Brambleman

by Jonathan Grant

  He slept fitfully, waking when the pain from his injuries intruded on his oblivion. In a semi-conscious state, he saw visions: signs of a coming Apocalypse, when the wicked would pay for their sins in the fiery pit, the righteous would smite their own sons and daughters, and then take their parking spaces. There would be bats aplenty in his Apocalypse, and for some reason, a groundhog. He realized he wasn’t taking Armageddon seriously, but the pain that lingered in his thigh and jaw made it hard to properly concentrate on the End Time, and even more difficult to sleep. How much brimstone could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck brimstone?

  * * *

  Charlie looked up and saw a jailer holding a folded-up Atlanta Journal-Constitution outside the cell. “Sherman, looks like you got your name in the paper.”

  Bleary-eyed, Charlie rolled off the mat and shuffled toward the deputy. “Can I see?”

  The jailer laughed and walked away, leaving Charlie to wonder: Why would a misdemeanor arrest merit a newspaper story? The answer: Uncle Stanley, of course. If the varmints couldn’t kill him, they’d discredit him by throwing him in jail. Then they’d kill him—but only after showing him that no one would miss him. Nice touch.

  And to think he’d been on the verge of success. Now this, his ruin. All his money would go to fight these charges. The varmints would win. He’d end up with nothing. After a few hours in jail, he understood perfectly why inmates, lonely and abandoned, hanged themselves. He didn’t understand why every time he worked through his life equation, he ended up dead, one way or another. But there he was. Mental note: Get rich, buy friends.

  While other prisoners made bail, Charlie stewed. Apparently he was pariah to local bondsmen. Again, he blamed Uncle Stanley. The cell’s TV was broken, and other than asking twice for a newspaper (to no avail), Charlie kept his mouth shut. Still no word from Sandra. Then again, why would an African-American woman want to set foot in Forsyth County? Obviously, he’d wasted his phone call. After all, his relationship with Angela was nothing more than a series of battles, truces, and one-sided deals. She probably wanted him to rot in jail. But surely not in Forsyth, where her father, too, had suffered. She would resent the irony enough to do something about it. Wouldn’t she?

  Shifts changed. Day turned to night in Charlie’s windowless world. More prisoners came: meth dealer, probation violator, burglar, girlfriend beater. None talked much. Instead, they slept. When fatigue overcame his pain, Charlie joined them in slumber.

  Wednesday morning came, and still no word on his release. Ridiculous! Surely someone was trying to get him out. If not, why go on living? Damn. Zeroed out again. The jailers fed Charlie and barely noticed him otherwise. That night, he ran a fever. His wounded leg had swollen, straining the sutures and oozing pus. He shivered, shook, and sweated through the night. When the lights came on, he was haggard and pale. He’d barely spoken a dozen words since he’d been brought in. Now he felt too weak to talk.

  Several other prisoners were released to a bail bondsman. Meanwhile, Charlie lay in a heap on his mat. After pondering his situation for a while, he decided (yet again) that he couldn’t go on. The problem wasn’t just being in jail. What made it worse was the knowledge that everyone outside was content to leave him there. He had a blanket, and though tall, he was clever. But there were still a half dozen inmates lounging around in the cell. First he’d rest. Then, as soon as he was alone …

  * * *

  As it turned out, Charlie was no more successful at ending his life than his enemies had been. Actually, he never got around to trying. Thursday morning, a young, fresh-faced deputy ripped his baton along the cell door’s bars. “Get up! Time for your bond hearing, Mr. Famous.”

  Bleary-eyed, Charlie squinted at the deputy and staggered to his feet—disheveled, weak-kneed, and burning with fever. “I’m sick,” he groaned.

  “You’ll be out soon, and you’ll be someone else’s problem.”

  Charlie declined to eat breakfast, and a little while after a trusty took his tray away, Deputy Strayer cuffed Charlie’s hands in front of him and led him to a white van outside. Charlie winced and put his shackled wrists over his eyes to shield them from the sun, which seemed overpowering, even as a wintry wind cut through his jail uniform. He tripped over a parking curbstone and fell to his knees, yelping in pain. The deputy grabbed Charlie’s arm and pulled him up, then helped him into the van. The door slammed shut. Charlie, alone in back, marveled at the growing spot of blood on his pants leg where his sutures had popped.

  The van crossed the street, circled the courthouse, and backed up to a door. “Looks like you’re going to be even more famous,” the deputy said over his shoulder, through the mesh. “Bunch of reporters from Atlanta to cover you. So be cool.” Charlie dropped his head in shame.

  Strayer came around and opened the rear door. “What the hell did you do?” he yelled.

  “I’m hurt,” Charlie mumbled, his jumpsuit leg now covered with blood.

  Strayer was joined by a young deputy, who stared open-mouthed at Charlie as a stream of journalists rounded the building’s corner, pushing, shoving, and jockeying for position between the van and the courthouse entrance. Charlie was befuddled by the cameras. How did he merit this kind of coverage? When deputies pulled him out, Charlie hit another curbstone—God, he hated those things!—and fell on the pavement again. He broke the fall with his hands, popping more sutures.

