“Someone has already been there earlier,” I say as I point down to my crotch.
To my chagrin, this somehow makes her even more into it. Never one to disappoint, I unzip my pants, and she begins to fellate me through the bars. Whoever this gypsy woman is, she’s a fucking pro. After about twenty minutes of her working me over like a mime pulling rope, I explode in her mouth. Upon completion, she puts her index finger up to her lips and begins peeing all over the floor. When she finishes, she slaps me across the face and leaves without saying a word. Exhausted and depleted, I walk over and collapse on my bed. Just as my eyes close again I hear the deputy yell out, “Street James, you have a visitor!”
“Jesus Christ! Who is it?”
When I look up, I see Louretta standing there, holding yet another picnic basket. “Oh my God, you look like hell. I didn’t know it was going to be this bad in here.”
“Please kill me! Just fucking kill me!” the Mexican screams, as he tries to cut his wrists open with a butter knife. Realizing it’s too dull, he throws it to the ground and takes off running headfirst into the wall, knocking himself unconscious. I shrug my shoulders at Louretta.
“This is what I’ve been dealing with in here for the last twelve hours.”
“Am I standing in urine? It smells like urine.”
“Yeah, let me get you out of that. Boss man, this is my wife. Come let her in.”
The deputy takes his sweet-ass time walking back to my cell to open the door. He pulls a giant key ring off his belt and fumbles through what looks like a thousand skeleton keys before selecting one and opening the door. When Louretta enters, he slams the door behind her.
“One hour with the missus, Saint James,” he says as he leaves.
We walk over to the bed and I put my head in her lap. She runs her fingers through my hair and stares deeply into my eyes with a sad look on her face. I know what this look means, because I’ve seen it 4,203 times.
“Do you want me to make love to you? I know you’ve been in here a while.”
“That’s really sweet, Lou, but honestly, I just want you to lay with me and hold me right now.”
This is the first and last time I have ever said those words to a woman in my entire life. Dead serious. After doing back-to-back loads, I’d really be struggling to keep the clothesline up and I just want to get some sleep. She lies down next to me and puts her head on my chest. I can feel her tears soaking through my shirt as I close my eyes.
She whispers to me sweetly, “It really fucking stinks in here.”
“I know. Next time you come, can you bring a sewing kit with more string? It’s a long story.” Before she can answer, I fall fast asleep.
An hour later, the deputy politely wakes us up by banging all his keys against the cell bars. As Louretta gets up to leave, I grab her ass with a strong squeeze, nothing playful about it. She’ll definitely masturbate to that ass grab later, trust me. There’s nothing like being groped by a full-fledged criminal behind bars to send her home with an itchy middle finger around the panty-line area later.
After hitting the bottle of laudanum, I get maybe another hour of sleep, then the deputy wakes me up yet again. “You have another visitor, Saint James.”
Deep in a laudanum haze, I walk over to the cell door. “Who is it?”
“It’s me. I’m your visitor,” he says, standing there.
“What?”
“I want to suck your cock, man.”
“What the shit?”
Fully awake now, upon further examination, I realize that this isn’t the deputy. It’s the crazy gypsy woman wearing all of the deputy’s clothes, including his oversized boots. She’s also wearing what appears to be his shaved-off mustache, which is glued above her upper lip. As she fumbles with the keys to let herself in, I freak out.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“You can either stick your dick through the bars again, or I’m coming in,” she says, still in a deep male voice.
“What happened to the deputy?”
“I knocked him out with chloroform and took his clothes. Have you ever been blown by a deputy?”
“No.”
She laughs. “Awesome, then this will be a new experience for both of us, because I’ve never blown anyone as a deputy. Exciting, isn’t it?”
“Not really.”
“Use that fear and release it into my mouth when you jizz. If you have to hit me afterward, I want you to know I welcome it.”
At this point, I am physically afraid for my life and I let her blow me as the deputy. It isn’t easy to orgasm, let alone maintain an erection, but I do it. After I cum, she grabs my right hand and decides to smack herself in the face with it. She then looks up at me in shock and walks out, twirling the key ring on her finger.
