Cyclone Rumble

by J.P. Voss

  7

  Saturday night the guards dumped me in a cell where the light never went out. I wrapped the burlap blanket around my face and tried to sleep. One of the guards would come by every half hour and rap on the reinforced wire-mesh observation portal until I showed my face. It went on like that until Monday morning when I was taken to my arraignment.

  At the courthouse, I met with my lawyer in the prisoner interview room. The large southern barrister had a noticeable limp, and walked with the help of an ivory-handled cane.

  I said, “Sorry about kneeing you in the groin Saturday night. I’d been slapped around so much I finally lost my temper. Thanks for showing up for my arraignment.”

  “Apology accepted,” he replied with a tip of the hat. The big man lowered himself into a chair and dabbed his forehead with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. “Tensions are running high right now. And I wouldn’t want to fan the flames. I’d suggest you adopt a similar policy.” He leaned in my direction. His brow arched, and his pupils dilated. The exaggerated urgency of his baritone voice had a theatrical flare. “Outside forces are starting to exert considerable pressure. It would be in everyone’s best interest if you were to tell our mutual friends what they want to know.”

  “I’m not nearly as concerned about our mutual friends, as I am about getting my ass out of jail. Like I told you before—I’m not telling anybody anything until I talk to my brother.”

  The hyperbole and bravado that were the big man’s stock and trade faded from his face and he looked at me with a deep-seated fear in his eyes. “I’ve been in contact with our mutual friends. These men are not to be trifled with. They want the package. They’re convinced you know where it is. My best legal advice would be for you to tell our mutual friends what they want to know. Sooner—rather than later—would be in the best interest of all concerned.”

  “I appreciate the legal advice,” I said. “But I’m holding pat. You do your job; get me out of jail. Once I get out of here, I’ll talk to Morgan. That’s my hand. That’s how I’m going to play it.”

  “You should be more concerned about your brother’s welfare. Morgan has more to worry about than a few wasted years in Leavenworth.”

  “What’s that bullshit supposed to mean?”

  The big man looked shocked. “Morgan was responsible for the package. And he was responsible for you. If the package is returned, our mutual friends will be considerably less agitated.”

  “They’ll get their package.”

  He dabbed his double chin and then stuffed the crimson handkerchief into his coat pocket, taking care to leave a poof out the top. His beady-little eyes bore into me. “And your continued silence sir, can we count on it? It is imperative that you do not cooperate with the local authorities, and you must not under any circumstances engage in negotiations with the FBI.”

  “I’m going to back my brother’s play. I’m not sure you got this before, so I’m going to say it again. I’m not talking to anyone until I talk to Morgan.”

  “Are you sure Morgan won’t talk?”

  “I’d bet my life my brother won’t tell on his jerk-off friends. I’m not sure why; they’re complete assholes. But I know my brother; he won’t be a rat. He can’t do it.”

  “Bigger men have fallen,” he said. “Don’t underestimate the power of the FBI. They’ve managed to put together a fairly strong case based on circumstantial evidence. They’re calling the Serpents a criminal enterprise. Federal boys claim Morgan is an active participant in an ongoing criminal organization. They say he’s in violation of the RICO Act. If convicted, your brother is facing a considerable amount of time in Federal prison.”

  “You’re telling me Morgan is going to spend more time in jail just because he knows a couple of motorcycle bums? How does the FBI even know the Serpents were in on the robbery?”

  “It’s pure speculation on the FBI’s part,” he replied. “The Serpents are victims of an unfortunate juxtaposition. Members of the Serpents gentlemen’s club were in the Barstow area at the time of the armored car robbery. It’s purely coincidence. The FBI claims they were part of some far-flung military style diversionary tactics. The worst offence any of them could be charged with was disturbing the peace. With the exception of a few questionable parole violations, they’ve all been released.”

  “What about Lawson and T-bone?”

  He said, “I don’t believe Mr. Lawson, or Mr. T-bone, were in the Barstow area at the time of the robbery?”

