J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 03 - No Time To Hide

by J. D. Trafford

  After two other failed attempts, Michael gave up. He sat as upright as he could without his legs going numb, and continued listening to the orientation speech.

  The Metropolitan Detention Center was called the MDC. If somebody called it the Metropolitan Detention Center, that person would receive nothing but blank stares. The government was addicted to acronyms. It was the language of the machine, and being indecipherable to the common man or woman vested the operators of the machine with power, which the chubby bureaucrat with rosy cheeks clearly enjoyed.

  He was informed that the MDC held men and women awaiting trial in the federal court system in New York. Therefore, theoretically, everybody who resided at the MDC was “innocent until proven guilty.” She stressed the words, “in theory.”

  For Michael’s safety, however, she informed him that the MDC was operated as if all detainees were guilty.

  “For your safety,” she smiled to emphasize the point. “Everything is done for your safety and to ensure you get to your court appearances in a timely manner.” She winked, and Michael half expected a bell to ring and one of her teeth to sparkle like a toothpaste commercial.

  “You should further note that all newspapers, magazines and books must come directly from the publisher, a book store, or a book club. You can have no more than five books or ten magazines at one time.”

  Michael nodded his head, hoping the orientation would soon end.

  “All incoming mail is opened and inspected for contraband. Contraband includes items that are deemed a nuisance by the Federal Bureau of Prisons including: postage stamps, unsigned greeting cards, musical greeting cards, nude personal photographs, and plastic novelty items of a sexual nature.” The woman blushed at the mention of the last item. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things that we’ve confiscated.”

  “I understand.” Michael nodded, thinking that Kermit had about an eighty percent chance of sending him something that violated the plastic novelty rule.

  “Visiting hours are from 8:00 a.m. to 4:45 p.m., and you are allowed one brief hug and kiss at the beginning of the visit and one at the end. By brief, I mean very brief. The guards do not allow make-out sessions in here, and, if you violate that rule, the visit will be ended and you may lose visitation privileges. Further, all phone calls are monitored and recorded except phone calls to and from your attorney. If you wish to speak to your attorney, you must make those arrangements with the MDC administration.” She paused. “Do you understand that?”

  “I do,” Michael closed his eyes. A weight pressed down on him. Michael felt himself falling into a depression that he figured would only get worse.

  “Now, as for personal information,” The bureaucrat removed a piece of paper from a folder. “I’ll just fill out this section on race and gender.” She checked the boxes for Caucasian and male, and then looked back up at Michael. “Now, how about your age?”

  Michael told her his age, and then told her his birth date and place of birth.

  “Last level of education completed? High school diploma, GED …”

  “Juris Doctorate from Columbia School of Law.”

  The woman started to write, but then paused before continuing. “Seriously?”

  “With highest honors,” Michael said. “Seriously.”

  ###

  The guard walked a few steps behind Michael down a hallway. The hallway was gray polished concrete. One side of the hallway was solid cinderblock with no windows. The other side of the hallway had four doors, spaced thirty yards apart. There was one door for each “pod.”

  When Michael was halfway down the hall, the guard told him that they were getting close.

  “Pod 3. It’ll be the next door. When we get there, press the button and look up at the camera. Then, when the buzzer sounds, you can proceed inside.”

  Michael followed the instructions. He pressed the intercom button, and after a moment, the large magnetic locks within the door buzzed and released.

  Michael opened the door. He had expected to walk into another hallway or a large room. Instead, he walked into a small space. It was six feet by six feet.

  One wall had a door marked with a large “3”. The other wall was half cinderblock and half bulletproof glass. A guard sat at a desk on the other side of the glass. He was surrounded by security monitors, watching as the screens flashed from one camera view to another. The monitors showed what was happening in the hallway, various parts of the pod, including the individual cells, and, the monitors also showed a picture of Michael standing in the small room looking at the monitors. Everything was being recorded.

  “This is the on-duty guard for Pod 3.” Michael was told by his escort. “There are another two inside. This pod holds approximately twenty men. The door to the pod will not open until the door to the hallway is closed and secure or vice versa. Nobody, including the guards within Pod 3, have the ability to open these doors. Only the on-duty guard in the control room has that authority.”

  The guard stopped and thought for a moment.

  “I’m telling you this, because I tell everybody this. In a few hours you’ll start thinking about escaping from here, and I figure it’s better if you have the facts and don’t try anything stupid.”

  Michael nodded, although he believed that the guard’s estimate as to when an individual starts thinking about escape was wrong. Michael had started thinking about escaping the moment he stepped foot in the MDC.

  The guard continued. “If, however, the control room for Pod 3 is breached, which has never happened, there is a master control room located elsewhere. From the master control room, everything can be shut down.”

  With that final piece of information and the hallway door locked, the on-duty guard in the bulletproof room pressed a button. The Pod 3 door clicked and buzzed.

  His escort pulled it open and they walked inside.

  ###

  Pod 3 was a “U” shape. In the middle, there was an open area with metal tables and built-in benches bolted to the rubber floor.

  “This is where you eat. This is where you play.” The guard pointed at the tables. Men were sitting at the tables dealing cards and reading.

