by Sean Black
‘Not really, Your Honor.’ He hoped that the switch up from plain old ‘sir’ might win him some points and take the edge off his display of ignorance.
This time Byron got a smile that was a little less benevolent. ‘The arresting officer did tell you why you were being arrested, didn’t he?’
It was another crossroads, another moment of decision. To say, ‘Yes, he did,’ but that Byron didn’t understand the charge would be to irritate Judge Kelsen. To say that he hadn’t would be a lie, and one that could be easily disproved. Byron decided upon a middle road. One that risked annoyance but might also bring some measure of clarity.
‘I’d like to exercise my constitutional right to an attorney.’
The judge met his request with a weary sigh. ‘You weren’t already offered counsel, Mr Davis?’
‘No, sir,’ Byron told him.
‘Do you have an attorney in mind or would you like the court to appoint one for you?’ Judge Kelsen asked him. This was a polite way of asking whether he had the money for a lawyer or whether he needed a public defender. Asking for an attorney from the public defender’s office undermined any defense against a charge of vagrancy, but he wasn’t about to start throwing money away either. His funds were adequate but low.
Judge Kelsen glanced across at the court bailiff. ‘Can you make the call? And while you’re at it, could you also make a call and tell the booking sergeant I’d like to speak with him later today?’
With a degree of relief Byron sensed that the judge wasn’t irritated with him as much as annoyed that someone downstairs had dropped the ball. ‘Mr Davis, it may take us a little while to find you someone. In the meantime I’m afraid you’ll have to return to your cell. I apologize on behalf of the court for any inconvenience caused. But don’t worry, as soon as we find someone I’ll try to make sure that you’re on your way as quickly as possible.’
A little taken aback by the judge’s sincerity, Byron mumbled, ‘Thank you, Your Honor.’
For the first time that day he started to feel that this might be nothing more than a minor diversion. A strange detour into a strange small town at the ass end of Texas.
He was half right.
9
A half-hour later, Byron was woken by the sound of the holding pen being unlocked. He opened his eyes, swung his feet back onto the bare concrete and stood up. Behind the guard opening the pen’s door he saw a young woman with long black hair tied into a ponytail. She smiled warmly at Byron as he rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes.
The guard turned back to her. ‘You want him cuffed?’
‘No, thank you,’ she said.
‘Come on out,’ the guard said to Byron.
The woman put out her hand towards him. ‘Thea Martinez.’
He hadn’t registered how attractive she was until he almost said his real name. It had been on the very tip of his tongue. He recovered quickly, covering his near-slip by clearing his throat. ‘John Davis. Good to meet you.’
She held his gaze for a split second longer than seemed natural. Or that may have been Byron reading something that wasn’t there. He tended not to notice women, these days. But Thea Martinez was impossible to ignore. Especially up close. She had large brown eyes that seemed to take everything in, and a wide, sensuous smile. Byron pegged her as early, maybe late thirties. Whatever her age she had a figure that suggested she kept herself in shape.
Together, they followed the guard down the corridor. The man opened the door and ushered them into a small interview room that held a couple of whiteboards, a table, a water-cooler and four fold-out metal chairs. ‘Holler if you need anything,’ he said.
The guard left. Byron waited for Thea to sit down before he did. Old-fashioned manners.
He watched as she placed a soft leather briefcase on the table, and took out a bundle of papers. ‘How are they treating you, Mr Davis?’
‘Fine,’ he told her. ‘The back of their patrol cars could use some air-conditioning, but I don’t have any real complaints.’
She lifted her eyes from the sheaf of papers she had been leafing through. ‘I hear you,’ she said. ‘They tend not to spend any money on home comforts for anyone they arrest. Not if they can avoid it anyway.’
Byron glanced around the room. ‘They do spend money, though. At least, that’s the impression I have so far.’
‘No expense spared on themselves.’ Thea made eye contact with him again. ‘Encourages loyalty, according to the sheriff.’
‘I get that,’ Byron said. He could feel his throat starting to dry. He had just spoken more complete sentences in the past few hours than he had in the entire last week, which he had spent on the road. ‘Do you mind if I get some water?’
‘Go right ahead,’ she said.
He got up, crossed to the water-cooler and filled a small paper cup. ‘You want some?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m good. But thank you,’ she said.
He drank the water and refilled the cup. He sat back down opposite her. She ran through the false details he’d given when he’d been arrested. He confirmed them. For some reason that he didn’t understand he felt bad for lying to her.
Guilt.
‘So you were walking into town when you were arrested?’ she asked him.
He had the feeling that this was the second time she’d asked the question. The first time, it must not have registered with him. This time, it sounded like an echo.
‘That’s correct,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I’m feeling a little light-headed. Or something.’
She shot him the same smile that had made him notice her in the first place. ‘The heat down here can get to people if they’re not used to it.’ She took a breath. ‘Where was it you’re from, Mr Davis?’
He wasn’t from anywhere. He’d been from New York, or that was where he had lived with his wife. Even back then he had spent weeks and months at a time out of the country. Mostly in the Middle East. That was where the action had been and, to a lesser degree, still was.
