* * *
In the ninetieth minute of his cloistering in the room, the door finally opened and the same two cops came in. They took chairs, the woman directly across from him and the man to his left side. The woman put a tape recorder on the table along with the duffel bag. This was nothing, he told himself over and over like a mantra. He'd be kicked loose before the sun was down.
"Sorry to make you wait," the woman said cordially.
"No problem," he said. "Can I have my cigarettes?"
He nodded toward the duffel bag. He didn't really want a smoke, he just wanted to see if the camera was still in there. You couldn't trust the fucking cops. He didn't even need Horace to teach him that. The detective ignored his request and turned on the tape recorder. She then identified herself as Detective Constance Delpy and her partner as Detective Ron Sweetzer. Both were with the Exploited Child Unit.
Gladden was surprised that she seemed to be taking the lead here. She looked to be about five to eight years younger than Sweetzer. She had blond hair kept in an easily managed short style. She was maybe fifteen pounds overweight and that was mostly in her hips and upper arms. Gladden guessed she worked out on the pipes. He also thought she was a lesbian. He could tell these things. He had a sense.
Sweetzer had a washed-out face and a laconic demeanor. He had lost hair in a pattern that left him with a thin strip of growth down the center of his pate. Gladden decided to concentrate on Delpy. She was the one.
Delpy took a card from her pocket and read Gladden his constitutional rights.
"What do I need those for?" he asked when she was done. "I didn't do anything wrong."
"Do you understand those rights?"
"What I don't understand is why I'm here."
"Mr. Brisbane, do you under-?"
"Yes."
"Good. By the way, your driver's license is from Alabama. What are you doing out here?"
"That's my business. I'd like to contact a lawyer now. I'm not answering any questions. Like I said, I do understand those rights you just read."
He knew that what they wanted was his local address and the location of his car. What they had was nothing. But the fact that he had run would probably be enough for a local judge to find probable cause and give them a warrant to search his premises and car if they knew where those were. He couldn't allow that, no matter what.
"We'll talk about your lawyer in just a moment," Delpy said. "But I want to give you the chance to clear this up, maybe even walk out of here without wasting your money on a lawyer."
She opened the duffel bag and pulled out the camera and the bag of Starburst candy the kids liked so much.
"What is all of this?" she asked.
"Looks pretty evident to me."
She held the camera up and looked at it as if she had never seen one before.
"What is this used for?"
"Takes pictures."
"Of children?"
"I'd like a lawyer now."
"What about this candy? What do you do with that? Do you give that to children?"
"I'd like to speak to a lawyer."
"Fuck the lawyer," Sweetzer said angrily. "We've got your ass, Brisbane. You were taking pictures of kids at the showers. Little naked kids with their mothers. You fucking disgust me."
Gladden cleared his throat and looked at Delpy with dead eyes.
"I don't know anything about that. But I do have a question. I have to ask, where is the crime? You know? I'm not saying I did it, but if I did, I didn't know taking photos of children at the beach was against the law now."
Gladden shook his head as if confused. Delpy shook her head as if disgusted.
"Detective Delpy, I can assure you that there are numerous legal precedents that have held that observation of acceptable public nudity-in this case, a mother cleaning up a young child at the beach-cannot be transcribed as prurient interest. You see, if the photographer who took such a picture committed a crime, then you'd have to prosecute the mother as well for providing the opportunity. But you probably know all of this. I'm sure one of you spent the last hour and a half consulting the city attorney."
Sweetzer leaned close to him across the table. Gladden noted the smell of cigarettes and barbecued potato chips on his breath. He guessed Sweetzer had eaten the chips on purpose, just so his breath would be intolerable during the interrogation.
"Listen to me, asshole, we know exactly what you are and what you're doing. I've worked rape, homicide . . . but you guys, you are the lowest form of life there is on the planet. You don't want to talk to us? Fine, no sweat. What we're going to do is take you down to Biscailuz tonight and put you in with the general population. I know some people in there, Brisbane. And I'm going to put out the word. Know what happens to pedophiles in there?"
Gladden turned his head slowly until he was staring calmly into Sweetzer's eyes for the first time.
"Detective, I'm not sure but I think your breath alone might constitute cruel and unusual punishment. If by chance I am ever convicted of taking photographs at the beach, I might make it a point of appeal."
Sweetzer swung his arm back.
"Ron!"
He froze, looked at Delpy and slowly lowered his arm.
Gladden had not even flinched at the threat. He would have welcomed the blow. He knew it would have helped him in court.
"Cute," Sweetzer said. "What we've got here is a jailhouse lawyer thinks he knows all the angles. That's nice. Well, you're going to be filing some briefs tonight, if you know what I mean."
"Can I call a lawyer now?" Gladden said in a bored voice.
