The Flower Girl

by Ronald Watkins

  Herbert completed the admittance slip in uncharacteristic silence. He glanced up nastily several times and glared at some attorney or court officer who received pink slips and preferential treatment. Viola refused to accompany her husband up the small, airless elevator to the second floor where Herbert and a black hooker were disgorged into a tacky, metal room, encased in the upper half by bullet proof plastic, gouge marks clearly evident.

  Two enclosed interview rooms stood to each side of the elevator shaft but they were solely for the use of attorneys, probation officers and policemen. Like all non-official visitors, Herbert would speak with his son by telephone, face to face through the stained window. Jared was permitted two such visits of forty-five minutes each, twice in any seven day period.

  Herbert held his slip against a glass plate, the hooker, tall, lean, stood near him doing the same.

  "Always ignore yuh, yuh know?” she said to no one in particular. Herbert stared straight ahead towards bored guards who were determinedly ignoring them. The hooker glanced at him and smiled a knowing smile.

  After ten minutes of uncomfortable waiting the guard inside the security area took the names from their slips and called into a loudspeaker to some hidden part of the floor. Herbert heard metal doors clang, saw the bored looks of both guard and prisoner. Visitors talked loudly into the soiled phones; a chunky bleach blond crying melodramatically, a lean Hispanic father staring quietly, an angry youth and a sullen wife in her mid-twenties. Fully half of the visitors spoke in Spanish, two were Caucasian, the other four Black and all were of a socioeconomic status which appalled Herbert.

  For all his obscenities, Herbert Pratt was an educated if not a learned man, an apparent financial success if, in fact, a bankrupt. He had little in common with the other visitors except a son in trouble. Had he more compassion, more humanity, he would have shared more in common with the thirteen visitors but having little of either he had only a troubled son.

  Jared was led by a squat, pale guard, directed through a frequently painted metal door and shown the phone to speak to his father. The door was shut as he left, sealing all six prisoners on that side of the room together until visiting was complete.

  Herbert's son wore ill-fitting denims, rubber tongs and a hole ridden T-shirt with 'M.C.S.D.' stenciled across the front and rear. Bile swelled to Herbert's throat at the sight of Jared but he fought it down and determined to control himself. He needed to find out what happened.

  “Hello."

  "Hi," came Jared's muttered reply, eyes shifting across the floor behind Herbert.

  "What happened?" Shrug. Silence. "Jared, what happened that they arrested you?"

  Jared shrugged again. "Nothing much."

  "Tell me about it," Herbert asked, fighting to keep himself under control. The hooker had taken the vacated phone beside him and began talking to a handsome Black man. Her hip bumped Herbert's once, in accident or by design, he didn’t know.

  "I was driving. I stopped to get some flowers. The girl wanted to go with me." Pause. "That's all."

  Herbert stayed another thirty minutes, only losing his temper twice but he never learned anything more from Jared. He left shortly before one, exasperated and angry. The Black hooker shouted once, ran for the elevator door just stopping it with her large purse.

  "Almos' missed it," she exclaimed jumping in beside Herbert. She eyed Herbert speculatively through thick false eye lashes.

  "You come'n see me, man. Outside of Lil's, Tenth Street and Van Buren. He'll party. I like Whiteys." Just as the elevator reached the ground floor, in the instant before the doors sprung open, she reached forward with a well-practiced motion, unerringly found his flaccid penis and pressed it, sending a hot surge of desire through Herbert, bringing him to full urgent erection before she was gone. The contact had lasted only a second but so arousing had it been that Herbert's face was flush and his legs weak. It took a moment to compose himself before going to face his wife.

  ~

  Worthington picked up his phone at three-fifty eight that afternoon. It had been a hectic day for him. The police arrest so quickly the previous day had vindicated his decision Tuesday in obtaining the probation violation warrant on Jared. His supervisor had applauded his foresight. It never looked good for probationers to be arrested, unless they were also arrested on a probation violation warrant. Then it showed diligence and told the public that P.O.'s were on their toes and were prepared to take action even before the police.

  Alexander Burgoyne was on the line. "I'm representing Jared Pratt, Mr. Worthington." Worthington said nothing. The lawyer would get to his point without encouragement. The less one said to a lawyer of Burgoyne's reputation, the safer the P.O. was. "I appeared on his behalf early this afternoon at his bail hearing. I was told by the commissioner that probation violation warrants are not subject to bail and even though the commissioner set initial bail on some new charges at fifty thousand dollars, Jared cannot be released because of your warrant."

  Again Worthington did not chore to fill the silence.

  "I'm not familiar with policy but I'm unaware of any law that prohibits bail for alleged probation violators. Why is no bail allowed?"

  "It's a local rule of the Superior Court in Maricopa County. Probationers have already been adjudicated guilty of a felony and so do not have all the rights of one arrested on a new charge and presumed innocent. Mr. Pratt is already adjudicated guilty and has no right to bail, at least under the local court rules."

  "It seems to me I've heard of it in a few cases."

