“Tony isn’t guilty of anything,” Frank said.
“We’ll see. You sure you don’t want to get your side out? There are a number of dead men up the road. A couple on the property. A few others who look like they aren’t long for this world.”
“Those men were shooting to kill us,” Frank said.
“And you shot back?”
“It will be in my report,” Frank said.
* * *
The ride to the nearest hospital was quick. They ushered him into the ER, took an x-ray, told him the bullet had hit a rib at an angle, broken the rib, and lodged in the muscle tissue that held his ribs together. He could see the bullet—a bright little lump on the x-ray.
The doctor explained that had it gone between his ribs, it probably would have cut straight through the top of the liver or the bottom of his heart and into a lung.
“Your rib did its job,” the doctor said.
“My rib hurts like hell,” Frank said.
“I’ll pull the bullet out. You’re going to be fine.”
“Yeah,” Frank said, patched up so he could live the rest of his life between cement walls with men like Edward Meese and the Gorozas.
They pulled the bullet out, wrapped his torso, cleaned and stitched his leg, then handed him over to Banks who had been waiting the whole time. On the way out, Banks said, “We’re relocating you to the Criminal Justice Center in Colorado Springs.”
For some reason the name reminded Frank of the League of Justice that Batman belonged to. “Am I going to get to meet Aquaman and The Flash?” Frank asked.
“I don’t think so,” Officer Banks said.
Frank could already smell the inside. He could feel the fluorescent lights. Feel the miles of concrete and razor-wire fencing penning him in.
He’d been looking forward to real French toast this weekend, made with fat slices of challah or brioche because a recipe he’d read said that those breads, and Frank had never seen such bread before, were the kings of French toast. He’d been looking forward to smothering those slices of king with real butter and real maple syrup from maple trees, not any of that faked-up corn crap. He’d had French toast a number of times in the Pleasant Valley facility. Every time it had tasted like plastic.
Frank asked, “You guys have a five-star chef, right?”
“Sure,” Officer Banks said, “the legislature was very excited to hear we were spending tax payer dollars for Wolfgang Puck to run the correctional eats. It’s nothing but five courses all the way.”
“Can’t wait,” Frank said. “Do you think you can keep the three of us together? The last thing we need is some MS-13 moron getting the idea that one of us alone would make a good target.”
“We can talk about that when we go down. You’ll have an initial appearance before a judge in twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Then a date for the preliminary hearing will be set.”
They got onto the interstate that led through the fine city of Colorado Springs, heading in a south-westerly direction, into the sun which hung low in the sky.
Frank looked at the stores he would not be able to visit. The parks. The movie theaters. The grocery stores. The sidewalks. A free man could lie down on a sidewalk if he so desired. He could roll around in the grass like a dog and stare up at the sky. He could run hill and dale. He could climb trees. He could buy a Coke at three a.m.
An arrest wasn’t a conviction. But it did mean you were in the system. It meant you were heading down the river. And now he had put Sam and Pinto and Heber—men he hardly knew, good honest men—into his boat.
Officer Banks left the interstate and cruised through the city on a main road. Then he made a few turns, and a structure that looked like some medieval tower loomed up in front of him. It looked like the French Bastille, except there wasn’t one inch of frill. It was gray and round and flat-roofed with a handful of small slot windows. A big tombstone of a sign out front proclaimed “Criminal Justice Center.”
When Officer Banks opened the back door, Frank almost couldn’t bring himself to get out of the car. He paused. Officer Banks waited. Then Frank climbed out and surveyed the place.
Formidable. That’s what this place was. And it was a county jail. What did the state prison look like? He said, “Tony’s a good kid. Sam’s Mr. Nice Guy. Please think about putting in a good word so they don’t get shunted off into some holding cell inhabited by a serial killer.”
“I can’t promise anything.”
“The Gorozas were in with MS-13. News travels fast. At the very least Sam and Tony should be separated from anyone affiliated with that gang or its allies.”
Officer Banks nodded. “Come on; we need to get you processed.” Then he took Frank’s elbow and escorted him forward.
Frank took in a breath of air, looked at the blue sky. The door buzzed. Then Officer Banks opened the door, and Frank walked in. A moment later the door clicked shut behind him and locked.
31
Five-Star Accommodations
BANKS LED FRANK past the locking doors that hummed with electricity to a uniformed woman who asked him a number of questions and officially booked his arrest. She led him to another woman in blue who took his fingerprints with a scanner. When the scans didn’t come out clean, the mistress of fingerprints gave him a squirt of hand lotion, told him to rub it around, and try it again. He did, and the prints came out just grand—he could see it on the monitor. From fingerprinting Frank went to a man who took his picture against the height wall chart.
Then came the inmate property technician who sized Frank up, then gave him an orange jump suit, white socks, a white undershirt, and white prison briefs. He folded them all up in a nice bundle and placed a pair of fine prison bright orange Crocs on top.
Frank was taken to a room where two “technicians” asked him to undress. When he was naked, they asked him to turn around, bend over, and cough. Frank knew the drill and complied, six years of memories running in his head. They asked him to put on his new clothes. He did. They bagged and tagged all his belongings and took them away. Then they gave Frank to two correctional officers who led him to his holding cell and explained the rules as they went.
