by Scott Pratt
Leonard was smiling, which I found infuriating. I was within a millisecond of punching him in the mouth when I suddenly felt the presence of large men standing behind me, one at each shoulder. I looked around and recognized one of them, but I couldn’t immediately identify him.
“Darren Street,” he said.
“Yeah. What do you want?”
“Stand up and place your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest.”
“Arrest? I didn’t touch him. Didn’t threaten him.”
Then I figured out who the guy was. Freeman. The FBI agent.
“Stand up,” Agent Freeman said. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
“What the hell are you arresting me for?” I asked as I stood.
“The murder of Jalen Jordan,” Freeman said, and he slapped the cuffs on me and led me out of the restaurant.
PART II
CHAPTER NINETEEN
They led me out the door and put me in the back of a silver Ford Crown Victoria. Neither Katie nor her boyfriend had gotten a chance to say a single word. Two agents I didn’t know climbed into the front. Agent Freeman got into the backseat beside me. We pulled out of the restaurant and pulled onto the interstate, headed back south toward Knoxville.
“Tell me this is some kind of joke,” I said as the car gathered speed. I had never been arrested, never been cuffed, never been in a police vehicle. My mind was racing, but I was so confused and so scared I couldn’t concentrate on any single thing. I couldn’t believe I was being arrested. And for Jalen Jordan’s murder? How in the hell could this happen?
“No joke,” Freeman said. “We’re booking you for first-degree murder. The judge won’t be back in court until Monday morning so we can’t arraign you until then. I thought we’d take you down to Maryville, let you spend the weekend in scenic Blount County.”
“That jail is a shithole,” I said.
Freeman chuckled. “Yeah, it is. By the way, we’re executing search warrants at your home and your office simultaneous to this arrest.”
“In other words, your goons are tearing my house and office apart.”
“I prefer colleagues to goons, but yeah, they’re tearing the places apart.”
“They won’t find anything.”
“Are you sure?”
“There’s nothing to find. I didn’t kill anybody.”
Freeman turned his head and looked at me.
“You need to rethink that,” he said, “and I’m going to be a nice guy and tell you why. You practically announced to an officer of the Knoxville Police Department that you were going to kill Jalen Jordan. You threatened to strangle your wife. You’ve been highly agitated.”
“You talked to my wife?”
“She doesn’t like you much, Darren. You should probably start thinking about divorce. No, wait, you’re going to be in prison for the next fifty years, so I suppose she’s thinking about divorce. Where were you last Thursday afternoon?”
“Let’s see,” I said. “I’m handcuffed and riding in the backseat of a car with three FBI agents. At least I’m assuming those two guys in the front are FBI agents. I’m not free to go, am I?”
Freeman smiled sarcastically and shook his head.
“Then this is a custodial interrogation and Miranda applies. You haven’t Mirandized me, Agent Freeman.”
“Would you like to be Mirandized?”
“I’ll leave it to your discretion.”
“You have the right to remain silent,” Freeman said. “That means you can sit over there and not say another word and there won’t be a thing I, or anybody else, can do about it. If you choose to keep talking, you need to understand that anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You understand that, right? You’re charged with murder, and if you say something in this vehicle that will help us convict you of that murder, all of us will show up at your trial and repeat what you said in front of the jury so they can use it as evidence in their deliberations. And finally, you have the right to be represented by an asshole like yourself. And by asshole I mean an attorney. If you can’t afford an asshole, the judge will pick an asshole for you and the taxpayers of the Unites States will foot the bill for the toilet paper. Do you understand the rights I’ve just explained to you?”
“That may have been the most clearly elucidated explanation of the Miranda warnings I’ve ever heard,” I said. “Especially the asshole–toilet paper part. I really enjoyed that.”
As the seconds passed, the realization that I was in the custody of the federal government began to set in. And they weren’t charging me with littering in a national park; they were charging me with murder. The state had put my uncle away for twenty years for a crime he didn’t commit. This was the feds. They were the baddest of the bad, the guys who could reach out to other countries and grab up drug dealers and terrorists, try them quickly, and put them so far underground they were never heard from again.
“Good,” Freeman said. “So where were you last Thursday between, say, noon and three o’clock?”
I thought about it. Thursday was the day after Mom and I had come back from the chalet. I’d spent the afternoon fishing with Sean because Mom had needed to go to her beauty salon and catch up. It wasn’t much of an alibi.
“I think I’ll keep that to myself,” I said to Freeman. “But I will say this again. I didn’t kill anybody.”
“Our hastily convened grand jury begs to differ,” Freeman said. “And I suppose you know who presented the case to them.”
My fingers began to tremble slightly. I hadn’t thought about it, but now that he mentioned it . . .
“That’s right,” Freeman said. “I can see your face getting darker. Your old buddy Ben Clancy. He can’t wait to get you in front of a jury. He told me he’s thinking about wrapping a red bandana around his head and wearing it to court every day.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Blount County Jail, like most county jails across the country, was, indeed, a shithole. Six hundred inmates were usually housed there from what I’d read in a newspaper account of a lawsuit that had been filed against the county. It was designed for 250.