“Lights out, Saint James!” she yells out to me, still using her deep deputy voice.
This concludes my first full day in jail.
Chapter Ten
WHEN YOU’RE RICH, IT’S OKAY TO MURDER PEOPLE
After a week of sitting in this hellhole, one thing is certain: jail is boring as shit. There is literally nothing to do in here. If it weren’t for the bottle of laudanum I stashed and the insane amount of sex I’ve been having, I probably would have hung myself . . . exactly like the fat Mexican is trying to do in the cell next to me right now. The deputy’s keys jangle as he walks up to my cell.
“Your trial is today, Saint James. Put these on.” He hands me a set of handcuffs.
“Mustache is coming back in real nice, boss,” I say with extreme sarcasm.
“If I ever figure out how you did this . . .”
“You should post a wanted sign up in town.”
He bristles as he unlocks my cell after I put the cuffs on. On my way past the fat Mexican’s cell, he screams out, “Oh, thank God!” He sprints over to his hole dug in the ground and pulls down his pants as fast as he can. This isn’t good.
The noises I hear next can only be described as what I imagine a grown elephant would sound like giving birth to triplets standing upright on an old hardwood floor. The deputy and I look at each other and then run for the front door like two robbers who just threw lit dynamite into a safe. Except this time, we don’t make it out quickly enough.
The shit smell catches up with us a few steps before we hit the front door, causing us to vomit upon impact. We hit the ground and prepare for the next wave. With both of us vomiting uncontrollably over and over again now, we are forced to help each other. Through our tears, we make a silent pact not to leave the other one behind.
Do I hate the law? Worse than dysentery, but I wouldn’t wish that smell on my worst enemy. I muster as much strength as I have left and carry the deputy outside.
When I kick the front door open, I fall to my knees as I am finally able to inhale clean air again. The thirty marshals that are waiting outside to escort me to the trial immediately draw their guns, thinking I have killed the deputy. That’s when the next tsunami wave of raw stink hits their faces, inducing vomiting amongst them as well. One marshal physically can’t take it and puts his gun to his head, ending his own life.
“Somebody shut the fucking door!” one of the marshals screams out.
Five or six marshals finally stagger to the front door and shut it. The town doctor will later declare two of them legally blind. Also, the local schoolhouse will be evacuated and closed for the remainder of the day. The last thing I remember is hearing the Mexican’s laughter echoing out of his jail cell, as the marshals lead me to the courthouse. That putrid fucking smell will live in our clothes like smoke after you’ve been standing too close to a campfire.
When they lead me into the courthouse, it is packed, buzzing with anticipation. Louretta and all my kids are seated in the front row of the gallery. Even Daniel is propped up in the corner, still in a full-body cast. Seeing them makes me realize how much I’ve missed them.
Seated in the row behind them, I see Sheila, who gives me a slight index-finger wa
ve. Next to her is a man licking his lips. Goddamn it, it’s the gypsy woman dressed as an old man with a fake long, gray beard. I shake my head and take a seat at the defense table. Directly behind me sits Ron, holding a large sketch pad and a piece of charcoal.
I turn back toward him, as the jury is led in. “Is that for tomorrow’s paper?”
“Yes. It will go to print tonight.”
“Make sure to shade in my cheekbones to accentuate them if you’re using a close-up. If it’s a full-body shot, just shade the fuck out of my crotch, obviously.”
He nods his head, as a fat judge in his fifties walks in. Immediately shuffling in after him is the prosecutor, also in his fifties. He takes a seat and winks at the marshals, who turn to each other and laugh.
“Good luck, Saint James. No one beats Prosecutor Van Buren,” one of them spouts out.
Van Buren? Shit. He’s related to the Schlägers. The feds have brought in a ringer to take me down. At this point, though, I have no idea to what extent.
The following is the exact word-for-word transcript from the court reporter of the trial. (Relax, it didn’t last long.)
Judge: All rise. (Everybody stands) State of California vs. Saint James Street James, on this day, August 2, 1853. I understand that Mr. Street James is representing himself in this trial?