This was a modern facility, which meant his cell was not one of the old time cages with open bars. Instead, it was an enclosed room about ten feet by fifteen. It had a thick metal door with a narrow window about six inches wide and three feet tall running up one side. The window was made of plexiglass.
There was a slot in the middle of the door for passing food trays and other items. Inside, the walls were covered with sheets of stainless steel. Attached to the stainless steel walls were four narrow bunks. Up against one side of the room was a metal toilet and sink combo. A large man with large dark bags under his eyes and large dark hair that stood up on his head and looked like it hadn’t been cut or washed for eight months was sitting on that toilet. His prison jump suit and briefs were down around his knees. His undershirt was hitched up above his large hairy belly. He looked over at Frank and scratched his face and didn’t say a thing. A moment later he grunted and let loose with something that sounded like a rototiller. This man was obviously at ease with public dumping.
Frank turned to the officers with him. “I’m going to need to make a phone call.”
The one nodded. “We’ll get you in. Give it forty-five minutes, maybe an hour.”
“Thank you,” Frank said.
“Shower’s in the morning,” one officer said. “Then breakfast. You should get your initial appearance sometime tomorrow afternoon, but it might be as long as the day after next.”
Frank didn’t want to wait for the day after next. Every moment Tony and Sam were in here was a risk. The guards left him there with Big Fart who looked like he was on that toilet for the long haul. Frank took a bunk and sat back, his arm bandaged close to his side. The painkillers were doing a splendid job.
He studied the stainless steel walls and rivets. He thought about Sam. Thought about Tony. Thought about those chi
ldren.
Thought about Carmen heading for the pines.
* * *
What seemed like three hours later, the two officers who had walked him in opened the door. “You still want to make a call?”
“Yeah,” Frank said and stood.
“We going to have to restrain you?”
“Nope,” Frank said. What was he really going to be able to do with his side?
They escorted him down the hallway outside with its shining floor and gray walls, around a corner, and through an electrically locked door to another room. The jail had a contact visitation area with chairs bolted to tables and tables bolted to the floor. Behind it was a non-contact visitation area with a class wall and phone booths and stools at each booth. To one corner of the contact visitation area were a number of booths with phones that connected to the outside world. A clock on the other side of the visitor’s window indicated it had indeed been about three hours.
Frank made his call, knowing he was being recorded. He called Kim.
She picked up on the third ring.
He said, “Have you heard from Tony?”
“Frank?”
“Have you heard from him?”
“Is he okay?”
“Tony’s just fine. Where are you?”
“I’m waiting at the airport.”
“Okay, I want you to listen. Here’s what been going down. Tony was kidnapped by Ed Meese, one of my meat head cell mates. This was yesterday. We freed him. The problem is there was some shooting.”
“Oh, my Lord,” Kim said.
“Hang on, Sis.”
“Oh, my Lord, Frank.”
“He’s all right.”
“Frank.”
“Kim, we’re going to need a good lawyer.”
There was a pause. She was trying to get a hold of herself. “We?”
“It’s a long story.”
Anger thickened her voice. “Frank, I swear.”
“We need the lawyer to talk to the prosecutor before he gets too far down this path.”
“What path is that?”
“Kim, I don’t have a lot of time. I just need you to focus and listen. Later on you can chew me up one side and down the other. Get a pen out.” He waited. “You got a pen?”
“Yes.”
“I’m in the county jail in Colorado Springs. It’s called the Criminal Justice Center. I believe they’ve taken Tony to a juvenile detention center. We need to meet with a good lawyer ASAP. Tony’s going to be fine. But we don’t want him to spend an hour more in detention than is necessary. The police are already working to support a number of charges and present them to the county prosecutor. We need someone on our side talking in the DA’s other ear.”
“Frank, this is beyond the pale.”
“Kim, you get a lawyer and get yourself down here. I’m in with my neighbor. His name is Sam Cartwright. He’s probably called his wife, but it’s best if you coordinate. He’s in the phone book in Rock Springs.”
“Why is it the women are always cleaning up after the men?”
“I think that was something to do with the Garden of Eden.”
“Uh, huh,” she said. “You talking about that frame job by Adam?”
“No comment.”
“I’m going to get Tony out. You, on the other hand, I just might leave to rot.”
“I can understand that,” Frank said.
She sighed. “Colorado Springs. This is not how I wanted to spend my vacation days.”
“The mountains are lovely,” he said. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“That’s what you always say.”
He realized it was what he always said. And instead of paying his debts, he just borrowed more.
The officer tapped the back of his wrist indicating time was up.
Frank said, “Got to go, Kim.”
“You drive me crazy,” she said. “It’s like battered wife syndrome.”
“I love you, Kim,” he said and ended the call.
When the officers dropped him back at his holding cell, Big Fart was back on the toilet.
“What is it with you?” Frank asked.
“Beans,” he said. “I got me some bad beans.”
