The orange was sour and I spat most of it out along with the pips, firing them into the cups. The water was a welcoming taste though — even warm, it drowned out the bitterness in my mouth. I finished it in three gulps and placed the cup alongside the others. Nine plastic cups. Apart from Carmella, I hadn't spoken to anyone in days, so the only communication I'd had was with myself. At times I even spoke to the cups, and as stupid as it sounds now, I had a name for each one. Each day there were another two cups; each day two new members of a growing family.
My eyes were heavy and tired from another sleepless night of tossing and turning on the damp, concrete floor. I wiped some sticky sleep away from my eyes and rubbed it onto my jeans. I hadn't changed them since I'd left the hostel which seemed like a lifetime ago and even though Rosa had washed them for me, they now smelt of smoke, piss and shit, as did my shirt. I was in desperate need of a shower.
I looked around at the other prisoners who were unusually quiet. Some stood with their arms hanging out between the cell bars, smoking and staring at each other, whilst others had their heads down, staring at the floor. I had no doubt that they were all wondering when they would ever be getting out of there, as was I. Looking around I tried to take it all in: vulnerable men — incarcerated for whatever reason — not having a clue about what the next day would bring. Just looking at them, I felt sorry for them. I thought of my family: my mum, dad, brothers and sister. What the hell would they think if they knew? Did they know? Had anyone told them? I felt my stomach fall and did all that I could to contain it.
Sometime later, the clanking of keys and the turning of the lock made me look up and I stared across the cell as the basement door opened. The same, toothless guard appeared. Passing the other cells, he marched towards me, occasionally lashing out at the arms of the prisoners with his baton, still smiling that fucking ugly grin of his as he did so. What a bastard. The prisoners he hit yelled out in pain, but they still spat back at him, most times managing to connect with the side of his face and the back of his neck. It looked like a sick and twisted game; one I didn't understand at first. But it was obvious they were asserting the last bit of freedom they had left — the one thing the guards couldn't take away.
When he reached my cell door he fumbled for the key on his belt. I was surprised he could find any keys at all; he was grossly overweight with an enormous stomach that hung down over his blue uniformed trousers. When he located the right one and opened the door, he pointed at me with two fingers and he told me to get up. "Jesus… here goes," I muttered to myself. As I stood, he approached me, grinning as he did so and wiping salvia from his face. He tossed two white laces onto the floor and I knelt down and picked them up. Taking both ends of each lace, I carefully measured them and pushed them through each eyelet of my trainers one at a time — first my left and then my right. He shouted at me to hurry up and with fright I glanced up at him. With the baton in one hand, he was hitting the palm of his other, his grin diminished to an evil stare. I hurriedly finished tying them and stood up. We were nose to nose. "Fuck," I said, turning away. His breath was rancid.
It occurred to me that the last time I'd cleaned my teeth was at Rosa's apartment, days earlier. Cupping my hand over my mouth, I blew into it and inhaled. It was just as bad, but at least I had an excuse. Thoughts of Rosa whirred around in my mind. Why didn't I just go back to you? Why the fuck did I go back into the hotel?
Suddenly, the guard took hold of both my arms, turned me around and shoved me into the wall. With all thoughts of Rosa lost, the side of my face rebounded off the concrete and I felt warm blood trickle from my lip as the plastic cups splayed across the floor. Grabbing hold of my wrists, he pulled them together around my back and handcuffed me. "Why the fuck do you have to be so rough, you bastard!" I yelled, but he just laughed, his heavy breath sliding down the back of my neck.
He marched me out of the cell, slamming the door behind us. We strode past the other prisoners who whistled and clapped, trying to reach out and grab me by my shirt. He opened the door and we made our way along the corridor, past the room where I'd met Carmela, up three flights of stairs and along the narrow hallway with the arched ceiling. I felt uncomfortable and claustrophobic again — even more so knowing where we were heading. The windows, now to my right, were letting in the early morning light. The sun was out and I hadn't seen natural light for days. He gripped my arm as we walked to the end of the corridor, his tattooed snake staring at me as I looked down and counted the tiles out loud again — thirty six, exactly the same number of steps and tiles as before.
The guard fumbled for the key and I wondered again how he ever managed to see over his stomach, but in one attempt he found it and unlocked the door. When the bright morning sun hit my eyes, I instantly turned away and looked down, unable to cover my eyes because of the handcuffs. The sensation of the heat was incredible and for a moment I was transported — a beautiful vision of Rosa and I on the beach playing out in my mind. But it was short-lived.
A blue police van screeched to a halt in front of us and the driver jumped out and unlocked the two back doors. The guard yanked me onto the pavement and then onto the road.
There was a caged door between the door and the back of the van. He opened it and I felt the full force of his hands on my back as he pushed me inside. I managed to steady myself and slumped down onto an empty seat to my left. There were four other male prisoners in the back of the van, all staring at me, and when they started to shout at me I was relieved that they were handcuffed too.
I couldn't understand why there was so much hatred towards me. Was it because I was English? Had they heard about my charges? Shifting my body, I turned my back to ignore them as the driver turned the key in the ignition, and as the engine came to life and we made our way to the court, I stared out of the window watching the world rush by, terrified of what lay ahead.