  “We gotta take him to the hospital,” said the younger deputy.

  A middle-aged sergeant forced his way through the crowd. “After the hearing,” he said. “We gotta get through the media circus first.”

  Two lawmen grabbed the prisoner around the waist and half-carried him into the building while reporters barked questions Charlie didn’t comprehend. After taking the elevator, the three men burst unceremoniously into a second-story hearing room. It was packed with people, mostly young women, several of them black. Journalists poured in after them. Charlie saw Angela standing along the back wall. And there was Sandra Hughes, sitting at a table in front. A bolt of energy ran through him. The sisterhood had come to his rescue!

  Crenshaw, the newspaper reporter who’d interviewed Charlie at the coffeehouse a year before, sat on the front row along with some TV reporters. Cameras on tripods lined the far wall. The deputies led the prisoner to his stout, short-haired African-American attorney, who was conferring with three earnest-looking white women in dark business suits leaning in over her table. Looking gruff and purposeful, they whispered and shuffled papers. All four lawyers looked at Charlie in amazement and horror, then turned in unison to stare at the deputies, who sat Charlie in a chair and backed away like he was a suspect package—instead of a packaged suspect.

  “You made it!” Charlie cried in amazement. “I was afraid—actually, I just … wow.” He looked around. “How does an arrest for theft by taking draw this kind of attention?”

  Sandra looked at him like he’d come from another planet. “God, have they been beating you?”

  “I got shot. But you wouldn’t know that.”

  “Are you kidding? Everyone knows. Somebody took a picture of you coming out of a window. You looked like The Terminator. It’s actually pretty cool. You kept your shades on.” She pulled a copy of Tuesday morning’s paper from her briefcase to show him the front-page photo. Above it, the headline: “Writer Missing after Shooting.” “You made The New York Times and the CBS Evening News. We thought you’d died until Angela found your message on her machine. We alerted the media, forcing them to set this hearing. She also brought her Intro to Sociology class for moral support. You’ll be happy to know you are now extra credit.”

  “Wow. I’ve never been extra credit before.”

  He turned to wave at Angela, who gave him a clenched-fist salute. His spirits were rising. He had some fight left in him, after all. There were things people needed to know, and he was the one to tell them. “Why has it taken so long?” he asked. “Where have you been?”

  “I’m so
rry.” She gave him a hangdog look. “I didn’t hear from Angela till late Wednesday.”

  “She doesn’t check her messages very often,” he said glumly.

  “I know. But I worked all last night, and I brought reinforcements. Charles, this is Debra Biello of the ACLU, Karen Janus of the Georgia Criminal Defense Project, and Callie Wollcroft with Prisoners of Conscience.” Sotto voce, she said, “They’re considering declaring you a political prisoner. I’m sure they will after what we’ve seen here.”

  Charlie nodded to the women and held up his shackled hands. They all complimented him on his first-class suffering, then Ms. Biello handed him a Kleenex for his oozing hand. “That’s some book you wrote,” she said, pointing to a copy of Flight on the table. Seeing people leaning forward, taking notes, he grabbed the book with his bloody hand and posed with it, in case anyone wanted to take a picture. Several flashes went off.

  “Mr. Sherman,” said Ms. Janus, “I was reluctant to review a misdemeanor charge, but we’re definitely opening a case file now.”

  “You need medical treatment,” said Ms. Biello.

  “And a press conference,” said Ms. Wollcroft.

  “You’re a cause célèbre,” Sandra said. “Savor the moment.”

  Charlie gave her a look of disbelief. “Savor the moment? Press conference? I want the hell out of here!”

  The ACLU attorney said, “Didn’t you know everyone wants to hear from you?”

  Charlie stared at her, dumbfounded. “Hell, I had trouble coming up with a number for my free phone call. I thought I was going to disappear in there.”

  “You didn’t know everybody knew you got shot?” Her tone was incredulous.

  Charlie shook his head sadly. “I didn’t know what I didn’t know.”

  Sandra held up the latest front page: “Wounded Writer Held Without Bond.” She patted his arm. “You shouldn’t even be in jail on these trumped-up charges. Isaac Cutchins is crazy. He threatened to kill two reporters if they didn’t get off his property.”

  “Offen his property,” Charlie corrected. “And he’s not crazy. He’s got something to hide.”

  A side door opened. Charlie’s mouth shut. A slight, balding man with a shaggy fringe of hair and wearing a threadbare blue suit entered the room. A few people stood. The man motioned for them to sit down. “I’m just a magistrate,” he said in a nasal twang, then did a comical double-take at the civil rights lawyers as they scrambled to find chairs. “It’s just a bond hearing, ladies,” he said. “An informal proceeding. I don’t even need a plea today, let alone a full-blown defense.”

  He took a seat behind the desk by the window and put on a pair of spectacles. The sergeant stepped forward to hand him a file. He looked over it briefly and grimaced. “So you’re Charles Sherman.” The man glanced at the defense table, lowered his gaze, and squinted. “Is that blood? Stand up, Mr. Sherman.”

  Charlie stood. The magistrate’s face wrinkled in distaste. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Your honor, Sandra Hughes, lead counsel for the defendant.”

