Song of Suzies

by Dave Balcom

  “Freeze,” he shouted. I looked up to see him in the classic two-hand pose, his service weapon pointing at my face.

  “I’m just getting my wallet ...” I was looking for his name tag on his uniform blouse, but it wasn’t there “... officer.”

  He opened the door, stepped around it, and ordered me out of the car. As I was standing up, he grabbed my left arm and jerked me out onto the street where I sprawled. As I started to get up, he grabbed my collar and jerked me up and shoved me to the hood of my car. “Assume the position.”

  I put my hands on the hood, and he kicked my right foot out away from the car, “Put your right hand behind you.”

  “Officer, I don’t understand...”

  “Shut up. I’m taking you into custody on suspicion of driving while intoxicated and resisting arrest.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  He grabbed my collar again, straightening me, “Put your other hand back here,” and he cuffed that one as well.

  As he led me to his squad, he started reciting the Miranda warning, ending with “In your current state, do you understand the rights I’ve explained to you?”

  I said nothing, and he shoved me into the back of his cruiser. Once in the driver’s seat, he picked up his microphone and radioed in. “This is Lima Charley Zero-Seven. I’m just west of Silva’s, and I’ve got a drunk I stopped for erratic driving under arrest. Sucker tried to resist, and I’ve been forced to subdue him.”

  “Roger, Lima Charley Zero-Seven. Say your intentions.”

  “I’m going to search and secure his vehicle. I believe he has a weapon in it that he was going for, and then I’m going to take him to county lockup for booking.”

  “Roger, Lima Charley Zero-Seven; base out.”

  “Lima Charley Zero-Seven, out.”

  “Are you serious, officer? There’s no weapon in my car. I was going for my wallet as you requested. What’s going on here?”

  “Keep talkin’. You’re doing great; you might even win a busted head if you keep it up.”

  He got out of the cruiser and walked to the car. I saw him open the door and reach in to turn off the ignition. He then went through the motions of checking around the driver’s seat and came out with a small handgun hanging on a pencil. He produced a plastic evidence bag from his belt and dropped the weapon into it. He then went to the other side of the vehicle, and searched around, going through the glove compartment, and then the back seat. Then he used the key to open the trunk, and again went through the motions of searching only to come out this time holding a small bag of white powder by the very tip of an edge. He again produced a plastic bag and dropped his ‘evidence’ into it.

  “Looks like you fucked up in a major league way, buddy,” he chortled as he got behind the wheel.

  This strange officer’s glee was reverberating in my memory, and once again I thought back to my POW training. I tried to make myself as comfortable as I could bending away from my cuffed hands, and said nothing as he drove to the Courthouse.

  At the county lockup, the officer grabbed me by the arm, just above my elbow, and levered me out of the back seat without a word. When I was standing, he changed his grip to my elbow and pushed me towards a door with a buzzer outside. He pushed the buzzer and the door was opened immediately by a man wearing the brown uniform of the Sheriff’s Department.

  The city cop roughly pushed me ahead of him into the hallway. “Take it easy,” the deputy said.

  “Bullshit, this character was going to pull a weapon on me. I’ll take it easy when he’s in Attica.”

  “Really?” The deputy asked with some awe in his voice. “Do you know who this guy is?”

  “Not really,” the cop said. “I got too busy arresting him to check his ID.”

  “This is Jim Stanton. He’s the editor of the local newspaper.”

  “Like I give a fuck. I asked for his license and registration and he went for a gun…”

  The deputy stepped in front of us to unlock another door, and I could see him shaking his head. “That’s incredible. I would never have suspected…”

  The cop shoved me by and through the door, and I found myself in front of what couldn’t be anything other than a booking desk. Another Sheriff’s deputy, a sergeant, was sitting behind the desk, and another, older deputy with a big pot belly stood to his right.

  “Whatcha got, Deke?” The sergeant asked.

