by Bud Connell
A new arrival, a short guy in a dark suit, rushed in like he was late for a plane. His ID badge read Security. The hotel manager whipped around to face him.
“Where’ve you been? Did you get a call about this?” he asked.
“I did, I couldn’t find you. Somebody complained about noise and the smell.”
One of the officers, not part of the discussion, and wearing blue rubber gloves, strolled around the suite picking up Ramon’s bag of goodies, assorted roaches, and the other paraphernalia that we’d been snorting, toking and choking on. Shithouse mouse.
I observed my life crumbling in front my eyes. The lead cop told Ramon and Neela to sit down, and he looked over his shoulder at me and barked, “You, too!”
“Yes, sir,” I said as my cell vibrated in my pocket. It was Katya. I answered, trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t attract attention to the conversation. I went lame for a moment.
“Hi,” I whispered.
“Joe, baby, do you want me to bring you a few shots of your favorite bourbon?”
“Listen,” I cupped the phone to keep my side of the conversation confidential. “The police are here. You stay downstairs until we know what’s happening. Keep your phone on and I’ll call you back.” I hung up and toddled over to the sofa and sat down with Ramon and Neela.
Ramon was already cuffed with plastic ties, and I think I know why. While I was on the phone with Katya, I watched a stout Hispanic cop spot Ramon in the bedroom trying to shove his coat of many pockets under the mattress. Too bad for Ramon, because not only did it conceal copious amounts of Maui wowee and birdie powder, it also contained his wallet and identification. I was clean, not carrying any dope; so I kept my mouth shut and played the part of just a user.
“You people,” the top cop said, “have an abnormal amount of illegal drugs, and we’re taking you in for questioning.
“Does that mean we’re un…” I started to ask.
“Yes sir, you three are officially under arrest.” He read our Miranda rights that I had damn near memorized from hearing on television so many times.
“And today started out being such a great day,” Ramon said as he shook his head and fixed his eyes on the art deco carpet. Neela meanwhile was whimpering into her dinner napkin.
Me? I was just normally shitting my usual brick.
Katya had money left, I was sure, from her casino winnings, but I had to get the motel and car keys to her without her being implicated in the mess. I turned to the cop giving the orders.
“I have to settle up with the manager before you take us in. Will that be okay?”
“Sure, go ahead.” What else could he say? ‘No’ I suppose, but he was a nice cop.
I motioned the hotel night manager to the corner of the room and I took out my wallet and keys. I counted out ten crispies and handed him the thousand, along with the keys to the Lincoln and the Boynton Beach motel.
“Please give these keys to Katya Cahoone. She’s downstairs in the bar. Short blond hair, beautiful, and wearing a tan dress. Let me know if you can’t find her.” I scribbled my cell phone number on a scrap of paper from my pocket and handed it to him with the ten one-hundred-dollar bills. “Will this cover the suite and dinner?”
“I’m sure it will, Mr. uh–”
“Oaks, Joe Oaks. What’s your name?”
“Benson. Herbert Benson.” I made a mental note.
I called Katya, gave her the night manager’s name and filled her in before the cops made me empty my pockets, cuff me behind my back, and cram all three of us into the backseat of the squad car.
The six-block trip to the Miami Beach police station took less than five minutes, but time enough for me to figure out what to do next, if and when I could use a phone. I had to call Rosy and tell him the truth.
70 – Waiting for the Next Disaster
Inside the swanky police headquarters, the arresting officer snipped off our plasticuffs and told us to sit down and be patient, and that processing would only take a few minutes.
After a half-hour that seemed much longer, Ramon was booked for felony possession of illegal drugs, described as approximately an eight-ounce glass of marijuana and approximately four tablespoons of cocaine. He was also booked for contributing to the delinquency of a minor, Neela being only eighteen.
“I didn’t know!” Ramon yelped.
“Well, you shoulda,” the desk sergeant calmly said. “Just because somebody looks nineteen or older doesn’t mean she is.”
