empty waiting rooms. Leaving the bored cop to sit in a lonely looking, plastic chair, the two EMTs returned to the main nurse’s station, both dreading the upcoming paperwork.

  “Where’s the patient’s packet?”

  “I thought you had it?”

  “Shit! I guess we’ll just have to register him as a John Doe until his file catches up with him,” shrugged the team’s senior member.

  Chapter 3

  Peelian Principle

  Police headquarters should be centrally located and easily accessible by the public.

  “We have no one at this facility by the name of Jacob Chase,” came the annoyed response. “I suggest you try the local precinct’s lockup.”

  “I’ve already contacted them, the Northside facility, and everyone else I can dial, ma’am. No one can find my son. Did the arresting officers just take him out to an empty field and dump his body?” resonated the frustrated voice of a desperate father.

  “Sir, are you making a criminal accusation against a law enforcement officer? If so, I can transfer you to the public affairs office.”

  “I just want to know where my son is, ma’am. Pardon me for being a little over the top, but wouldn’t you be acting the same way if your child were missing?”

  “My computer screen says he’s not here, sir. That’s the only information I can access.”

  “Thank you,” Gabe replied, even though he didn’t mean it.

  After the call was disconnected, the jail operator glared at her co-worker. “Why do white people always think their children are innocent and being abused by the big, bad county jail? I get so tired of it. It’s as if they think their pale, little asses never commit any crime or do anything wrong. Like they should be treated special or something just because of their color.”

  The co-worker laughed. “Guess what,” she said mimicking a game show host delivering the big prize, “Your suburban, middle-class teenager is a criminal! You are about to enter a whole new world called the criminal justice system. Soon you’ll discover what half of the black and Latino parents already understand. Jail sucks, and the system doesn’t care about anybody’s race or income level or how many half-baths are in your fucking home.”

  They exchanged looks before moving to answer the next incoming call. “Oh shit,” the operator announced, covering the mouthpiece. “I’ve got a Latino grandmother trying to find her daughter. These are the worst.”

  It was the blowtorch someone was holding against his leg that made Jacob stir. Forcing himself to climb through the grey, swirling void of fog, he blinked his eyes and tried to move his screaming limb away from the fire.

  The effort induced more agony, streaks of electric fire climbing up his thigh, boiling into his head. He howled, and then started to vomit.

  The cop-sentry had fallen asleep, rousted from his upright nap by the animal-like clamor. Rubbing the fog from his eyes, he noted his prisoner’s reaction and understood something serious was going on. He pressed the call button and immediately rushed into the hall to secure assistance.

  Again, some luck was on Jacob’s side. The nighttime avalanche of patients and emergencies had subsided somewhat, and soon a team of medical professionals surrounded Jacob’s bed.

  If anyone had cared, it quickly became obvious to the gathered staff that somebody had made a horrible mistake. The John Doe now experiencing dry heaves into a plastic pan had somehow gotten lost in the shuffle. He should have received medical care long ago.

  The attending ER physician took one look at Jacob’s knee and asked the policeman what sort of automobile accident had caused the injuries sustained by the patient.

  “I don’t know anything about this detainee,” replied the cop. “I was just sent down here to make sure he doesn’t escape or cause any problems.”

  Grunting, the doctor pointed at the ugly joint and said, “He’s not going anywhere, and I doubt he’s going to beat us all up. Please do your best to find out who this child belongs to, I have a feeling we are going to have to make some difficult decisions in the next few hours.”

  The cop nodded and started to pivot away to seek a telephone. The doctor stopped him. “
And remove these handcuffs, please.”

  Almost embarrassed at having forgotten the patient was still chained to the bed’s metal rail, the policeman did as ordered. “I’ll find out who he is,” he promised the doc.

  After watching the policeman leave, the physician returned to Jacob’s side and asked, “What is your name? Can you tell me your name?”

  “Jacob,” came the dry response. “Jacob Chase.”

  “And where do you live, Jacob Chase?”

  The teen managed to give the fuzzy, distant voice his address.

  “How old are you, Jacob?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Is there someone I can call? I need to know your medical history and allergies before I can give you anything for the pain.”

  “Call my dad, please, sir. Gabriel Chase. His phone number is in my cell contacts.”

  The doctor turned to a nearby nurse and said, “See if you can find me a phone number. Given our illustrious police department, I’m sure this child’s parents have no idea where he is or his condition. It wouldn’t surprise me if Mr. and Mrs. Chase will probably end up with coronaries themselves.”

  “Yes, Doctor. I’m on it.”

  “I want every inch of this young man’s body x-rayed, high priority,” commanded the physician. “I’ll order something for his pain as soon as we get some information. That knee has got to be tearing this kid apart.”

  Gabe called Amanda, letting her know the bad news. They had yet to locate Jacob.

  “Chip finally called just ten minutes ago. We’re on our way down to post my husband’s bail…. I never thought I’d be saying that.”

  “Where is he?” Gabe asked, his voice growing hopeful.

  “He’s at the local precinct, but I asked him about Jacob, and he said he hasn’t seen him since they were being loaded into the squad cars. He’s pretty sure Jay isn’t at the same jail.”