He knew what they were doing. They had nothing and they were trying to scare him into making a mistake. But he wouldn't accommodate them because he was too smart for them. And he suspected that deep down they knew he was.
"Look, I'm not going to Biscailuz and we all know it. What have you got? You've got my camera, which, I don't know if you checked, has no pictures in it. And you've got some ticket taker or a lifeguard or somebody else who says I took some photos. But there is no evidence of that other than their word. And if you just had them looking through the mirror at me, then that identification is tainted as well. It wasn't by any stretch of the imagination an unbiased lineup."
He waited but they said nothing. He was in charge now.
"But the bottom line to this whole matter is that whoever you had behind that glass, she or he is a witness to something that wasn't even a crime. How that equates to a night in the county jail, I don't know. But maybe you can explain that to me, Detective Sweetzer, if it isn't too much of a strain on your intelligence."
Sweetzer stood up, knocking his chair back into the wall. Delpy reached an arm over, this time physically restraining him.
"Take it easy, Ron," she ordered. "Sit down. Just sit down."
Sweetzer did as instructed. Delpy then looked at Gladden.
"If you are going to continue this, I'll have to make that call," he said. "Where's the phone, please?"
"You'll get the phone. Right after you're booked. But you can forget the cigarettes. The county jail is a smoke-free facility. We care about your health."
"Booked on what charge? You can't hold me."
"Pollution of public waterways, vandalism of city property. Evading a police officer."
Gladden's eyebrows went up in a questioning look. Delpy smiled at him.
"You forget something," she said. "The trash can you threw into Santa Monica Bay." She nodded in victory and turned off the tape recorder.
* * *
In the holding cell of the police station Gladden was allowed to make his call. When he held the receiver to his ear he smelled the industrial-strength soap they had given him to wash the ink off his fingers. It served as a reminder to him that he had to get out before the prints went through the national computer. He dialed a number that he had committed to memory the first night he had made it to the coast. Krasner was on the network list.
At first the lawyer's secretary wa
s going to put him off but Gladden said to tell Mr. Krasner that the caller was referred by Mr. Pederson, the name suggested on the network bulletin board. Krasner came on the line quickly after that.
"Yes, this is Arthur Krasner, what can I do for you?"
"Mr. Krasner, my name is Harold Brisbane and I have a problem."
Gladden then proceeded to tell Krasner in detail what had happened to him. He spoke low into the phone because he was not alone. There were two other men in the holding cell, waiting to be transferred to the county jail at Biscailuz Center. One was lying on the floor asleep, an addict on the nod. The other was sitting on the opposite side of the cell but he was watching Gladden and attempting to listen to him because there was nothing else to do. Gladden thought he might be a plant, a cop posing as a prisoner so he could eavesdrop on his call to the lawyer.
Gladden left nothing out save for his real name. When he was done Krasner was silent for a long time.
"What's that noise?" he finally asked.
"Guy sleeping on the floor in here. Snoring."
"Harold, you shouldn't be amongst people like that," Krasner lamented in a patronizing tone Gladden disliked. "We've got to do something."
"That's why I'm calling."
"My fee for my work on this today and tomorrow will be one thousand dollars. That is a generous discount. I offer it to those referrals I receive from . . . Mr. Pederson. If my involvement goes further than tomorrow, then we'll have to discuss it. Will it be a problem for you to have the money?"
"No, no problem."
"What about bail? After my fee, what can you do on bail? It sounds like pledging property is out of the question. Bondsmen need ten percent of the bail fixed by the judge. That amount is their fee. You won't get it back."
"Yes, forget property. After taking care of your exorbitant fee I can probably go up to five more. That's immediately. I can get more but it might be difficult. I want to keep it to five max and I want to get out as soon as possible."
Krasner ignored the remark about his fee.
"Is that five thousand?" he asked.
"Yes, of course. Five thousand. What can you do with it?"
Gladden figured Krasner was probably kicking himself over discounting his inflated fee.
"Okay, that means you can handle fifty thousand bail. I think we're in good shape. It's a felony arrest for now. But the fleeing and the pollution are wobblers, meaning they can be filed as either felonies or misdemeanors. I am sure that they will go low on them. It's a bullshit case trumped up by the cops. We just have to get you into court and out on bail."
"Yes."
"I think fifty thousand will be high for this matter but it will be part of the horse trading I do with the filing deputy. We'll see how it goes. I take it you do not want to provide an address."
"That's correct. I need a new one."
"Then we might have to go the whole fifty. But in the meantime I will see about an address. There may be additional expenses incurred from that. It won't be much. I can prom-"
"Fine. Just do it."
Gladden looked back at the man on the other side of the cell.
"What about tonight?" he asked quietly. "I told you, these cops are going to try to get me hurt."