THE JOURNALIST
The morning sun warmed my face as I peered through the small, van window at the cloudless blue sky above. Varying shades of green covered the countryside, the hedges and fences turning the fields into a life-size jigsaw. Buildings were scattered across the land and as we passed the occasional farmer, I caught glimpses of them tending to their livestock and harvest. My mind wandered from farmhouse to farmhouse, imagining the design of the interior of the properties. Do they have a large reception room? Is there a wood burner? Is it a typical farm style kitchen? My property background kicked in and I was in my element. I wanted to be back in my office negotiating deals and viewing properties in Central London, but that seemed like a lifetime away. Reality hit me when one of the prisoners kicked the back of my right leg. I turned around and he laughed at me — they all did — and he muttered something in Spanish. Whatever it was, I ignored it, and turned my back on them. He never kicked me again.
We passed an old working windmill with cows alongside it, some standing and others laying down and chewing their cud. When the sun disappeared behind a cloud, I caught a reflection of myself in the window, my hair dishevelled and matted, not glossy and shiny how Pink always liked it. I stared back at myself — at my eyes lost and scared, and at the black circles sucking the life from them. My face was thin and tired, my tan had faded fast and I didn't recognize myself anymore. Who was I? What had I become? I looked a complete mess. Closing my eyes, my head drooped like a drunk in his final minutes of consciousness and a tear slid down my cheek onto my week old beard. I tried my best to look past the glass and up to the sky but when we entered a tunnel, the daylight vanished. For those few seconds, with the light and warmth gone, I felt more alone than I had ever done in my life. Another tear fell from my cheek onto the dirty window and I followed its path as it zigzagged downwards and finally disappeared into the condensation on the glass. For a moment or two I was totally lost.
The van took a sharp right and my head bounced off the window, rousing me from my day dream. The fields had gone and I stared out at rows of cafés, at people drinking coffee and waiters rushing
back and forth with their orders. When the van turned again and slowed down, I immediately saw the imposing court house in front of me. A small congregation of well-dressed people were standing, talking and smoking outside, their briefcases at their feet. The Georgian style building covered four floors and the white pillars either side of the large, oak wood doors were guarded by two policemen talking casually, absorbed in their own gossip. Large stash windows were evenly placed in equal sets of two across all the floors — each set displaying a range of pretty spring flowers beneath them. It looked too beautiful to be a court house.
We drove past the crowd, turned right and stopped by the side of the building. I heard some footsteps going around the side and then to the back of the van and bright sunshine flooded in as the rear doors opened. A guard ordered us to get off. The other prisoners left one by one and still handcuffed, I manoeuvred myself upright, jumped onto the step and onto the road. The heat hit me instantly and reminded me of the moment I'd first arrived in Spain and stepped off of the plane.
We were ushered through the side door into the hallway of the Court House — a large space which seemed a lot smaller with the bustle of people and activity. With a guard by my side, we walked along the hallway and I was escorted up the court's elegant marble stairway to the first floor. As we made our way along the corridor I noticed a small group of people to my right, whispering to each other and staring and pointing at me. The atmosphere became tenser as their whispers grew louder.
"There's the guy who started the fire!" One young girl shouted.
"There's the bastard, he's the one who did it!" said another, yelling and pointing at me as we passed them.
I tried to plead my innocence. "I didn't start the fire! I didn't do anything. It's a mistake! They have it all wrong." But my voice was lost amid theirs; it was pointless.
The guard tightened his grip on my arm and we hurriedly marched down the hallway leaving the crowd behind. We came to a closed room with a chair outside and the guard pointed for me to sit down and told me not to move. I did as he asked, lowered my head and stared at the floor, trying my best to ignore the accusations that were being bellowed from the end of the hallway. Glancing up, I noticed a clock on the wall with its large black numbers confirming the time. It was eight thirty.
A man with blond receding hair and round silver rimmed glasses, smartly dressed in beige trousers and a plain blue shirt, sat down next to me.
"So, you're the guy who started the fire?"
Looking straight into his eyes, and through gritted teeth, I replied: "look, I don't know who the fuck you are, but…"
"I'm Paul," he interrupted, offering me his hand.
"No chance," I replied. I leant forward, showing him my arms cuffed behind my back.
"Ah yes. I see. Of course not." He pulled his hand away.
"I didn't start the fire," I told him. "I wasn't even there. I was at a party with my girlfriend. I needed some air, left the party on my own, went for a walk and saw the flames in the distance. Stupidly, I went to have a look. I didn't start it, I swear. I'm being accused of arson and manslaughter, it's fucking crazy. This is wrong. It's all wrong."
"Okay, okay," he said, patting my shoulder and standing up." Look, just give me a minute."
He walked over to a guard who was standing, legs astride, outside the closed door. They spoke in Spanish for a few moments and I watched as the guard nodded. Paul returned and sat down.
"Okay, Dave, he's agreed I can talk with you. And I'm going to try and get the judge to agree to me representing you in court."
"How can you help me? Are you a lawyer?"
"Not exactly," he said. "I'm a journalist for an English national newspaper. I've been living here for quite a few years and I'm well known within the court system. I've helped lots of people who have got into trouble overseas."