Before he’d been married, his life had been even more itinerant. When he was back home in America he was mostly in DC, but Washington wasn’t a city he considered to be home. Thinking about it now, everything had been dictated by his work, to the point at which his life and his work had become next to inseparable. Little wonder that he had suffered some kind of a breakdown.
He realized that Thea Martinez was waiting for an answer. Her smile had begun to wane. It had been replaced by a look of concern. ‘I’m not really from anywhere, really. I move about,’ he said.
‘That may not help us when we go back before Judge Kelsen,’ she said.
‘I guess not.’ Byron could see her point. Claiming he had no fixed abode when faced with a charge of vagrancy probably wouldn’t help his cause.
‘Where was the last place you lived?’ she asked.
‘It’s been a while since I’ve lived anywhere,’ he said truthfully.
She was growing exasperated, he could tell.
‘I suppose the last place I called home was New York,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m happy to put my hands up here. Take a guilty plea, pay the fine, and get out of the county. I’ll even promise the judge never to set foot here again, if that will help. I was just passing through anyway,’ he said.
Thea scribbled a note on a piece of paper. ‘You’ve really never been in Kelsen County before, have you?’
The way she said it seemed to suggest that there was something different about it, a vibe he had picked up already. ‘No, ma’am, first time.’
‘Okay, then,’ Thea said. ‘Well, let me give you some advice. As far as we can, let’s try and establish that you have some kind of settled life somewhere. People who will miss you. Or, more pertinently, people who might start asking questions if you don’t come home.’
The words hit Byron hard. What Thea was describing was the polar opposite of his life. He had no home. He had no family or friends waiting for his safe return. He was alone. A man cast adrift in his own coun
try. Worse still, an enemy of the state.
He looked across at the table at her. ‘I can’t help you.’
She sighed. ‘I’m not asking you to help me. I’m asking you to help yourself.’
He looked away, breaking eye contact. The conversation was stirring things up inside him that he had believed had been cauterized long ago. Feelings. Emotions. Things that simply shouldn’t have been there. ‘I can’t help either of us,’ he said. ‘I’d like to plead guilty.’
She looked as if she was about to say more, but stopped herself. ‘Fine.’
He had let her down. Perhaps in some way he didn’t fully realize. She must have had clients who wanted to plead guilty before. Every lawyer did. ‘Perhaps you can speak to the judge on my behalf. See if he’ll reduce the fine, as how I’ve been co-operative,’ he said.
She gave him a tight little smile that was all professional. ‘Sure. I’ll see what I can do. But you have to understand that the judge usually prefers the custodial option to a fine. Probably the only way I could persuade him to levy a fine is if it’s an amount that makes it worth his while.’
Byron wasn’t sure what that meant, but he had a vague idea. ‘You mean like a bribe?’
Thea laughed. ‘No, Mr Davis, not like a bribe. No one ever takes a kickback in the county. No kickbacks. No bribes. Nothing like that.’
Byron said nothing. From Thea’s tone, he guessed he had insulted her or at least stumbled into sensitive territory.
‘You don’t want to ask me how I know that?’ she said.
She clearly wanted him to ask. He decided to play along. ‘How do you know that?’ he said.
‘No one would take a bribe here because they don’t have to.’ She started to gather her papers together and put them back into her leather briefcase. ‘I’ll see you back upstairs.’
10
Thea was already in court when he arrived. She leaned over and asked if he had reconsidered his guilty plea. He informed her that he hadn’t. She had seemed as disappointed as she had been the first time.
Byron did his best to tune her out. She was a distraction, nothing more. He would either pay the fine or be given a short stint in the county jail. Either way he would be walking or riding out of Kelsen County with no prospect of seeing her again. He’d have plenty of time later to reflect on what had passed between them, and what it might mean.
When Judge Kelsen had made his appearance back in court, Thea had asked permission to approach the bench. Permission was granted. Byron watched her as she walked over and spoke to the judge. Whatever case Thea was making for leniency, she appeared to be making it with some passion. The judge didn’t appear to be moved.
She stepped back to the table and sat down. ‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up,’ she told Byron. ‘He’s pretty steamed that you asked for an attorney.’
‘Steamed that I exercised my Constitutional right as a citizen?’ Byron said.
Thea shrugged. ‘His thinking doesn’t go that deep. It’s more along the lines of him missing his tee time at the Kelsen Country Club.’
The court bailiff swiped some post-lunch crumbs from his shirt and stood up. He asked everyone to stand.
Byron and Thea got to their feet. Judge Kelsen peered at Byron over the top of his glasses. From the red dot pulsing in the middle of his skull, Byron figured that he must enjoy his afternoon golf a whole lot.
‘Mr Davis, before I pass sentence I’m going to ask if you have anything to say,’ the judge said.
‘No, sir,’ Byron said, eager not to delay the man’s tee time any more than he already had and risk annoying him any further.
‘In that case I sentence you to either a fine in the amount of ten thousand dollars or ninety days in the county jail. Mr Davis, do you have ten thousand dollars?’ the judge asked, a hint of a smirk settling at the edge of his lips.