  “Suspicion of DUI, resisting arrest, unlicensed weapon and suspicion of drug possession.” He put the pistol and white powder bag on the desk. The sergeant shoved a pad over to him, and the cop he called “Deke” started filling out the form.

  “You get the evidence logged, and we’ll take possession of it and the perp,” the sergeant said in a monotone, implying he’d said that countless times before. He looked at me, “And what do you want, Mr. Stanton?”

  “A lawyer.”

  “Any particular lawyer?”

  I shook my head, “Any will do for today.”

  “I’ll get to work on it. Want that I should call anyone else? Like the TV or radio guys?”

  Relying on my POW training, I didn’t respond to his bait.

  “I thought you newspaper guys always had a lot to say. I heard you talk at Kiwanis once, and you didn’t seem that quiet… but times they do change, don’t they?”

  From the desk, I was taken into custody, stripped of my clothing, placed into a county jail uniform, finger printed and photographed. From there I was taken to a waiting room.

  About forty minutes later, there was a knock, and a man dressed as an Emergency Medical Technician wearing a Fire Department baseball cap entered. “Hi. I’m Skip Paris from Fire and Rescue. I’ve been assigned to take a blood sample.”

  “I’d have to see the documentation, and have my lawyer review it, Skip.”

  “We can do this easy or hard; you choose.”

  “How about legal, is that among the options?”

  He seemed stumped by that question, then turned and walked out. Less than a minute later he came back with the pot-bellied deputy and another, younger, beefier deputy. “You sure you won’t choose ‘easy?’”

  I stood up from my chair; my hands still cuffed behind me. “I still prefer legal.”

  “This is legal, man!” He said with some agitation. “You’re under arrest on suspicion of driving drunk. We’ll take this blood to see how much alcohol you have in you. I’ve got my orders!”

  “I still have to see my attorney or at least the written documentation ordering you to take my blood, otherwise this is not legal,” I said in my calmest voice. I was keeping close contact with my center; controlling my breathing, pulse and anger, but keeping that control was a nip and tuck thing.

  “Bullshit, Skip,” Potbelly grumbled. “You want his blood; let’s get this over with.” He started around to my right, and the younger officer moved past Skip onto my left and started to reach towards me with his right hand. Potbelly was just clearing the chair Skip had been in before, and I let myself go limp, as if I was in a faint.

  The younger deputy lunged to catch me, and as his hands clutched my left arm, I braced my left leg, pivoted my entire body on that leg, and kicked Potbelly in the solar plexus with my right, pulling the kick at the point of contact so as to give him a shot, but not put him in any real jeopardy.

  My momentum from the pivot surprised the younger man, and as he spun into the corner of the tiny room, I came from the awkward kick to standing right in front of him. His head had slapped the wall soundly upon arrival, and while not enough to injure him, it had clearly left him slightly disoriented. I added to that sensation by head-butting him on the point of his chin, just hard enough to force his head back into the wall. As he slid to the floor, I considered stomping him once, but decided it wasn’t necessary. I spun again, and found Skip backed against the door, his eyes bulging at what must have been quite a shock to him.

  “What’d you do?”

  “I protected myself, Skip. You need
to know that I haven’t had a drink in months, haven’t ever owned a handgun and have never had anything to do with illegal drugs. Now you’re here wanting to put a needle in my arm.

  “You set the ground rules, Skip. I wanted legal, you chose either easy or hard. Want another choice?”

  He was staring at the two deputies, one after another in turn. “Did you kill them?”

  “Hardly, Skip. But I’m not going to let them hold me while you put a needle in my arm. I want my lawyer, and I want to see the court order for my blood, and then you can have it without any fuss.”

  “Whaddaya want me to do?”

  “Check these two out and make sure they’re okay for starters. Then see what you can do to find my lawyer.”

  52

  It didn’t take long for Skip to check on the two deputies, get them up and about and out of the tiny conference room. He was replaced within thirty seconds by the desk sergeant.

  He entered with a night stick in his hand, found me sitting in my chair, and sat in the other. He didn’t say a word.