St. James: I am, Your Honor.
Judge: Do you have any previous legal experience?
St. James: Yes I have, Your Honor. I successfully represented myself in Yermo, CA, in 1845 when I was wrongfully accused of selling teeter-totters to a group of legless children. I also represented myself in Carson, CA, when I was fourteen years old. That time I was wrongfully accused of operating an underground tortoise fight club. Both trials resulted in not-guilty verdicts, Your Honor.
Judge: Were they snapping turtles?
St. James: No sir, Your Honor. They were box turtles injected with chili powder. Allegedly.
Judge: Strange. Prosecutor Clyde Van Buren out of West Virginia. Van Buren? Any relation to former president Martin Van Buren?
Prosecutor: Yes sir, he’s my father.
St. James: Hey, he took a shit at my house! What are the chances?
Judge: Quiet, Mr. Street James! Mr. Van Buren, he is a great man. Also, quite an impressive lawyer.
St. James: Objection, Your Honor. I am also a great man and an impressive lawyer too, yet I was not recognized as such when I presented you with the legal trials I have successfully won. I want that on the record.
Judge: Noted. Gentlemen, let’s hear your opening remarks. Prosecutor, you have the floor.
Prosecutor: Thank you, Your Honor. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this man sitting to my left is a stone-cold murderer. A killer. An assassin. A man so filled with violence and hatred that he murdered seventeen to nineteen brothers in the same family. One of them was mentally and physically retarded. Can you imagine the grief that the other seventeen brothers will incur when they come out here next week to bury half their family?
St. James: Jesus, how many fucking brothers do they have, man?
Judge: (banging his gavel) It is not your turn to speak, Mr. Street James. Please continue, Mr. Van Buren.
Prosecutor: Thank you, Your Honor. Mr. Street James also murdered two marshals, and caused another one to take his own life. He may have even murdered the new town sheriff, though the body has not been located. I have sequestered over 176 witnesses who saw him kill each and every one of these men. They have all agreed to testify against him. In all my years of being a lawyer, I have never seen a more open-and-shut case than this one. I feel confident that after you hear all the testimony, you will agree with me. (Pointing at the defendant) This man should, and will, be hung in the middle of the street for all the wrong he has done. Thank you, Your Honor.
Judge: Thank you, Mr. Van Buren. Mr. Street James, you may address the jury.
St. James: Did I kill all these people? Probably, but I’m going to deny the shit out of it when the “official” trial gets under way. Even if I did do it, let me ask you this, what kind of family can you kill seventeen to nineteen members of, and it only adds up to half?
Judge: (bangs his gavel) Get to the point, Mr. Street James! By the way, what kind of name is “Street James”?
St. James: Topographic, Your Honor. The point is, I have seven kids, so I can appreciate family. . . . Pardon me, I now have only six kids. My other son is dead, because the Schläger brothers dipped him in a scalding pot of melted gold and hung his statue from the top of my barn. Do you know how heavy it was to move just so I could put him in the ground for a proper burial? No one helped me carry him. There was only one set of footprints in the sand that day. (Points to the prosecutor) This fuck didn’t say anything about that, did he? No, he just focused on the negative, like an asshole. He stands up here in his bullshit seersucker suit and tells you how many sweet witnesses he has. You know how many witnesses I have from the events that I’m accused of? Three. Two of whom are dead, killed by the Schlägers. The last witness is my son who the Schläger brothers shot sixty-three times and who now resides in a body cast over there. (Points to a child in a body cast who is drooling on himself) Am I supposed to apologize for only having one witness who is still alive? I’ll call him to the stand if you want. I’ll ask him questions for weeks if you want. (Points to the prosecutor) You want to drag this trial out with your witnesses? Fine. I’ll drag it out with mine. We can take this bitch into the middle of next year! (The courthouse erupts in applause)
Judge: (banging his gavel) Order! Order in the court! Mr. Street James and Mr. Van Buren, can I see you in my chambers for a brief recess?
St. James: Is there liquor in these chambers you speak of?