Agent Freeman walked me from the sally port through two thick, steel doors into a booking area that looked, believe it or not, similar to a circulation desk at a public library or the nurse’s counter inside an emergency room. Four thickly muscled deputies stood ready to process the next number, and since it was Friday evening, business appeared to be steadily picking up. Around the central desk, recessed in the concrete block walls, were eight holding cells, each with large, Plexiglas windows in the doors so the guards could see what the inmates were doing. I stood with Agent Freeman and his two pals next to a wooden bench against the wall until we were waved up by a deputy. He asked for my full name, date of birth, and Social Security number and then asked Agent Freeman about my charge.
“He’s charged with first-degree murder,” Freeman said entirely too loudly as he handed the deputy some paperwork.
I cringed and felt my shoulders involuntarily slump. I looked down at the floor. The deputy pushed a button on his headset and said something quietly. The next thing I knew, I was flanked by two deputies who were even bigger than the ones behind the desk. They had to be juicers—steroid users. I’d seen plenty of them at the gyms where I’d worked out over the years. They quickly ran a chain around my waist and shackled my legs in irons, then attached a chain to my handcuffs, ran it through a D-ring on my waist chain, and then did the same thing with the leg irons. I was now pretty much trussed except I was still upright. Had they laid me on my back and gutted me, they could have stuffed me with some cornbread, put me in an oversize oven, roasted me for a few hours, and served me to the inmates as a late night supper. Next came the mug shot and the fingerprinting, both of which were pretty much painless. Despite the fact that I was terrified of what might happen to me
and utterly dumbfounded by how I could possibly have wound up being charged with Jalen Jordan’s murder, I was doing my best to maintain, however miniscule, some sense of humor.
That changed when they strip-searched me.
I was taken into a shower room with the three large deputies and Freeman in tow. I didn’t know where the other two FBI agents went and didn’t care. Once we got in there, they uncuffed and unshackled me and told me to strip. They took each piece of clothing as I handed it to them, catalogued it, and put it in a box. They took my watch, my wallet, and my wedding ring. Once I was completely naked, the largest guard told me to open my mouth. He looked inside my mouth with a flashlight and then told me to run my hands through my hair. I suppose he expected drugs to come falling out. Next I had to turn my head both ways so he could look in and behind my ears, and then, the denouement:
“Squat and cough,” the deputy said.
I did it.
“Turn and face the shower. Bend over. Spread your butt cheeks.”
A feeling of humiliation like nothing I’d ever experienced washed over me like a tidal wave as I bent over and reached back.
“Turn on the water, take a shower, and make it fast.”
When I was finished, the guard handed me a towel. I dried off in front of them, and he handed me a striped jumpsuit and a pair of slippers. I put them on, and as soon as the jumpsuit was buttoned they replaced all of my restraints. Then he put a band on my wrist that identified me as a federal inmate, handed me a rolled up, thin foam pad along with a rolled up sheet and blanket, and said, “Let’s go. You get one call.”
They guided me toward a bank of four phones on a wall. One of them removed the chain from my handcuffs so I could reach the phone. I dialed my mother’s cell. I let out a deep breath when she answered after the second ring.
“Mom, it’s Darren,” I said.
“The caller ID says Blount County Jail,” she said.
“That’s where I am. I’ve been arrested.”
“Arrested? For what?”
“It doesn’t matter right now. Listen, Mom, I don’t think I have much time on the phone. I need you to get ahold of Richie Fels immediately and tell him where I am. Tell him to come running.”
“Is it serious, Darren? Are you in a lot of trouble?”
“It’s bad. Call Richie.” I made her write down Richie’s cell number and read it back to me. “Keep calling until you get him, okay?”
“I will. What about Katie and Sean?”
“Katie already knows. Sean is with Katie’s parents.”
I felt a finger poke me between my shoulder blades.
“Enough,” a voice said. “Hang up.”
“I have to go, Mom. Call Richie. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
A guard took my arm and we started walking. At this point, apparently, Agent Freeman disappeared. I didn’t even notice he was no longer with us until several minutes later when I looked over my shoulder and only the three Blount County guys were with me. We walked down a long corridor, turned left, and walked down another long corridor until it ended. The sounds of the guards’ boots echoed off the walls and ceiling. The guy who had looked in my mouth and ears pushed a button, and a couple of seconds later the lock buzzed and the steel door retracted into the wall. We walked into a large room that reminded me somewhat of the small basketball gyms where I’d played in church leagues when I was a teenager. A guard was sitting at a metal desk just to our right when we walked in.
“Two-zero-seven,” the guard said.
There was a row of gray metal cell doors in the wall across the room. Each door had a twelve-inch square window about five feet off the ground, and a face was peering out from the other side of nearly every window. There was a set of steel stairs to the far right that led to a narrow balcony and another row of metal cell doors directly above the doors at ground level. There was a lot of shouting going on. Men were calling to each other; others were yelling at the guards; still others were simply yelling. I did my best to block it all out.