  A minute later, the door opened again, and a young Asian-looking man entered, “That’ll be all, Sarge,” he said.

  “You be careful, Chan. This guy’s some kind of whacko, I think.”

  “Thanks, Sarge. You run along now,” he said as he held the door. When the deputy was gone, he closed the door and turned to me with a smile. “Rick Jordan from Legal Aid. I heard you wanted to talk with me.”

  “Jim Stanton,” I said. “Thanks for coming. Sorry I can’t offer a hand.” He looked at me again, recognizing my hands were secured behind me. He got up and opened the door. The sergeant who was sitting outside on guard, jumped up in reaction.

  “Sarge,” he said with some distaste, “get these cuffs off, will ya?”

  The sergeant started to object, but Jordan put his hand out in the universal ‘stop’ signal, and the sergeant lumbered inside the room with his key ring in hand.

  When the sergeant left with the cuffs, I sat and rubbed my wrists as Jordan picked up his introduction as if never interrupted, “I was in court, and they caught me as I was headed to another meeting. Then they came and got me from that meeting. I spoke with Skip Paris from the EMT squad, and it sounded much more interesting here than upstairs, so I came running.

  “Now, what have you been up to?”

  I sat and motioned to the chair for him, and then I carefully told him exactly what had happened over the course of the past few hours, starting with the visit from the FBI and ending with him entering the room.

  He took notes like a good reporter, stopping me occasionally for clarification, but mostly letting the story unfold without interruption.

  “So, why do you think this whole thing was a set-up from the beginning?” He asked after he’d taken the time to re-read his notes.

  “First of all, it had to be and the cop who arrested me? He wasn’t wearing a name tag, and he was all alone...”

  “What about the gun? The drugs in your trunk?”

  “No idea, I don’t own a handgun. I haven’t fired one since my service days. I have no experience with illegal drugs; never have. I’m guessing someone at the police station is upset with me for taking the story of Suzanne Czarnopias to the FBI.”

  “There’s something new on Suzanne?”

  I explained it; told him that I had approached Max Hennessey with what I had found, but that he had sent me away.

  “So that story ran today?”

  “Yeah. I took the newsroom to Silva’s for lunch. Afterward I had just crossed the city limits when the cop pulled me over.”

  “Had you been drinking?”

  “I haven’t had a drink in weeks. When my wife was pregnant she wasn’t drinking so I gave it up too; we had some wine when the baby was born, but I just haven’t been drinking…”

  “So there was no celebratory cocktail at lunch?”

  “On the company’s tab? Not a chance.”

  “So, why not let them take a blood sample?”

  “I didn’t want anyone putting a needle in me without a witness I could trust. I told them, if they got you here, I’d be more than willing…”

  He got up and went to the door. “Sarge?”

  The sergeant appeared, and there was a hushed conversation. The sergeant left, and Skip Paris came in his wake. He wasted no time in picking a vein and tapping it. “See, there was nothing to it,” he said as he labeled the vial.

  “No, nothing illegal to it; now give my attorney there a receipt for my blood with the time, date and your signature and every thing will be great,” I said with a friendly smile.

  He turned to Rick, “What’s with this guy?”

  Rick didn’t bat an eye, “Nothing. He’s behaving like any honest citizen should act when he has evidence that he’s being unjustly targeted by representatives of the system.”

  “Huh?”

  Rick stretched out his hand, rubbing his fingertips with his thumb, “Gimmie.”

  The EMT fumbled around for a minute before he pulled a receipt book out of his pack, filled it out and handed the top copy to the lawyer.

  “Thanks, when do we expect the results?”

  “In an hour or less. Soon as I get to the lab, they’ll run it; only takes a few seconds.”

  “Perfect, please have someone call me ASAP, okay?”

  “I’ll pass that request on,” he said as he walked out the door.

  The lawyer sat down and looked at me, “What do you want from me now?”