  “Every time we move people, it’s a risk for fights, escape or misbehavior. So there is no cafeteria in the MDC. The food is made and brought to the pod, and then everything is taken away. Once a day, smaller groups are allowed to go outside for recreation, but it is through that door to the yard.” The guard pointed at a single metal door on the other side of the room.

  Then he led Michael to a desk where one of the two internal guards sat. Michael presumed the other internal guard was up and patrolling the pod.

  “We’ve got a new one.”

  The man at the desk looked Michael over, nodded, and then handed Michael a stack of bedding.

  “This is for you. You’re in 9-A. Welcome to the fish bowl.”

  Michael put the bedding under his arm, and he was led over to his cell. As he walked, Michael felt the eyes on him. Everybody was evaluating him. Was he weak or strong? They needed to know whether he was smart or dumb, scared or cocky, sane or insane.

  It was a closed environment. Although there was calm, it was false. They were twenty men in a locked room. If a fight or riot broke out, people needed to know where they were in the pecking order. They needed to pick their friends wisely.

  Michael thought about this, and then he decided that he should start figuring out the same thing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  The three of them sat on a bench in Saint Mary’s Park. It was a dark, linear park. Sunlight only lit the playground in the early morning. The rest of the day, the park was covered in shadow from the large concrete train bridge directly above it. The bridge gave the park a disorienting feel, as though somebody put the basketball courts and playground equipment there without permission.

  “You order the torpedo?” Kermit examined a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper.

  Quentin nodded, and took the sandwich from Kermit.r />
  “This beauty looks like mine, so this must be yours.” Kermit handed the turkey and Swiss to Andie.

  They ate in silence as the trains rumbled above them.

  When Kermit finished, he crumpled the paper and dirty napkin. Then he got up and tossed his garbage into a nearby trash can.

  “Nobody likes a litter bug, yo.” Kermit came back toward the bench, but he didn’t sit down. “Got a bad vibration from that hearing this morning, Q.” Kermit started swinging his arms, doing some ballistic stretches as if he were a swimmer about to enter the pool. “What’s the next step? How you gonna free the bird?”

  Quentin took the final bite of his sandwich, chewed and swallowed, figuring out how to answer.

  “Listen, guys. I have to be straight with you.” Quentin looked around, ensuring that nobody else was nearby.

  “Michael is in a terrible place. I know he has a history of getting out of tough jams, but …” Quentin shook his head. “You have to understand that I don’t have a magic bullet. I’m going to fight for him, don’t get me wrong. It’s just …” Quentin paused, trying to phrase it delicately. “It’s just that Michael may be better taking a plea deal. That’s my honest analysis. I just don’t understand how we’re going to win at trial.”

  “Michael’s got a plan,” Andie said, thinking about Brea Krane. “Just trust him.”

  “Well, he hasn’t told me the plan.” Quentin had an edge to his voice, a bit of annoyance. “I’ve been reviewing the government’s file. The evidence is overwhelming.”

  Andie shook her head.

  “Just take it to trial.” She got up off of the bench. “Let’s get back to work.”

  ###

  The three walked down Nelson Street and cut over toward the rental via Clinton. Quentin scrolled through an email on his iPhone, and his shoulders slumped a little as he saw ten emails from Brenda Gadd. The subject line stated that there were more discovery disclosures. The email attachments were huge.

  “Looks like I need somebody to help review and organize documents.” Quentin sounded defeated. “The U.S. Attorney’s Office sent me a bunch of zip files. I’m afraid they’re so big that they’re going to crash my computer.”

  “I can do it,” Andie said as they turned the corner. “Got nothing else to do.” Then she saw him. He was about a block away. “You expecting anybody?”

  ###

  Brent Krane stood in front of the brownstone with a brick paver in his hand, trembling. He had taken it out of the neighbor’s tiny, front garden to quiet the crowd. He didn’t want to do anything extreme. After checking the Court’s public computer terminal, he just wanted to see the place where Michael Collin’s attorney was working. When the attorney entered a certificate of representation, this was the address listed. When Brent had arrived, he realized this was also the place where all of them were living.

  Now he didn’t know what to do.

  Of course the voices wanted to light it on fire, but he convinced them that was foolish. Then they wanted him to hide and wait, but he wasn’t prepared for a fight. He didn’t have a knife, and he was still working on the gun.

  Then he had seen the pavers. Brent held one in his hand. Perhaps the sound of shattered glass would quiet the crowd. He was tired of fighting them. He needed sleep, but they wouldn’t allow it. He needed peace, but they kept on.

  Brent cocked his arm back, getting ready to throw the paver through the brownstone’s front window.

  That’s when Brent saw them. They were about a half block away, and it looked like the weird guy with dreadlocks was running toward him.

  Brent hesitated, conflicted. It would only take a second to throw, but he didn’t have a second.

  ###

  Kermit was in a full sprint. “Hey!” was all he could get out.

  The skinny white dude dropped the brick, turned, ran toward the car, opened the door, and jumped inside.