  Worthington hesitated. "Yes. I've seen it a few times too but only rarely."

  Burgoyne continued. "I've been reading your probation violation petition and I see nothing in it that would indicate any need for Jared to stay in jail pending his hearing on these allegations." Burgoyne knew that it was important to get his client on the streets. Men in jail stood a much greater risk of conviction.

  Worthington knew that also. "My general approach to these situations is to leave my probationers in jail until the evidentiary hearing which will be held in about three weeks. At that time the court can decide if Jared is in violation and if so what action to take. The three weeks he would be in jail until then doesn't appear to me to be unreasonable, particularly in light of the new charges."

  "Yes, I see your point but these probation violation allegations certainly don't show Jared to be a threat to society or a risk pending his hearing. As for the new charges – well, that remains to be seen. From what I know of the facts I think the police are on very shaky ground. It looks to me like a pretty clear cut case of entrapment. I don't think these new charges ought to be a subject of concern in the upcoming probation violation hearing, do you?"

  So that's his point, Worthington thought. Worthington was certain that a lawyer as experienced as Burgoyne knew was already aware of the bail situation with probation violators. The attorney must have known that Worthington would oppose any release. If Burgoyne couldn't get his client out of jail than at least he wanted a commitment that Worthington would not add the new charges as a violation of probation. Both men knew that the rules of evidence were easier for the prosecutor in a probation violation hearing and so the chances of conviction higher.

  "When I filed my petition to revoke the new charges had not as yet occurred. Now that they have, I will, of course, file a supplemental petition and add them to the other violations."

  Pause.

  Burgoyne's silver voice began again. "I'm sorry to hear that. I would be interested, however, in hearing your thinking in holding this young man for, what was it, 'failing to be gainfully employed’. Now if your concern is with his employment jail is certainly no place to keep him and that does not impress me as being..."

  Oh God, Worthington thought. This isn't going to be any fun at all.

  ~

  Herbert dropped Viola off at the club. She would join friends for a late lunch while Herbert ostensibly returned to work. Neither wished to be with the other in even the
best of times and this day was far from that.

  Herbert found himself unwilling to face his office even though he knew that his increasing absences were causing talk. The walls were closing in on him, faster than he had thought possible in his most pessimistic moments. All sources of income had dwindled to mere trickles and Herbert had begun shipping assets to California for quick, cash sale. Everything, almost everything, he owned was mortgaged and the lending institutions would have been most unhappy to learn that the assets securing notes were being systematically sold.

  Lately he had thought of ending it all and that frightened him even more than losing everything he possessed. Herbert pulled himself from his black thoughts and glanced about unaware of his location, surprised to find himself on east Van Buren.

  ~

  Worthington went to see Jared at four-twenty six that afternoon. Any statements made to him could be used against Jared at the revocation hearing and because of the special relationship of P.O.'s to probationers Worthington was not required to give Jared his rights. That was like throwing cold water on a hot fire an experienced cop had once told him.

  An interview of this type was standard procedure when a probationer had been rearrested on new charges. Strictly speaking, Worthington was meeting with Jared to decide if the new charge would be alleged against the probationer now or if the P.O. would wait until conviction. In fact, Worthington's decision was already made. The P.O. felt slightly guilty at his true purpose but persuaded himself that it was necessary.

  He was here to hear any incriminating statements Jared might make. The boy was used to talking to the P.O. He just might say something he would never say to a cop.

  Worthington fought boredom through the mechanical acts of gaining access to Jared. Unlike other visitors, he would see his man in a miniature cell, bars still separating the two of them. Within twenty minutes a portly guard led Jared into the steamy little metal room.

  "Hello, Tim," he said as the probationer was led into the cell. Jared muttered his reply. "How did you get arrested?" Worthington began.

  Pause.

  "You know. Your warrant," came the reply.

  So he's willing to talk, Worthington thought. "You mean my probation violation warrant?"

  "Yeah. Why'd you do that?" Jared was sullen.

  "I've talked to you many times about your lack of a job. You're one of only a few on my caseload who won't work."

  "What about them?"

  "I'll get to them. I've also warned you about being tardy before and missing appointments." This is all bullshit, Worthington thought. "You were arrested on other charges too, weren't you?"

  Jared shrugged. "Some lady cop. Set me up. My lawyer calls it entrapment. I got nothing to say about it."

  Shit, Burgoyne moves fast, Worthington thought. Had Worthington arrived ahead of Burgoyne there would have been a much better chance of Jared incriminating himself. Now, he would say nothing important.

  Worthington went through the motions another half hour but learned nothing. As he concluded the interview the P.O. pushed a red button which signaled the guards to electronically release his door so he could go. As occasionally happened the guard ignored the buzzer.

  Worthington sat three feet from Jared, all conversation exhausted. Each pretended the other wasn't there. Eight long minutes later the guard released Worthington from the cell.

  ~

  By early evening Herbert Pratt was moderately intoxicated. A powerful urge within him like a hand pulling him into a swift, treacherous current told him that this day would end in one of those compelled, uncontrolled, unavoidable drunks; a blind, unthinking, irrational, destructive, stinking drunk.