“Up the stairs,” one of the guards behind me said.
I climbed the stairs and walked about thirty feet down the balcony.
“Stop. Turn to the right.”
I did what the man said. One of the guards stepped to the window and peered inside.
“Step back, Hillbilly,” he barked.
The cell door buzzed. A guard beside me said, “You’re gonna love Hillbilly.” Suddenly, my shackles were off and I was inside the cell.
“Turn around and face the door.”
I turned. There was a sliding sound, metal against metal, and a slit, about two feet long and about five inches high—something I would later learn was called a “pie hole”—appeared in the door.
“Put your hands through.”
I offered my hands and a second later was free of the cuffs. I pulled my hands back inside the cell and the slit slammed shut. I turned around. The cell was maybe seven feet wide and nine feet long. To my right was a stainless steel toilet and sink. To my left were two steel bed frames, bunk bed style. Sitting on the bottom bunk in a pair of boxer shorts was a lean, long-haired, bearded man who looked to be around forty-five. His upper body was covered in tattoos, and he smelled like piss and sweat.
He looked at me like he wanted to slit my throat. The guy reminded me of Charles Manson. Then, without saying a word, he folded his fingers behind his head and lay back on the bunk.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Richie Fels, appearing exhausted and smelling of bourbon, showed up around ten thirty that Friday night. Three guards escorted me from the cell to a small interview room that contained a table and four plastic chairs. The shackles, waist chain, and handcuffs had all been put back in place and I remember thinking for the hundredth time that evening just how surreal things had become as I listened to the clangs and rattles while I shuffled down the hallway.
“Are you sober enough to do this?” I said as I sat down across from Richie. He was still wearing his work clothes, sans the tie. His button-down shirt was white and the sleeves were rolled up just beneath his elbow. Navy-blue suspenders secured what I assumed were pants of the same color. A white T-shirt was visible beneath the unbuttoned collar and a white tuft of hair sprouted from beneath the shirt. I knew exactly where he’d been. He’d been drinking at a restaurant downtown called Lola’s. I’d spent many Friday evenings eating and drinking with Richie and his pals at Lola’s. I felt the flimsy, plastic chair I was sitting in shift beneath me and wondered how Richie’s was supporting his three-hundred-pound frame.
“I can leave right now if you’d like,” Richie said. “Actually, nothing would please me more. You’ve killed my buzz.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll catch another after you leave.”
“Do you have a copy of the arrest warrant?” Richie said.
“They didn’t give me anything, but they said they were searching my house and office, too.”
“I guess you’ll get everything soon enough. Your mother said you weren’t specific about the charge. What is it?”
“First degree,” I said.
Richie’s eyes widened. “Murder? First-degree murder?”
“Yeah. Can you believe it? And it’s the feds.”
Richie took his wire-framed glasses off and rubbed his nose for a few seconds. He replaced the glasses and said: “Who’d you kill? Allegedly?”
“Jalen Jordan. And for the record, I didn’t do it.”
“Is that the man you were telling me about a week or so ago?”
“Been more than a week, but yeah, that’s the guy. The one who came into my office and tried to hire me and when I refused, he threatened Sean.”
“Didn’t he get shot in the national forest over by Gatlinburg?”
“That’s what they say.”
“Ambushed? From some distance away?”
“Those are the reports I’ve heard.”
“We’ll have to talk about your experience as a sniper at some point. Right now, as much as I hate to, we need to talk about money. I can’t represent you on a first-degree murder case for free, Darren. I just can’t do it.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. Wouldn’t want you to. How much are you thinking?”
“I don’t know what kind of case they have,” Richie said, “but since you’re sitting here, they must have something at least moderately strong. We’re looking at a thorough, expensive investigation, and we’re definitely looking at a trial. Since it’s the feds, you realize who will be prosecuting the case, don’t you?”
“Yeah. It’ll be Clancy. I thought about that earlier.”
“He’ll be extrazealous about this one. He’ll want to hang you from the highest tree he can find.”
“But you won’t let him do that, will you?”
“I’ll certainly try not to, but back to the fee, I’m thinking you’re looking at a minimum of two hundred thousand, and that will be if I do it for half my normal hourly rate.”
I nearly fell out of my chair. Richie? Asking me for $200,000? Our relationship apparently wasn’t quite as strong as I’d believed it to be.
“I don’t have that kind of money, Richie.”
“What kind of money do you have?”
“We just bought a house, so almost all of my cash went to the down payment, but even if I sold it—which Katie would never agree to—there wouldn’t be much equity. I’ve got maybe fifty thousand stashed in an investment account, another thirty in an IRA, but Katie is having an affair and I’m about to go through a divorce. Everything will probably be locked up for a while, and when the divorce is over, by the time the lawyers get paid, there won’t be much left.”