"I think they are bluffing but-"
"That's easy for you to-"
"But I am not taking any chances. Hear me out, Mr. Brisbane. I can't get you out tonight but I am going to make some calls. You will be okay. I am going to get you in there with a K-9 jacket."
"What's that?"
"It's keep-away status in the jail. It's usually reserved for informants or high-power cases. I'll make a call to the jail and inform them that you are an informant in a federal investigation out of Washington."
"Won't they check?"
"Yes, but it will be too late today. They'll put you in a K-9 jacket and by the time they find out tomorrow it's bogus, you'll be in court and then hopefully free after that."
"That's a nice scam, Krasner."
"Yes, but I won't be able to use it again, I think I may have to raise the fee we just discussed a bit to cover the loss."
"Fuck that. Look, this is the deal. I have access to six grand max. You get me out and whatever's left after the bondsman, you get. It's an incentive deal."
"That's a deal. Now, one other thing. You also mentioned the need to beat the prints. I need to have an idea about this. So that in clear conscience I will not make any statements before the court that will-"
"I have a history, if that is what you're asking. But I don't think you and I have to go into that."
"I understand."
"When will my arraignment be?"
"Late morning. When I make my calls to the jail after we hang up, I'll see to it you are scheduled for the early bus to Santa Monica. It's better to wait in the court hold than Biscailuz."
"I wouldn't know. My first time here."
"Uh, Mr. Brisbane, I need to bring up my fee and the bail money again. I'm afraid I'll need that in my possession before I go into court tomorrow."
"You have a wire account?"
"Yes."
"Give me the number. I'll have it wired in the morning. Will I be able to dial long distance in K-9?"
"No. You'll have to call my office. I'll tell Judy to expect the call. She'll then dial the number you give her on the other line and cross-connect you. It will be no problem. I've done it this way before."
Krasner gave him his wire account number and Gladden used the memorizing technique Horace had taught him to commit it to memory.
"Mr. Krasner, you would be doing yourself a great favor if you destroy the wire records of this transaction and simply carry the fee as paid in cash on your accounts."
"I understand. Anything else on your mind?"
"Yes. You better put something on the PTL net, tell the others what happened, tell them to stay away from that carousel."
"Will do."
After he hung up, Gladden turned his back to the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor. He avoided looking at the man across the room. He noticed the snoring had stopped and guessed that maybe the man on the floor might be dead. OD'd. Then the man stirred slightly. For a moment Gladden considered reaching down and pulling the plastic bracelet off the man and replacing it with his own. He'd probably be released in the morning without the cost of a lawyer and $50,000 bail.
It was too risky, he decided. The man sitting across the cell might be a cop and, besides, the one on the floor might be a multiple repeat offender. You never knew when a judge was going to say enough was enough. Gladden decided to take his chances with Krasner. After all, he'd gotten his name off the network board. The lawyer must know what he was doing. Still, the six thousand bothered him. He was being extorted by the judicial system. Six thousand for what? What had he done wrong?
His hand went to his pocket for a cigarette but then he remembered they had been taken away. That brought the anger down on him even heavier. And the self-pity. He was being persecuted by society and for what? His instincts and desires were not of his choosing. Why couldn't they understand that?
Gladden wished he had his laptop with him. He wanted to sign on and talk to those on the network. Those of his kind. He felt lonely in the cell. He thought that he might even start to cry except that the man leaning against the other wall was watching him. He would not cry in front of him.
8
I didn't sleep well after my day with the files. I kept thinking about the photos. First of Theresa, then of my brother. Both of them captured forever in horrible poses, stored away in envelopes. I wanted to go back and steal the photos and burn them. I didn't want anyone ever to see them.
In the morning, after I had made coffee, I turned on my computer and dialed into the Rocky's system to check messages. I ate handfuls of Cheerios from the box as I waited for the connection to be made and my password to be approved. I kept my laptop and printer set up on the dining room table because I most often ate while using th
em. It beat sitting at the table alone and thinking about how I'd been eating alone for more years than I cared to remember.
My home was small. I'd had the same one-bedroom apartment with the same furniture for nine years. It wasn't a bad place but it was nothing special. Other than Sean, I couldn't remember who the last visitor was. When I was with women, I didn't take them there. There hadn't been many of them, anyway.
I thought when I first moved in I'd only be staying a couple years, that maybe I'd eventually buy a house and get married or have a dog or something. But it hadn't happened and I'm not sure why. The job, I guess. At least that's what I told myself. I concentrated my energy on my work. In each room of the apartment there were stacks of newspapers with my stories in them. I liked to reread them and save them. If I died at home, I knew they'd come in there and find me and mistakenly think I was one of those pack rats I'd written about who die with newspapers stacked to the ceiling and their cash stuffed into the mattress. They wouldn't bother to pick up one of the papers and read my story.
The Poet (1995) Page 7