  That’s bullshit!

  The bailiff came and broke up the meeting. I stood before the judge and pled not guilty. He ordered me held without bail.

  Back at county jail, the cops put me back in the cell were the light never went out. Continuous light, constant bed checks, and the unrelenting pain in my ribcage, kept me from getting any decent sleep. The next morning the guards came and got me. Walking down the gangway, I felt like the undead in one of those low-budget black & white zombie movies.

  They took me, in cuffs this time, to another interview room. The lights were brighter in this room. The FBI Agent was sitting facing me. On his right was the prosecutor who called me ‘A menace to society’ at my arraignment. Sitting with his back to me, head down, shoulders slumped, was my brother. Wearing an orange prisoner jumpsuit, he was in shackles, chained to the floor. Agent Andrews nodded toward the open chair and I sat down.

  Andrews stared me down, like he had me all figured out. The prosecutor was reviewing a stack of file folders. He looked like an older version of a kid at San Pedro High who used to tell the teachers when my friends and me smoked cigarettes out by the handball courts.

  My brother looked up, our eyes locked, and I felt a chill. He had my mother’s blue eyes. That morning they were hollow blue; just like the day my mom told me she had terminal cancer.

  Morgan looked at the prosecutor and said, “What the hell have you done to my brother? He hasn’t done anything. He didn’t know anything about any armored car robbery, and he didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  The pipsqueak prosecutor looked up. “Is that a confession?”

  “That was nothing,” Agent Andrews said.

  “Let me know when he has something to say.” The prosecutor went back to perusing his file folders.

  “I’m here as a courtesy.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I don’t want to see your department waste valuable man hours pursuing a case you can’t possibly win.”

  “Tsk-Tsk, Agent Andrews,” the prosecutor said. “I don’t believe for one second that the FBI is interested in our little armored car robbery. You’re up to something much more devious.”

  “You’re right; I’m not interested in the robbery. I’m interested in justice.” Andrews pointed to Morgan. “Listen to what this man has to say. Then you can decide for yourself.”

  “Go on.”

  “This is off the record.”

  The prosecutor nodded his head in agreement.

  Morgan said, “You need to let my brother go. I’m ready to confess to the whole thing. I pulled the robbery alone. I asked Duff to drive me out to the desert. That’s all. He didn’t know anything about it.”

  “Now do you understand?” Andrews said. “If you waste your time going after the kid, his brother will pull your case out from under you. What’s worse—if he takes the fall—the real bad guys will get away.”

  “That’s all you have? I have no intention of releasing anyone.” He crossed his legs like a girl. “Agent Andrews—this case is my express elevator to success—or failure. If I let the boy go, I’ll be kissing my career goodbye.”

  “Didn’t you hear what he said? If he confesses, you’ll have to release his brother. You won’t have enough evidence to get a conviction.”

  “Let’s try this,” the prosecutor said. “You turn your prisoner over to the San Bernardino Sheriffs Department, and I’ll write your supervisor a nice letter telling him what a big help you’ve been.”

  Andrews said, “This
meeting is over.”

  The prosecutor stood up. “It’s over when I say it’s over.” He handed the FBI Agent a large photo of a motorcycle. “The Sheriffs found this out in the desert north of Barstow. It’s been identified by the driver of the armored car as the same motorcycle used in the robbery. And it’s got Duff’s fingerprints all over it.” He handed the agent another photo, the banded twenties. “The little juvenile delinquent’s fingerprints were on these bills, which have been identified as money earmarked for delivery to the First National Bank of Barstow. They were stolen from the armored car and recovered in the back of Morgan Allison’s pickup truck, which my prisoner was driving. And we found his prints all over the O’Neal woman’s trailer. She’s magically disappeared, and so has the money. He may not be the mastermind, but he’s in it. And he’s going to pay.” He raised his limp wrist and pointed at Morgan, “You come be my prisoner, and we can talk about reducing the charges against your brother. All you have to do is clam up darling. When the FBI realizes you can’t help them, they’ll happily turn you over to me.” He gathered his files and snapped the clasp on a caramel-colored messenger tote. “I’ve got a news flash for you Agent. This is my case, and this meeting is over.”