  Kermit got to the vehicle just as it pulled away. All he could do was slap the back window, and shout.

  He watched it speed down the street. Kermit read the license plate, repeating the letters and numbers over and over.

  Soon Andie and Quentin caught up.

  “You get the license plate number?” Andie asked.

  Kermit nodded his head, continuing to repeat the letters and numbers.

  “Good.” Quentin nodded. “I got the whole thing recorded.” He smiled and held up his iPhone. “Technology is pretty cool.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  Brea Krane watched the whole scene play out from the safety of her white SUV parked around the corner. After meeting with Tad Garvin, she figured that she needed to keep a better eye on her brother. She figured that he would do something stupid. It was a safe assumption.

  She picked up her cell phone once her brother had sped away. Brea pressed a button.

  Tad Garvin’s number appeared on the screen and the phone started to dial. A few rings, and Tad answered.

  “My brother is a psychopath,” Brea said as she shifted her SUV into gear and started driving back to her condominium.

  Garvin laughed. “What did he do now?”

  “Almost threw a brick through the window of where Collins was staying.”

  “Anybody see him?”

  “Me.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “The lawyer and the other two. The hippie almost caught him, but Brent got away.” Brea stopped at a light, waited, and then continued.

  “But Brent didn’t actually throw the brick.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then it shouldn’t be too big a problem. No actual damage to property, and it’s not a crime to think about naughty stuff.” Garvin paused. “Speaking of naughty stuff …”

  Brea rolled her eyes

  “Are you getting frisky with me, old man?” Brea grimaced, pretending she was actually interested.

  “What are you doing later?”

  “I’ve got some stuff for work, but maybe we could meet.” Brea turned. Traffic wasn’t too bad for mid-afternoon. “What are you thinking?”

  Garvin was thinking about a lot of things, most of which could not be spoken over the phone. “Let me see if I can blow off the wife with an excuse, and I’ll let you know.”

  “Sounds good.” Brea stopped the car in front of her building. The valet opened her door, and Brea got out. She walked to the condo’s front door and a doorman opened it for her.

  She walked through the marble lobby, underneath an ornate glass chandelier, and toward the elevator. Once inside, she swiped her card and the light for the twenty-third floor lit up.

  Brea got out on her floor and walked down the hallway to her condo, swiped her magnetic card, again, at her door and waited for a green light. The black cell phone on the kitchen counter was already ringing. It wasn’t a surprise.

  Brea walked through the entryway into the main living area.

  The cell phone stopped ringing for a few seconds, and then started again.

  She tossed her purse on the couch and walked into the kitchen as the cheap disposable cell phone continued to rattle.

  Brea picked up the phone and pressed a button.

  “Hello.” She smiled when she heard the voice of Andie Larone. “I thought you’d be calling.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  The beat cop wasn’t a mover and shaker in the department. In fact, it was highly unlikely that he’d ever get promoted to sergeant, but he was okay with that. As long as he had enough seniority to avoid working the holidays, Officer Barts was fine with his position in life.

  He liked people, especially if they bought him a cup of coffee or something from time to time, and respected the badge.

  Vatch pushed a plate of hot, crispy, fresh-cut French fries toward Barts.

  “Like I said before,” Barts picked up three fries, dunked them in ketchup, and shoved them in his mouth. “We don’t have anything to charge him with at the moment, but Anthony’s name is coming up in more and more conversation
s.”

  “Conversations?”

  Officer Barts nodded.

  “You know.” Barts shrugged. “Just talking. I ask who was at the party or who were you playing ball with and stuff like that, and Anthony’s name is coming up more and more as trouble.” Officer Barts took a sip of soda. “But he doesn’t go by Anthony any more. His street name is Cards.”

  “Cards?” Vatch shook his head. The idea that the little boy who used to crawl through his window had a street name repulsed him. “So is he in?”

  “In what?”

  Vatch’s eyes narrowed. He hated conversing with anybody, especially a law enforcement officer with minimal intelligence. Play nice, Vatch thought, you need him to be on your side.

  “A gang,” Vatch responded. “Is Anthony in a gang?”

  Barts smiled. “It isn’t like that anymore. Used to be we had the Bloods and Crips, maybe the Gangster Disciples or Vice Lords, and those were real criminal enterprises, like the mafia. They were all set up to sell crack, and there was a hierarchy with rules and order.”

  Barts waved at the waitress and lifted up his empty water glass.

  “Now it isn’t like that. We were too successful.”

  Vatch’s slit of a mouth bent into a frown. “Too successful?”

  Barts nodded, waiting as the waitress refilled his water from a large plastic pitcher and then went on to the next table.

  “Exactly,” he continued. “The police were too successful breaking up those gangs, and so now we got a mess. Instead of two or three big gangs, we got hundreds of them. Take any four kids, put ‘em together, and they’re now a gang. They come up with some stupid name for themselves, and that’s it. No initiation. No leader. No rules. Just four thugs who like to smoke weed and steal stuff, sell the stuff to buy more weed, and then repeat.” Barts ate a few more French fries. “Maybe they do something more violent, but living the lifestyle is more the goal than actually being a gangster.”