  But now it was early evening, the recollection of the Black hooker at the jail vivid and erotic. With careless abandon Herbert reentered east Van Buren, sipped cool beer as he drove slowly, leisurely in fact, along the busy boulevard. He had nowhere to go. No loving, available wife, no son, no home, no career, nothing.

  Herbert was alone and for now just sufficiently intoxicated to not mind. Forces beyond his control had destroyed him financially and so nothing else, truly, was of consequence. Not this night. Not his personal safety. Nothing.

  East Van Buren spawned a life of its own, only the tempo of which altered with the time of day. The hookers, predominantly Black, though not exclusively so, first appeared at about ten in the morning, remaining more or less visible until after midnight.

  A motley cluster grouped near a bus stop to justify their loitering if stopped by the police. One junky Hispanic with ponderous breasts wore a T-shirt bearing the legend, “Unemployed.”

  Several of the white hookers were actually police officers, wired for sound with uniformed backups ready to arrest any man who solicited them. The hapless ones would pay a fine and discover their names and addresses in the paper.

  As Herbert drove a third time down the street he saw its night life begin. In winter, the snowbirds of lesser means frequented the inexpensive hotels, unable to afford the more fashionable ones in Scottsdale. For now none were present to be offended by pimps, prostitutes, perverts and assorted junkies, drunks, hustlers and thieves.

  At dusk Herbert slowed before Lil's, a bar unknown to him but one notorious for the street walkers who congregated on the sidewalk in front of it. Several years before police officers had rented softball uniforms, rolled around in the dirt then gone to Lil's, eleven Whitey's slumming, guzzling cheap draft beer from stained mugs, coping feels, pinching asses and at closing, negotiating for a gang bang with all fourteen available hookers only to arrest them and shoo them off into a paddy wagon. The owner, hookers and cops all laughed like hell about it and still spoke of it good naturedly from time to time.

  Herbert knew none of this for he was out of his depth, far away from the way of life he had carved for himself – and lost. When he saw the same tall, lean Black hooker he knew why he was here.

  She leaned against the dirty stucco wall, one slender leg angled to her body, graceful foot resting against the building, a slim cigarette resting in her lips. She was dressed in a rather cheap, showy manner but less brazen then her assembled peers. The hooker did not recognize Herbert, not at first, not when he gestured for her and rolled down the passenger door window of his Blazer.

  Once she knew the man meant business she jumped in, directed him around the corner into a dilapidated residential area away from the ever present police eyes, there to conduct business. "Turn the air up, honey," she cooed, grateful to be in an air conditioned vehicle, out of the oppressive heat. She eyed Herbert speculatively, for now leaving the opening to him.

  "You a working girl?" he began. Predictably, Herbert was no novice at this. The finest sex he had ever experienced had been with hookers. This was only new because he was dealing with a street walker.

  "We's all workin' girls, honey." Pause. "You wanna party? Is that what you want?"

  Herbert nodded. "Yeah. We met in the elevator at jail, earlier."

  The hooker took her first real look at the john. "Oh yeah, I stroked your pecker for you." She grinned. "So you looked me up. My, my." She placed a slender hand on his arm briefly.

  "How much?" he asked.

  "Depends. What you want?"

  Herbert shrugged. "Some head I guess. I don't know."

  "O.K. sweety, head it is. That's thirty."

  "No it's not. Thirty for a fuck, if we fuck. Head's going be twenty cause that's all I'll go."

  "Ahh, what you wanna be like that fah? Thirty's fair." Pause. "I'll go twenty-five, for you."

  Awakening stirred through his drunkenness and Herbert felt a stir in his groin. He lost all desire to dicker further. "Alright, twenty-five, but you go the room."

  The hooker smiled. "Sure thing, honey. I got a deal with a man, no problem. Go that way." Herbert put the Blazer in gear. "My name's Cherry, hon." Pause. "Know why?" Herbert shook his head, not caring.

  "Cause I ain't got one!" Cherry roared very unladylike.

  She directed him to
the Irish Motel not far away, “Rooms $5.00 and up.” Herbert stood in the stifling room, unwilling to risk dirtying himself by laying on the soiled bed. Anyway, he liked it when the whore knelt before him. Cherry turned business-like and dropped to her knees.

  "Hey! Take your clothes off," he ordered.

  "Now my bein' naked ain't gonna make it one bit better. You want me to go to all the trouble of undressing you pay extra. Watch you want?"

  "Alright, do it."

  Cherry unzipped Herbert's fly and in a very short time brought him to the strongest orgasm he could ever recall. Afterwards, he washed briefly and then left the room with her, graciously driving her back to her corner.

  "You look me up again, hon, O.K.?"

  Herbert nodded and drove off into the night.

  ~

  Detective Paul Hudson was nearing the end of his shift when he saw Herbert and the hooker leave the hotel room together. He chuckled lightly causing his new companion to ask why.