by Bobby Love
And then he went over to Justin, who was now standing in the living room, and said, “Your father’s not a bad guy.”
Justin stayed staring ahead stoically. It was pretty obvious he was trying not to cry, but the officer wanted Justin to hear what he had to say.
“Your father is not a bad guy. You need to know that,” he repeated.
Justin turned to look at the officer then. He didn’t say anything, but the officer seemed to think Justin was listening, so he kept talking.
“You stay in school. Stay on track, okay?”
Justin nodded but refused to speak. I knew he was hurting, and I don’t know what the officer expected Justin to do. I wanted to say, “If you think Bobby is such a good guy, why are you arresting him?” But I kept my mouth shut.
“If you have any questions you can call me,” the officer said, addressing all three of us then. He held out his card and Jessica took it. She mumbled “thank you,” and the officer rushed out the door to catch up with the others. I followed him into the hallway, just in time to see Bobby, one flight down, being led out the front door of the building, his hands in handcuffs. “Bobby!” I cried out and he looked up.
“I love you, Cheryl,” he said.
The pain tore through me then and I couldn’t contain the sobs of grief that poured out of me. I rushed back into the apartment, raced past the kids, and ran down to Jessica’s room, because her room was the only one where the windows looked out onto the front of the building. I just had to see this thing through. I had to see them take Bobby away because I still couldn’t believe it was real. I kneeled on Jess’s unmade bed and pushed the curtains open wide. The bright morning sun blinded me for a moment, and then I was able to focus on the scene unfolding below.
The cars were what brought all the people out into the street. At least six blue-and-white police vehicles and some unmarked black sedans were parked in front of our building, half of them on the sidewalk blocking any clear path in or out of the building. Even though it was only a little after seven in the morning, there were so many curious people trying to figure out what was going on. And when they saw that it was Bobby being led out of the building in handcuffs, I could see the confusion on their faces, because everybody in our neighborhood knew Bobby. I saw the Asian lady from the laundromat, her hand covering her mouth in shock. The workers from the CTown grocery store across the street weren’t even pretending to sweep the pavement as they gawked at my husband. Most of our friends and neighbors all just stood there, mouths open, whispering and, I assumed, trying to guess what the man they knew as Mr. Bobby could have done to warrant not only police officers but FBI agents escorting him out of his own home. They were all wondering, just like I was, what it was Bobby had done.
BOBBY
An officer put me in the back seat of a police car and another officer slid in next to me and slammed the door, blocking out the sounds of my neighbors’ cries of shock and wonder. I made note of the officer in the passenger seat and of course the driver. I was surrounded. My mind was moving a mile a minute.
I wanted to cry, but I was also trying to stay alert. I didn’t know what was going to happen to me or where we were going. I turned my head away from the officer sitting next to me and kept my gaze focused out the window. We took off down Bedford Avenue and then we turned onto Flatbush. I could tell we were heading toward the bridge to cross over into Manhattan. I thought of asking about our final destination but realized I didn’t really want to know. All I wanted was to be back home with Cheryl and the kids.
I looked down at my hands in handcuffs and pushed down a cry that wanted to escape. I couldn’t believe after thirty-eight years, the life I had so carefully created was over. I knew someone must have turned me in, and I started to replay the last few weeks and months in my mind. Did I let my guard down? Had I gotten too confident? Probably.
I groaned inwardly. I always knew this was a possibility, but it had been such a long time. I guess I thought I really was free. Instead, I had made a mess for my family. Visions of Cheryl having to face her friends at church knowing what I’d done tormented me. Then my mind jumped to the boys going to school and having to defend their father who was heading to jail. I hated that Justin had to witness my shame. I hated that everyone in the neighborhood had seen me getting carried off in handcuffs.
“Mr. Love,” the officer riding shotgun interrupted my thoughts. “We just wanted you to know that we didn’t want to arrest you.”
I lifted my head to make sure I heard him right. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah,” the officer next to me said. “We kept getting calls from Charlotte about your case. But it was from an incident so long ago, we just sat on it. But the calls kept coming.”
“Really?” I said.
“Yeah,” the guy in the front chimed in. “We’ve known about you since the day after Christmas. Of course, we had to investigate you to make sure that you were the right guy and that the things that they said you did, way back when, actually happened.”
All I could do was nod my head. I couldn’t believe these cops were telling me they hadn’t wanted to arrest me.
They kept talking. “Man, we’ve been watching you for a month. We came over here and watched your every move. We saw you going into the store. We saw you walking down the street. We saw you all around this neighborhood. And we know you’ve been doing all the right things. It really seemed silly that we had to arrest you.”
I did some quick calculations in my head and tried to figure out who had dimed me out. I thought about all of my family members who I’d just seen a few months prior at my brother’s funeral and tried to imagine which one of them would do this to me. A bitter taste filled my mouth as I considered the betrayal. My hands curled into fists of their own accord, but the pinch of the handcuffs reminded me where I was and who was to blame for my current circumstances. And just like that, the anger receded, and I was back to thinking about my family. Guilt and shame festered in my stomach and I wondered if Cheryl would leave me once she found out what I had done.