Ramon got his one telephone call to his plainclothes contact and asked for help; but, according to Ramon, he said “no deal, too much evidence.”
“This is all your fault, Joe Oaks,” Ramon whispered loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “You’re the one who wanted a stupid celebration.”
“Quiet over there!” the desk sergeant yelled, interrupting his phone call with Neela’s daddy. I overheard him say she was being sent over to the Juvenile Detention Center in Miami.
A few moments later, a muscular female cop with a butch haircut stopped in front of Neela and rattled her squad car keys.
“Come on, young lady.” She bent down and grasped Neela’s elbow, pulling her up from the bench. “I’m your taxi to detention. Yo’ papa is on his way and we don’t want to keep yo’ papa waitin’.”
Neela let out a long pained wail that sounded more teenage than woman, and a couple of moments later she was gone, leaving Ramon and me sitting and staring, and waiting for the next disaster to strike.
I got my one dinky telephone call and Rosy grumbled that I interrupted his beauty sleep, but I could tell from his voice that he must’ve sat straight up when I told him where Ramon and I were.
While I was giving him the rundown, he kept saying, “Oh, dammit, what’s next?” He showed up forty minutes later, and he did not look happy. His one glance at us confirmed that unsavory visual tidbit.
He went straight to the cop who’d been barking orders, showed his high mucky-muck ID, and the cop handed him the papers he’d been working on. Rosy perused them, one swift page at a time, glancing disgustedly in our direction between pages. After a minute or so, he passed the report back to the cop and tromped over to our bench and sat down in a chair opposite us.
A younger cop, guarding us from a few feet away, cast a wary eye and Rosy sighed, reached in his pocket, yanked out his wallet and flashed his badge. The young cop glimpsed it, nodded at Rosy and looked away.
Rosy didn’t talk right away, maybe trying to decide how hard to smack us with the facts. Then he looked directly at me and drilled right in with those black eyes.
“Mr. Oaks, you’ve got a problem.” He switched his stare to Ramon. “Mr. Rodriguez, you’ve got a much bigger problem.” Neither of us said anything, so Rosy continued. “Your ‘no prosecution’ agreements stated if you participated in the sale, acquisition, or use of illegal drugs or controlled substances, that your agreements would be null and void. Didn’t you read the fine print?”
I answered, “Yeah, I read it. I just didn’t think we’d be caught.”
Ramon looked down and nodded.
“Both you guys are facing heavy charges.”
Ramon was first to react. “What if I still testify on Cahoone?”
“You, reduced a little, maybe… slim chance,” he said to Ramon.
“What about me?” I was practically holding my breath.
Rosy thought a moment. “Reduced, maybe. In the meantime, we’re gonna let the State of Florida make sure that you two stay out of trouble. They’ll be moving you to County in an hour or so. You’ll find out about bail possibilities over there.”
“Isn’t there any way,” I pleaded, “that you can–”
Rosy interrupted, “I’ll think about it, Oaks.”
I held my breath again while Rosy appeared to be pondering. Not more than one second later he looked up and nodded.
“I thought about it long and hard, and… no.”
+++
Ramon
and I were shuffled into the back of a piss-fragrant wagon and sent over to Miami-Dade County Jail. Just before we were transported, Rosy left after speaking with some guys in the back that I hadn’t seen before, and one of them came forward and told us we’d learn about the full charges against us at our court appearance and arraignment in the morning. Crap in a basket.
Nothing made sense anymore.
71 – Some Kind of Glop
I vegetated; awake for the balance of the night, all three hours of it, propped up on a hard slab of a bed with my back against a concrete block wall. Everything in my cell was gray with a little stainless steel here and there.
At 6:00 a.m., a guy with a badge shoved a breakfast tray through a slot, designed I guess, for giving meals to the jailbirds. The tray sported some kind of glop in the center, an orange, and coffee. The badge also shoved a matching orange jumpsuit through the bars and told me to put it on and to hand him my own clothes, which he’d put with my cell phone and other stuff. He also gave me a verbal schedule.