  The prosecutor sashayed out of the meeting while Morgan mumbled obscenities. When the door closed, Andrews slammed his fist against the table and called the prosecutor a ‘Goddamn fairy’.

  “Morgan!”

  “Keep your mouth shut,” he said.

  Agent Andrews called for the jailer and then mocked me with contrived laughter. “That’s right Duff. Listen to your big brother.” Agent Andrews glared at me. “How’s that working out for you Duff?”

  “Don’t listen to this fuckin’ guy,” Morgan said.

  “We need to talk.”

  “You can talk all you want,” Andrews said. “It’s not going to change a thing.”

  “Listen to the big shot FBI Agent. You couldn’t even get me out of county jail.”

  “I tried to help.”

  “You aren’t trying to help me, or my brother. You’re out to get Lawson. That’s all. You think I’m the weak link. You got me figured for young and scared. You get me out and then I owe you. You act like my buddy, and I start to trust you. Pretty soon I turn rat. I do it to save my brother, but I’m still a rat. And once I go over, you think my brother will follow. You’re a smart cop, but you forgot one thing. The Allison brothers aren’t rats.”

  Agent Andrews looked at me like I was delusional. “Stop acting tough in front of your brother. You need to start cooperating.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Morgan said. “I’ll get you out of this.”

  Two jailers came through the door. One guard unlocked Morgan’s chains from the iron eyelet buried in the concrete floor, while the other stood by me and motioned for me to get up. Morgan told me to ‘Hang tough’. The guard led him out of the room and Andrews followed. My guard prodded me, so I shuffled out the door and back to my cell.

  I spent the next few days in the cell from hell. They never turned off the light. I couldn’t sleep, and I was starting to get a migraine headache you wouldn’t believe. When the guard came and got me, I didn’t know if it was day or night. I didn’t even know the day of the week. The guard told me it was 4:00 in the afternoon, Friday, June 28th. I asked him when I could take a shower, and he dumped me in another interview room.

  I knew it was my lawyer before I even saw his face. He smelled like seafood and Jade East cologne. He had a big-fat grin on his face. I sat and watched him pick his teeth with a gold toothpick.

  “How does it feel?” he asked.

  “I lost all feeling two days ago.”

  He had a boisterous laugh, exaggerated, but somehow genuine. I could tell he was pleased with himself.

  “What’s going on? You’re up to something.”

  “I am indeed Sir,” he replied. “I alone have brought the San Bernardino Sheriffs Department, and the California Highway Patrol, to their knees. And this afternoon, I cut the heart out of that little weasel of a District Attorney.” He leaned back in his seat with a satisfied look on his face, like he’d just finished Thanksgiving dinner. “Do you know the four most beautiful words in the world?”

  “No.”

  “Illegal Search and Seizure.”

  The big man went on to tell me how his investigative team had produced a witness to my illegal arrest. The witness claimed the CHP forced me off the road, and then beat me unconscious. The lawyer convinced the judge the CHP had violated my Search and Seizure Rights. The judge ruled my arrest was illegal, and all the evidence recovered as the results of that arrest, had magically become inadmissible. The big man started to wax-poetic about his extraordinary legal skills.

  “What’s that all mean to me?”

  “That’s why I asked you how it felt,” he said. “How does it feel to be a free man?”

  The big man told me the judge was letting me go on the condition that I didn’t leave the State, and he promised me the paperwork would be down first thing Monday morning. I was going to be released sometime Monday, and if I knew what was good for me, I’d be at a little bar called the Scorched Iguana by 4:00 Tuesday. He unfolded a small map of Arizona and pointed to a spot about an hour north of Kingman.

  “I can’t be there until Thursday,” I said. “Tell Lawson I’ll be at the Scorched Iguana at 4:00 on the Forth of July.”