A moment of silence passed, and then the cop driving the car spoke up again. He asked me about my kids. Their ages and where they went to school and stuff. It was small talk, but I was grateful because it kept me from thinking about what I knew I would be facing in a matter of time.
“My son Jordan plays football,” I said proudly. “And he’s hoping to get a scholarship to college.”
“Man, that’s great. Good for you,” the officer sitting next to me responded.
“You know, when you have your chance to talk to your lawyer or the judge, make sure you let them know that stuff. Tell them about your boys wanting to go to college and all the things you’ve done to raise good kids. That’s gotta help,” he added.
All the officers had their own advice to share. They all had something to offer for my upcoming reckoning in front of a judge.
“You know, man, you could write a book with your story,” the officer driving the car said.
“Yeah,” the guy in the front seat agreed. “Your story is incredible.”
I wasn’t thinking about writing a book. This was my life. It might have sounded “incredible” to other people, but it was just my life, and I would have done anything to go back to it, flaws and all. I knew I wasn’t the perfect husband or father. Our struggle was constant, but my kids had a better childhood than I did because they had two parents who loved them.
I answered any question the officers threw my way, but mostly I was silent as I watched New York pass by outside the car window. Soon enough we arrived at Bellevue Hospital, the city’s largest public hospital, situated on First Avenue at 27th Street in Manhattan.
“We’re stopping here to get you your medicine, Mr. Love,” the officer in the front seat said.
They pulled the car up to the emergency entrance and I was taken into the building. Because Bellevue is the hospital where even the homeless won’t get turned away, seeing a man in handcuffs didn’t cause anyone to
look at me twice. Still, I kept my head down as I was led through the hospital corridors until we came to a nurse’s station that was already bustling with activity at this early hour. The officer who had escorted me in, the clean-shaven Latino guy with the curly hair, instructed me to tell the nurse what kind of medication I needed for my diabetes. After I did, the officer led me to a couple of nearby seats to wait.
We sat in the chairs in awkward silence for a moment, and then I decided to ask if I could get something to eat with my medication. I could hear Cheryl’s voice in my head reminding me that I shouldn’t take my medicine on an empty stomach. The officer agreed and came back a few minutes later with a Danish and a Styrofoam cup of orange juice. I didn’t want to press my luck but I asked if he could remove the handcuffs so I could eat without making a mess on myself. To my relief, he agreed.
While I ate, the officer told me I could call him Hector. Then he cleared his throat and told me again how sorry he was that he had to arrest me.
“Listen, your story really is incredible,” he repeated.
I grunted in response because my mouth was full, but he had my full attention.
Hector continued. “You know, they really just dropped this in our lap.”
“They who?” I asked.
Hector wouldn’t say, but he told me again that whoever it was had been calling two and sometimes three times a week, insisting the NYPD investigate me.
I let that sink in. And then it dawned on me. “Was there a reward out for me?”
Hector looked me dead in the eye. “Yeah.”
“How much was it?” I asked.
“Two thousand dollars,” he said quietly, but this time he didn’t have the nerve to keep the eye contact. I’m sure he could feel the anger emanating off my body. Somebody turned me in for a measly two thousand dollars.
“It’s not like you came out here and did other things and became a priority, or a number one person on the FBI’s list or something like that,” Hector said, trying to explain why my recapture was worth less than a big screen TV.
“I know,” I said. “And it’s nobody’s fault but my own.”
That’s what I said out loud, but inside I was seething. Everything I’d built for myself and my family over the last thirty years was gone for two thousand dollars. I was pretty sure I knew who was responsible for calling the NYPD because I had a family member who worked in law enforcement in Charlotte. It didn’t take much to put two and two together. I remembered that at my brother’s funeral, one of my nieces had listed me as Bobby Love in the funeral program instead of using my real name. Most people didn’t pay any attention to it, but a few of my relatives wanted to know why I was calling myself Bobby Love. I didn’t have a ready excuse, so I simply said it was the name I used in New York and didn’t elaborate. That was the end of the discussion, but obviously somebody wasn’t satisfied with my answer. The thought that it was my own flesh and blood who had sent the cops to my door made the juice and the Danish I’d swallowed rise up in my throat. I was furious. But I didn’t have time to sit with my anger, because Hector told me we had to go.
He was about to put the handcuffs back on when I quickly asked, “Could I just call my wife real fast to let her know I got my medicine?”
Hector paused for a second, but then he sighed and said yes. He arranged for me to call from one of the hospital phones.
Cheryl picked up on the first ring. I could hear the anxiety in her voice and it just killed me to know I had done that to her.
“Cheryl,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and steady, trying to sound like I had things under control, even though we both knew I didn’t.
“Bobby!” she cried. “Where are you? Are you okay?”
I told her I was at the hospital and that I had been given my medicine.
“But where are they taking you? What’s going to happen?”
“I don’t know what’s going to happen, Cheryl,” I said. “But I’ll be okay, and I’ll let you know something when I can.”