Judge: Now! (All three men exit and retire to the judge’s chambers)
End of the court transcript
When we walk back into the judge’s chambers, I immediately spot a bottle of whiskey and begin to pour myself a glass without asking. The judge unzips his robe, exposing his nude body, including his dong. He sits in a hardback chair behind his desk and lights up a cigar as he wipes the sweat off his brow, exhaling deeply.
“It’s hotter than the devil’s dick in there.”
“I hear that, brother. There’s nothing but duck butter inside these old jeans,” I say as we have a laugh.
“What is this? What’s going on here? Are we going to have a trial or what?” Mr. Van Buren barks out.
“I’d rather not. This really will take forever, and it’s August. Let’s just see if we can hammer something out.”
Mr. Van Buren is outraged. “But he killed twenty-two people, including two marshals and possibly a sheriff!”
“Those boys killed his kid and a couple of clowns who provided nothing but joy to this town. As far as the marshals, he said it was an accident, and I believe him. You said yourself you haven’t located the body of the sheriff. So what do we got? Some eye-for-an-eye common-man shit, which isn’t worth going to trial for that long. I say we give him a day in jail for each man killed, minus his kid, and a fine.”
“Judge, with all due respect, that’s only a twenty-one-day sentence,” Prosecutor Van Buren thunders.
“With a fine,” the judge fires back at him.
Time to seal this deal. “Whoopsy,” I say, as I cough loudly and throw the remainder of my gold from my leather pouch on the ground.
The judge laughs so hard his dong bounces up off the chair. Mr. Van Buren appears outraged.
“I have never seen anything like this in my career! You will go down eventually, Mr. Street James, I can assure you of that.”
Mr. Van Buren slams the door and leaves. After he storms out, the judge and I end up having eight more glasses of whiskey, just rapping about life. He then picks up a tin can connected to a piece of yarn that is hanging out the window behind him.
“You want to share a prostitute?” he asks me.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
We laugh mightily, and he yells in
to the can, “Find me any prostitute off the streets, George!”
“Where does that line go?”
“I have no idea! I don’t even know a George.”
More laughter ensues, and at this point, I just assume he’s drunk. Five minutes later, the ugly prostitute who blew me on the street opens up the window and crawls in. After dusting herself off, she holds up her index finger, before sticking her arm back out and dragging in the piece of plywood with a hole cut in it. The judge roars in delight.
“Glorious!”
Indeed it is. I line up behind him, and we proceed to get properly blown. Twenty minutes later we exit his chambers and walk back into court. The judge bangs his gavel and announces to the court that we have reached a plea deal. Once the plea is read, the entire courtroom erupts in joy and laughter. Women are crying tears of joy, men nod their heads in respect, my kids are jumping in the air, and Daniel continues to drool. The only ones unhappy about my plea are the marshals . . . and Louretta. I lean in to kiss her, but she moves her head out of the way.
“What’s wrong? I’ll be home in three weeks,” I say to her.
“Jesus, Saint James, I could hear the judge moaning from his chambers. Everyone could. Do you have to throw it in my face how many women you sleep with when I’m not around? I look like a fool.”
“You knew who I was before you married me . . . a rape survivor. Sometimes my past follows me, baby, you know that, but I’m a man first and foremost.”
“You’re also a father. Look at them. Look into the eyes of your children.”
I scan down the row of my children, who look up at me with the same desperation in their eyes as when I was late for dinner. Daniel nods off and falls over to the ground, his hard body cast hitting the floor. Louretta holds her tears back as it sets in that maybe I haven’t been the best father.
“Come on, children, let’s go home. You’ll see Daddy in a few weeks.” She helps Daniel up, puts him in a wooden wheelchair, and rolls him out of the courtroom with my other kids in tow.
Even though it’s the gold rush and it’s completely acceptable to sleep with whores, there is an unspoken rule about discretion. Your wife is your wife, whores are fucking whores, and you don’t bring that shit inside the home. She knows my sexual prowess is that of an untamed wildebeest, and she’s not fucking stupid. Today, I made her look like an asshole, and I genuinely feel bad about that.
At Night She Cries, While He Rides His Steed Page 10