Frank walked over to him, then reached down to the toilet paper roll and removed about five feet.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure I’m not left high and dry by you and your industrial beans.”
“Fair enough,” he said.
Frank wrapped his paper up and turned to his bunk. “Good Lord,” he muttered and looked up at the ceiling, “I would account it a great favor if you could turn off my nose.”
Big Fart grunted and started up with the rototiller again.
Maybe the nose was too much to ask, Frank prayed silently. Let’s just do the simple thing and help Kim find an attorney with some brains.
Frank turned to Big Fart. “If you flush when you let loose with your cannon, it will suck some of that stink down the drain.”
“Okay,” Big Fart said, then reached in his shirt and scratched his chest. When he did, the sleeve of his jumper pulled up a little higher. Frank didn’t know how he’d missed it before, but there, on his upper arm, was a tattoo for MS-13.
Frank’s alert level ticked up to orange.
Had Banks sold him out? Or was it the guards? Or was this all a simple oversight?
More importantly, had Big Fart received any communication while Frank was on the phone to Kim?
Big Fart didn’t looking like he was plotting a murder, but he wouldn’t. He’d wait for when Frank was least suspecting it and only then pull out his shank.
Frank was tired, but he did not sleep. Not until far into the night and then for only an hour or so. He was awake the next morning when the PA system out in the hall announced it was time to rise. A few minutes later the detainees started taking turns going to the showers. When Frank’s turn came, he was up and ready to go. Big Fart was sitting up, looking as rough as when he went to sleep.
The officers let them down the hallway with the shining floor and gray walls to the showers. It was an open shower with eight heads. A number of detainees were already there. Frank disrobed in front of another officer and put his clothes into a plastic bin along with the others. The soap was white soap. The shampoo was white shampoo. He couldn’t take a full shower, not with his injuries and bandages. So he made do with a wash cloth while the others washed and rinsed in silence. He made do making sure to take a shower head that would allow him to keep his back to the wall. When he finished, he walked out of the shower area past Hairy Big Fart, took a white towel from many on a shelf, dried, then placed the towel in a laundry bag on wheels, and dressed again.
The whole time Frank remained in code orange. When you lived in prison, you always had to know what was going on in your surroundings. There was nothing going on here now, but that could always change in a heartbeat.
Big Fart finished his shower. A little while later, the two of them were escorted back to their high-rent bungalow.
Frank sat. Big Fart rolled onto his side and went to sleep. A little while later an officer came by with two styrofoam trays. Breakfast was something called cracked wheat in a paper bowl with plastic wrap over the top. It was basically a gruel of shattered wheat kernels. There was milk in a little box on the side along with a package of sugar and a banana on its way to going black. It appeared Wolfgang Puck was really losing his touch.
Frank woke Big Fart. They ate, then waited for the officers to come back with the garbage bags. The officer opened the slot, took their garbage, then closed the slot back up. Frank went back to counting the rivets in the stainless steel walls and listening to Big Fart breathe.
Sometime later another officer showed up at the door. “Visitor,” he said. “I think it’s your lawyer.”
“Hallelujah,” Frank said.
Once again he was escorted back to the visitation room. To his surprise, he found Sam waiting there, sitting at one of the tables.<
br />
“I don’t think orange is your color,” Frank said.
“Dude,” Sam said.
“Not quite the Hilton, is it?”
“They have me in a room with eight guys. I swear half of them are on meth.”
“Any of them have tattoos like Jesus Goroza?”
“No.”
“You’ll be all right. Stay alert, stay calm. Don’t talk about cookies.”
“Are you kidding?” Sam said. “I’ve already collected half a dozen recipes.”
Frank grinned. “You’re going to get out, Sam.”
“I’d better.”
The officer with Frank pointed at the electric door that led from the outside into the visiting area. “Your visitor is here. You have fifteen minutes. The only touch you may have is a hand shake. No hugging, kissing, or lap sitting.”
Frank nodded. A woman walked through the door. She was dressed in a dark skirt and woman’s suit jacket. Her blonde hair was pulled back smartly in a pony tail. She looked like she was in her thirties.
Both Frank and Sam stood.
“Let’s hope the cavalry has arrived,” Frank said.
The woman walked over to their table. She looked at Sam. “Mr. Cartwright?”
“Yes.”
She looked at Frank. “Mr. Shaw?”
Frank nodded.
“I’ve been retained by Mr. Cartwright’s wife and Mr. Shaw’s sister to represent you. My name is Melinda Cross. I work for Brindley, Brindley, and Fiss. Let’s sit and talk.”
They all sat.
She didn’t have any paper or pens. No folders. She’d certainly been searched before coming in and had probably been asked to empty her pockets. She was a fit woman, not some glamour gal, but fit and all business, which Frank put in the plus column. She said, “I’ve been able to look at the police reports.”
“They gave them up?” Frank asked.
“They were happy to. You just have to ask politely. Now, what I want to do now is make sure I have your side of the story to verify the police didn’t leave important parts out.”
“Okay,” Frank said. “But before we go further, I need to know what your credentials are. How many cases have you tried?”
Bad Penny Page 33