My appearance and arraignment were set for eight-thirty and I was told we’d be leaving for court promptly at seven. I assumed Ramon would be in the same group.
Sure enough, at 6:55 a deputy opened my cell and escorted me to the van, and waiting inside was a load of orange suits—Ramon, with a couple of scraggly-looking guys from gutter city, and a row of assorted black dudes lining the bench on the other side. The black guys were all shackled, hand and foot, to one another–-one long row–-and the deputy chained me to Ramon, who was already attached to the scraggs.
Ramon didn’t say a word during the trip, and the couple of times I commented he completely ignored me. I guess I had it coming.
+++
We were guided out of the van, into the courthouse, and down the hall into a holding cell where we waited not more than five minutes.
Two armed deputies, both big hulks, unlocked Ramon and me, and escorted us up an elevator, down a hall, and into the courtroom, where we were shown the way to our seats.
They called Ramon’s case first, and he got on his feet and walked forward to where the deputy directed him to stand before the judge. I had to strain to hear what the judge was saying, and the list was long and included felony first-degree drug charges, but the two biggies were drug trafficking and contributing to the delinquency of a minor. He reminded Ramon that he had faced similar charges twice before.
Next, he read Ramon his rights: ‘You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed. You have the right to confront and cross-examine witnesses against you. You have the right to a jury trial. You have the right to not incriminate yourself. You have the right to a speedy trial. If you plead guilty, you could be sentenced up to thirty years in prison. Do you understand these rights?’
The judge asked Ramon if he had an attorney and he said yes and that he had not called him, but would do so as soon as he was allowed. The judge affirmed that Ramon would be held in jail without bail until his trial. I heard Ramon expel air like somebody had knocked the breath out of him.
Hulk number one escorted Ramon out of the courtroom and presumably back to his cell. Next, the female bailiff called my name and hulk number two ushered me up front to face the judge. I felt myself go weak when he read exactly the same charges for me, minus delinquency of a minor. The Miami Beach police probably established that Neela was Ramon’s girlfriend. I remember her telling a cop that she never saw me until the party, and that she was dating Ramon.
Anyway when the judge got to the part about up to thirty years in prison and setting my bail at fifty thousand dollars, I got dizzy. I remember saying “yes” to the judge’s question about understanding my rights, and that I didn’t have an attorney, but would get one if I could have my cell phone for a few minutes. Then I hit my head on the stone floor, out cold, or so the bailiff said.
72 – It’s Just a Piece of Paper
I woke up in a dark windowless space, a cross between a cell and a tiny hospital room, and I had a headache the size of a watermelon.
The sound of keys rattling and of a lock turning drew my sight to the heavy door into my room swinging open and hissing shut behind the intruder.
The guy in white brought my phone to me and laid it on the nightstand. “The judge said to give this to you so you can call an attorney.”
“Where am I?”
“County Jail infirmary. You got a bad concussion. Bailiff said you passed out and hit your head on the stone floor.”
“Can anybody visit me in here?”
“Naw, but when you get back to your cell you can have visitors. No many though. Wife, girlfriend, child, lawyer, like that.”
I reached for my phone. “Would you mind? I need to make a call.”
“No problem.” The deputy or orderly, or whatever he was, turned around on his way out. “Remember, if you need anything, all you got to do is yell out. We can hear everything that’s going on in the room at all times.” He winked and exited, and I heard the click of the lock after the automatic door shut behind him.
I hit the speed dial for Katya. God, how I love that woman, but all I got was her dial tone song, and at the moment I didn’t feel like dancing all night.
“Katya, call me as soon as you pick up this message.” I didn’t want to give any extra info to whoever might be tuned in.
Next, I searched the phone’s memory and punched redial for Rosy Gunn. He answered right away.