  “I’d like you to contact Doug Read at the paper and tell him where I am…”

  “Oh, he knows. It’s all over the radio and television. Somebody leaked it to the media before you were in this cell. Read has declined to comment pending his chance to talk with you. He’s outside, waiting for an invite.”

  “So maybe I’m not paranoid?”

  He just smiled at that, but then went serious, “The blood test comes back negative, they’ll drop the DWI allegation, hold you for a bail hearing on the gun and drugs, and probably file additional aggravated assault charges on your beating up the two jailers…”

  “With my hands tied behind me? I doubt those guys are going to want that publicity…”

  “They won’t get a vote on that.”

  “Without the alcohol, do they have probable cause for the stop, search and seizure?”

  “I doubt you’ll get that thrown out until trial, and then only if you’ve been able to blow more holes in their allegations. So, what do you want me to do?”

  “Let’s get Doug in here. I need to know if his lawyers are my lawyers.”

  “Okay, but just remember, I’m your lawyer, and therefore whatever you tell me is privileged and I can’t repeat it; he’s not your lawyer and there is no ‘employee-employer privilege. Also, talking to me in front of him negates our privilege, too.’”

  I nodded, and he rose to leave the room, but I stopped him with a question, “Rick? Why do they call you ‘Chan?”’

  He stopped with his hand on the knob, and a bit of frown flickered over his lips, “As in Charlie Chan; you know, all-us-Asians-look-alike stuff.”

  “That’s disappointing, even for here.”

  A wicked smile lit up the corners of his lips and flashed through his eyes, “That’s just one of the things that makes whippin’ these assholes so sweet.” He turned the knob and walked out.

  53

  Doug came into the room, jerked me to my feet and gave me a bear hug. “Goddamit, Jim! What the fuck is going on?”

  After I had brought him up to speed, he just sat in the other chair, looking at the floor, a dazed expression on his face. “What do I need to do?”

  “I was hoping the newspaper would hire me a first-rate defense attorney to work alongside Rick.”

  “You want a public defender?” He asked with bit of disbelief.

  “I want that one; I like his attitude. I just need to know that there’s a lawyer savvy about the news business on my team.”

&nbs
p; “You think this is somehow related to the story about the FBI?”

  “Can you think of any other plausible explanation?”

  “The killer?”

  That stopped me cold. “Impersonating a cop?” I wondered out loud. My mind was racing through that possibility. Where would someone get a throw-down gun and a bag of dope to pin on me? Who could have gotten into my trunk, but as I formed that question I thought about all the car robberies I’d covered… but still, to donate a quantity of drugs was an investment not everyone without access to an evidence locker would be willing to make.

  I shook my head. “Could be, but I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure we’re going to find out that was a real cop and he was acting in an unsanctioned manner. At least I have to hope for the sake of the community that he wasn’t following orders from high command.”

  “Do you have any idea who he was?” Doug asked.

  “No sir. I’m assuming there will be a full-fledged incident report for Cindy in the morning, and the arresting officer will be identified.”

  “Well, I’ll be all over that,” he said with a sigh. “As far as legal help, I’ll make the call when I get back to the office, and you’ll get the word right away.”

  I thanked him and he started to leave. As he reached for the door, he stopped and looked at me with a frown, “Does Sandy even know?”

  “If she does, she’s probably outside trying to get in; otherwise, that’s something else I’d like you to do for me…”

  “Consider it done. Watch yourself, tough guy. I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody in this building doesn’t like you for showing up those two deputies.”

  I shook my head. “I doubt I’ll be wandering around loose any time soon, but my guard’s pretty much up.”

  He smiled, looked down at the floor for a second, and when his eyes came back to mine, I could see tears in the corners and when he spoke, his voice was a bit rusty. He coughed behind his hand, and then smiled a wan look. “I want you back on the job in one piece, you hear?”

  “Loud ’n’ clear, Boss.”

  An hour later, there was a rap on the door and Rick Jordan came in with a young man who was dressed as an attorney. “Jim,” Rick said pushing the young man towards the table, “meet Adam Patterson, an attorney with…”