‘No, sir,’ said Byron.
‘In that case, I sentence you to ninety days in the county jail,’ the judge said, banging his gavel to indicate an end to the court’s proceedings.
Glancing back over his shoulder, Byron saw the door open and the two guards walk in. He guessed that this time his bus journey would be a little longer. He looked back to Thea.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
Byron managed a smile as he put out his hand. ‘You did your best. That’s all I could ask.’
She shook his hand and held it a second longer than necessary. ‘Is there anyone I can contact for you? If you know someone who can stand you the money then I’m sure I can come back to the court and persuade them to take the cash instead.’
‘Thanks, but I’ll be fine,’ he said.
‘You seem pretty relaxed for a man who just got ninety days for walking along a highway,’ Thea said.
‘Would getting upset change anything?’ he said.
‘You always this chilled?’ she asked.
‘Who said I am?’ he said.
Thea began to gather her papers from the table. She ripped off a strip of paper, scribbled her number on it and handed it to Byron. ‘This is my cell. If you need me while you’re in County just give me a ring. Day or night.’
He took the piece of paper and glanced at the digits. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘I give all of my clients who are sentenced to jail time my number. Things can get a little out of hand once you’re in the system here.’
‘Out of hand?’ he said.
She didn’t say anything more, just looked at him. ‘I’m sure a man like you will be fine.’
He wondered what the hell that was supposed to mean. ‘Can I ask you something?’ he said. ‘It’s been niggling at me. It might sound stupid but …’
She folded her arms across her chest. ‘I had a law professor who said that the only stupid question was the one you never asked.’
‘The bus trip from the holding area to the court. Wouldn’t it be easier, faster even, to walk?’ he asked.
‘Yes, it would,’ she said.
‘So what’s with the bus?’ he said.
She held up her hand and rubbed the tip of her index finger and thumb together. ‘Court security is operated by a private company. Every prisoner who’s transferred by bus, regardless of the distance, earns the company a flat fee of fifty dollars.’
The guards were either side of him now. Byron sensed that Thea had more to tell him, but that she wasn’t about to say it in front of them. ‘Come on, buddy, let’s go,’ the smaller guard said.
‘Good luck, Mr Davis,’ Thea said.
11
Byron was guided onto a long silver bus by the two guards. A belly chain linked the cuffs around his wrists to the shackles around his ankles. The guards deposited him in a window seat about halfway back. They walked back down to the front, the driver opened the door and they got off.
The driver sat there in the broiling heat. Minutes passed. The driver dug out a bottle of water from a bag by his feet and took a swig.
More time passed. The driver made no sign of starting the engine. Byron wondered what he was waiting for as the heat began to build. The front half of the bus was shaded by the court building. The rear was in direct sunlight. Byron was sitting in the first seat that caught some serious rays. He had no idea if the guards had put him there for that reason. He didn’t want to think about it. Whether they had or hadn’t made no difference.
Byron pulled his hands apart, testing the strength of his handcuffs. Broadly speaking, handcuffs came in three types, chain, hinge, or bar, depending upon how the cuffs themselves were linked. Because the most popular method for getting out of cuffs was to pick the lock, chained cuffs were the easiest to escape. The chain gave the hands more flexibility and range of movement. Bar cuffs were tougher to pick, though not impossible. Hinge cuffs were way more difficult. These were hinge cuffs.
The side door he had come through half an hour before opened. Three more shackled prisoners were escorted onto the bus by the same two guards. Mercifully, the guards took their seats. The driver star
ted the engine. The bus pulled forward.
Byron closed his eyes for a moment and savored the very faintest breeze as the bus made its way down a long alley towards a gatehouse. Wall-high metal gates opened slowly. The bus moved forward and to the left.
The turn seemed to detour them round the super-neat sidewalks, McMansions and lush golf course that Byron had seen on the way there. Within minutes they were on an open highway heading out of town.
The landscape was one of scrub desert, harsh and unrelenting. It made what they had left behind seem all the more surreal. It was as if someone had lifted an upscale, west-coast college town, like Santa Barbara, and dumped it just inside the Texas border with Mexico.
12
In the distance, Byron could make out a long stretch of chain-link fence topped with curved razor wire. Within the outside perimeter fence there was another fence. Guard towers were placed every thousand yards between the two fences. A patrol road ran parallel to them all the way round.
They drove closer. He could make out a series of single-story buildings. He counted off four, each divided by more fencing and with a yard in front. There might have been more. He would find out soon enough.
The bus made one last turn and stopped at a gatehouse. The driver opened his window and exchanged a few words with the shotgun-toting guard manning the station. A barrier swung up. The driver pushed on through. The bus came to a stop. The driver killed the engine. The two guards got out and disappeared through a doorway.
They sat there for a few minutes, quietly baking in the mid-afternoon sun. The three other prisoners, all male, and all Hispanic, whispered to each other in Spanish. Byron made out a few words but not enough to piece together what they were saying. He didn’t miss the tone, though. They were scared.
The guards returned. The larger one clambered back onto the bus. ‘Okay, muchachos, on your feet.’