"Well if that's the case," I said, "can you start by getting me out of these bloody handcuffs?"
He nodded, then stood up and walked back over to the guard. Within seconds, the guard came over, grabbed hold of my arm, lifted me from the chair and removed the cuffs. I gently rubbed my wrists as we both sat down again.
"Dave, you look like crap," Paul said. "And you smell even worse."
I didn't flinch; he was right.
"I understand you've been held in a cell for about week without washing facilities and proper food."
"Yep, not the five star treatment I had in mind." I managed a laugh for the first time in days.
"This is the plan, Dave," he said. "I'm going to ask the judge for bail and request that whilst on bail you stay with me."
"Fuck, really?" I looked at him, my eyes wide. "Shit. I'm sorry to swear, but would I really get bail because I can't face going back to the cells again…I just can't take that place anymore."
"I can't promise, but I'll do my best."
"Why are you doing this for me?"
"Because…" he said, placing his hands on his lap, "…I believe you and this is what I do."
"Thanks," I said, "I need all the help I can get. And now the cuffs are of…" I offered him my hand and he shook it.
The guard moved away from the door as it opened. My name was called and we both stood up and made our way to the court room. Just before we entered, Paul stopped me and took me to one side.
"Dave, listen to me. This is a preliminary hearing, like a trial before the trial. The judge is going to decide whether you're guilty or not and whether there's enough evidence to force you to stand trial. If so, he'll set a date. The Judge will ask you to acknowledge and confirm your name. Just answer him yes, with a smile. Also, if he asks you if you understand the charges, just say yes, nothing else. Then I'll speak on your behalf and let's hope he agrees to what I ask."
"Okay," I said, but Paul…"
He turned and looked at me.
"Just get me bail."
"I'll do my best. Come on, let's go."
Even before I'd put a foot in the room, the guard grabbed my arm and handcuffed my wrists again and marched me through with Paul following behind us. The room was large and airy with one huge window that had a venetian blind pulled half way down to block out some of the morning sun. A ceiling fan rotated and purred, circulating warm air around the room. Three men, all in their fifties I guessed, and looking impressive in matching tailored pinstripe suits, had their heads down, writing and shuffling papers behind their desks, facing the elevated seat at the front of the court room. A smart woman with a pretty face was to my left, tapping the keyboard of her typewriter as I was escorted to the dock. Paul headed towards the right hand-side of the room and sat on the first bench, just behind the three men.
The long hand of the clock on the wall opposite me moved towards the twelve and the short hand to the nine. Right on time, the Judge — in a dark black suit with a matching cloak over his shoulders — appeared from a back office. Everyone in the room stood. He was a tall, slim man with a neat grey hair style and a lined, pale face. He sat down behind his desk and we followed suit. Then one of the men stood up, called for the case to commence and motioned for me to stand. I obliged, feeling ashamed and nervous, with my heart thumping in my chest.
"Please can you confirm your name," the Spanish Judge requested in excellent spoken English.
"David Paul Perlmutter," I answered with a slight stutter. I hadn't stuttered since I was a kid.
"I've looked at your file and all the correspondence with it and the final decision is that a hearing will take place regarding the charges against you. Do you understand the charges against you?"
I felt the rush of blood in my head. The room closed in on me as I looked at Paul for help.
"Do you understand the charges against you and why you are here?" he repeated.
I thought about what Paul had told me to say, but the charges — arson and manslaughter — I did not understand. I looked at Paul again and noticing that I was panicking, he stood up.
"May I speak with the accused, Your Honour?" Paul asked t
he Judge.
"Yes," he said, confirming it with a nod of his head.
"Paul," I whispered. I can't answer that question. I don't understand the charges. I know I'm guilty of theft, but arson and manslaughter? No way. I'm innocent."
"Listen to me, Dave." His voice was stern. "Just answer yes to the questions because if you don't, you may not get bail. It's up to you, but I'll help you, I promise."
I turned back to the Judge. "Yes your Honour, I told him. "I understand the charges."
"You may sit down then."
He turned away from me and scanned the file on his desk. Turning a page, he asked one of the men in front of him to come forward. They were in deep conversation for a few minutes and then they called Paul over. Paul looked in my direction and smiled. Another few minutes later the Judge announced that Paul would say a few words on my behalf.
"Your honour, I would like to request that until the trial commences, the accused resides with me where I will look after him and prepare him to be ready for the court case. He has been in jail at the police station for a week or so without having a wash or a decent meal. I will guarantee that he comes to court when the case begins. I hope this is acceptable, Your Honour."
I looked around the room while the Judge deliberated the request, my heart beating fast. I had an itchy spot on my nose but couldn't scratch it as my sweaty palms were still handcuffed behind my back. The pretty woman tapped busily away on her typewriter and after a few moments, the Judge looked up from his desk, took off his glasses and turned towards me.
"The court grants you bail under the conditions that you remain under Paul's guidance and that he brings you back to court when the case commences in… now let's see…" He placed his glasses on the tip of his nose, looked down at his desk and said, "…three days from today at nine am. Do you understand?"
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