“Well, Joe Oaks, I thought that I might be hearing from you again.”
“Help me get out of here.”
“No can do, my friend.”
“Why?” I felt a quick swirl of bitter acid fill my stomach and rush up my throat.
“Your immunity agreement, no coverage for new felonies; but worse, since you and your pal violated the terms, we’re also obligated to file against both of you.”
“–For?” I already knew.
“For trafficking and distributing illegal drugs to personnel of federally licensed radio stations, and for selling phony prescription drugs. However, if you’re still willing to help us put Cahoone away for a few decades, we’ll swing.”
“What about Ramon?”
“Your friend Ramon is in deeper trouble. He’s in for a long, long time—a lot longer than you. When he realizes how long, he ain’t gonna be cooperating with the friends of the guys that are pushing for thirty years.”
“You gave me your word. It’s on paper, signed; no prosecution.” My life was fizzling, evaporating.
“If you stayed out of trouble. Besides, in Florida, there a little thing called Rachel’s Law. It says we’re not obligated to give an informant a reduced sentence. It was on the news. Have your lawyer check it out.”
“I don’t have a lawyer.”
Rosy didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then he cleared his throat and told me something else that I already knew.
“Well, you better get one.”
73 – She Just Hung Up
I’d been lying in the dark with my cracked head throbbing for the better part of three hours when my cell phone gave off that special tone that I’d set up for Katya’s incoming calls. What a relief. A few hours ago, I was dying or dead as far as the world was concerned; hell, as far as I was concerned–and now my doll Katya would be coming to my rescue. I snatched the phone off the nightstand and answered.
“Hi, doll baby.”
“Joe, where are you? Where have you been?”
“Listen carefully. I’m in County Jail Infirmary, and I’m okay. I’m not sure, but I think I remember they set my bail at $50,000. You got to bail me out. There’s more, there’s lots more, but I’ve got to get out first.”
She didn’t say anything for a long time.
“Katya?”
“Yeah, I’m here. I’m thinking.”
“Can you do it? Or should I get a lawyer?”
“––I’ll handle it, Joe. Don’t worry. I’ll get you out.” She hung up.
I wante
d to say more, but she just hung up. Anyway, the eavesdroppers were listening in and probably recorded everything. Screw ‘em.
+++
A few hours later, the pain in my head eased up, and I actually felt like moving around, as much as anyone can move around in a eight-by-ten space. While I was stretching and trying to get my blood flowing, a guard slipped a food tray in the slot by the door and hit what sounded like a desk bell a couple of times. I guess that was to let me know dinner had arrived, either that or train me to salivate like Pavlov’s dog. Arf, arf.
Anyway, while I was supping on the County’s rich vittles, a glop of hash and a hunk of bread, a burly Hispanic guard I’d never seen unlocked my door and propped it open.
“You’re free to leave, señor, you’ve been bailed out. Your ride is waiting for you at the front entrance. Here are your clothes; sign right here.”
So, just like that, I’m out.
I looked at the guard a moment, and took the clipboard he was holding out and the bag containing some of my personal stuff. I found the line on the form and scribbled my name.
“Is the person waiting for me a pretty blond lady?”
“I dunno, I didn’t see. I was just told to let you out and walk you to the front. I’ll wait outside while you get dressed.”
I couldn’t wait to strip off the jailbird clothes … never looked good in orange. I dressed as fast as I could, grabbed my phone and stuffed my pockets with my other crap and pushed open the unlocked door of my mini-cell. Somebody still had my wallet and keys.
The big guard nodded his massive head and his mop of black greasy hair flopped forward. “Follow me, señor.”
I had made up my mind what I was gonna do, and Katya had better be ready.
+++
“She put up the bail in your name.” The releasing deputy, a two hundred pound, muscled female, complete with muscles in her fingers, pushed the paper at me for my signature. “That means if you don’t skip you’ll get most of your money back after the trial, or if charges are dropped.”