I didn’t hear anything on the other end except Cheryl breathing.
Finally she spoke. “Well, I’m going to work, Bobby,” she said. “If you have to call me, call me on my cell when you know something, okay?” Now she sounded like the calm one. She was the one sending me strength.
“I will,” I promised.
“It’s going to be okay, Bobby,” Cheryl said. “I’m with you and I’m not going anywhere. Promise me you won’t do anything crazy. You hear me? No crazy stuff.”
“I promise, Cheryl,” I whispered into the phone. And then I hung up.
Hector put the handcuffs back on me and led me out to the waiting car. Even with rush hour traffic in Manhattan, it only took about fifteen minutes for us to arrive at our final destination, One Hundred Centre Street. Central Booking for the New York City Police Department. Also known as The Tombs. The imposing granite building stretched across an entire city block with adjacent towers reaching up to the sky. Everyone in New York knew about The Tombs and did their best to avoid it. Now that I was here, a cold stone of dread settled in my stomach.
I was passed around from one officer to another, led through procedures, entered into the system. Pictures were taken. Fingertips got inked. They took my leather coat. They took my shoestrings and my belt. Anything I could use to hurt someone, including myself, was removed from my possession. Once I was officially processed, I was led down an endless winding staircase into the deep basement, where I was placed in an empty cell by myself. All around me were massive cages crowded with other men who were in various states of waiting. The sounds of their angry and insistent calls to be let out, to be moved, to eat, made me give thanks that I was alone in my misery.
I sat down on the one wooden bench, the only thing that could pass as furniture. It was so cold down in that section of the building, I couldn’t even squeeze out a tear. Instead, I prayed I wouldn’t be down there very long. I prayed for Cheryl and the kids. I prayed God would help me walk steadily down whatever path was put in front of me.
It was close to two hours before I was moved out of that frigid basement and up two floors to another holding area. I learned that there was some kind of order to this upward movement. At some point I would meet my court-appointed lawyer, and then I would stand before the judge who would decide my fate. I knew the system well enough to have hope that I would make bail and be able to go home sooner rather than later. So that meant all I had to do was figure out how to survive the waiting game.
Because I was deemed a medical risk, I was kept out of the crowded bullpens and was placed in another cell by myself. The tiny space was filthy and the stench from the toilet in the middle of the room permeated the air. I prayed I wouldn’t have to use it because there was no privacy and no toilet paper. Since the other men were yelling and screaming, making demands, I decided to try my luck. I asked if I could get a blanket or my coat back because I was still so cold. None of the officers passing by or sitting at their nearby desks even looked my way. They acted like they didn’t even hear me. Like everyone else down there, I was something less than human and deserving of zero sympathy. Even the lunch they offered—a sad-looking cheese sandwich and a carton of milk—told me I was a nothing. I didn’t even try to eat that sandwich, but I drank the milk.
Time passed slowly. I wanted to yell. I wanted to kick the graffiti-scarred walls. I wanted to kick myself. I was so mad that I was back behind bars. The harsh sounds of the other men in the bullpens around me only added to my agitation. For hours I just paced around the tiny cell, pausing every now and again to lean against the bars and stare at the activity in front of and all around me. There was a constant stream of people being led in and out of different places. Some of them looked like they deserved to be in there. Others looked like scared little kids who should have been in school, not in a place like this.
I lost all track of time, but I knew hours had gone by and I was still waiting. I tried to stay calm and keep my focus on God, but
I couldn’t stop my thoughts from straying toward the worst-case scenario. My biggest fear was that I was going to end up on Rikers Island, the notorious overcrowded jail where I’d heard that gang violence was rampant. I didn’t think I’d be able to survive that type of lockdown. I was a sixty-four-year-old diabetic who walked with a cane. The last time I was arrested and put behind bars, I was a spry twenty-year-old who knew how to fight.
“Walter Miller!” someone called out, and it took me a minute to remember that was my name. I stood up in my cell and called out “Here!”
I was pulled out of my cell then and lined up with a group of about five or six other guys.
“You’re heading to court. Shut up or we’ll drag your ass back down here,” an officer in a pale-blue uniform told us. I think all of us were so happy to get out of our cells we didn’t dare make a sound.
The officer led us up a yellow cinder block staircase to a small hallway with a couple of dingy-looking holding cells, where we were told we would meet with our court-appointed lawyers before we faced the judge. I was led to a chair and found myself facing an attractive brown-skinned woman with shiny black hair. She appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties. She looked tired and not exactly excited to be in a holding cell with me. I couldn’t blame her, seeing as how it was long past 5:00 p.m.
“Hello, Mr. Miller. My name is Erica Valdez and I’m going to be your lawyer,” she said, barely making eye contact as she shuffled through her papers.
She didn’t waste any time with small talk. “So, you were arrested this morning for a prison escape?”
“That’s correct,” I said.
Erica looked down at the sheet of paper in front of her and a confused look came over her face. “Wait, this dates back to nineteen seventy-seven.” She looked up at me for confirmation. “You escaped in nineteen seventy-seven?”