  “And I’m Hugh Toomer, Ms. Hughes. Sit down, Mr. Sherman. I must say, the defendant has brought an awful lot of legal talent for a bond hearing on—”

  He looked over his glasses at the files.

  “—criminal trespass and theft by taking. Why was this postponed so long? This note says ‘Hold until four p.m. Thursday.’ What does that mean?” He gave the sergeant a piercing look.

  Sandra, still standing, spoke: “Your honor, that statement may be a key to the problem. My client’s treatment has been an outrage. He has been held incognito nearly to the law’s limit and denied medical treatment. These offenses follow an assassination attempt on him by two Forsyth County men and his arrest on flimsy charges contained in questionable warrants. This doesn’t seem like America to me. More like Guantanamo or Abu Ghraib.”

  Two Forsyth men. Charlie wore a blank expression as he mulled over this fact.

  “Save the histrionics for the trial,” Toomer said.

  A flash of anger crossed Sandra’s face as the magistrate glanced down at paperwork. “You go, woman!” Charlie whispered. “I love pre-trial histrionics!”

  “I’d say what we have is a misdemeanor defendant who’s bleeding,” Toomer observed. “Is the sheriff already out of money for treating prisoners? We’re not even through January.”

  The sergeant and Strayer offered conflicting explanations—“Your honor, they were self-inflicted” and “He fell on the way over”—delivered simultaneously. Audience members hooted derisively.

  Wearing a sour expression, Toomer shook his head. A second later, a man in a suit burst through the same door Toomer had entered and blurted, “My apologies.” He turned and looked in horror at the crowd, then at Charlie.

  “Our late solicitor general, Paul Armitage,” Toomer said, drawing titters from the crowd. “All right, we need to set bond. And frankly, I don’t understand why you’re here.”

  “The sheriff considers him a flight risk,” Armitage said. “He was hiding out. If we could just hold him until four—”

  Sandra was up like a shot. “This is outrageous! Obviously, Mr. Sherman was hiding out because people wanted to kill him. Your honor, we seek immediate removal of the defendant from Forsyth County for his personal safety. We ask that he be released on his own recognizance, though I must admit I’m curious about the state’s interest in holding Mr. Sherman.”

  “Perhaps at a more pertinent time, Ms. Hughes.” Toomer glanced at the warrants on his desk. “All right, I signed these two months ago for a couple of misdemeanors. Not felonies.” He squinted at Armitage. “These charges don’t even make it to trial most of the time. Why is he being held for nearly the full seventy-two hours?”

  “It wasn’t my doing, but I would point out the victim is a prominent—”

  “Ixnay on the ominentpray,” Toomer said. “Let’s send Mr. Sherman home. Mr. Sherman, I’m releasing you without requiring you to post bond, providing that you give us a proper address. And we should have a doctor look at you right now. Any objections?”

  Charlie stood. “Your honor,” he said, feeling a steel grip on his left arm. “Why is there no property listed on the theft warrant?”

  “Shhh,” Sandra hissed.

  The magistrate looked down and said, “The warrant says ‘certain personal items.’”

  “I suggest you ask them what I stole,” Charlie said. Sandra wrapped both hands around his forearm and pulled with all her might, forcing him down.

  “Discovery is not the purpose of this proceeding, Mr. Sherman. The defendant is released on his own recognizance.” Toomer looked around. “All right. Mr. Sherman, please obey any court summons or subpoenas you receive. Everybody knows who you are now, that’s for sure. Deputy, would you please uncuff Mr. Sherman? Next case.”

  “That’s all we got,” the sergeant said.

  “What a waste of time,” the magistrate muttered.

  Armitage, looking like he wanted to be elsewhere, was immediately surrounded by reporters, who interrupted his attempt to make a cellphone call. “No comment! I’m not trying this case in the media,” he said, waving his hands in the air as he retreated, punching buttons.

  The reporters then pressed in on the defense table, but before Charlie could speak, deputies laid hands on him. “We’ll take you back to the detention center and get you looked at by a doctor and processed out,” the sergeant told him, then turned to a fellow deputy. “Call the EMTs.”

  As journalists shouted questions, Charlie told Sandra, “You handle the media. I’m too tired to talk.”

  The sergeant said, “Ma’am, if you’re going to hold a press conference, please do it outside.”

  “I suggest you do your job, not try to keep me from doing mine, deputy,” Sandra snapped.

  The prisoner stood and presented himself for uncuffing, but the deputies hurried him away in shackles. “I need a ride back to Atlanta,” he said over his shoulder, then shouted
for all to hear, “Ask them what I stole!”

  As the door closed behind him, a young woman yelled, “Speak truth to power, Charles!”

  Unfortunately for Charlie, it was still power’s turn to talk. Waiting at the jail were two navy blue-suited, middle-aged white guys with dark hair: Finch and Drew. They claimed to be GBI agents armed with a material witness warrant that allowed them to detain Charlie for questioning. Although his jailers had called paramedics to treat Charlie, Finch and Drew pulled rank, claiming Charlie was involved in a terrorist drug-smuggling conspiracy. The locals ceded authority, washing their hands of Forsyth’s most famous jailbird. They called off the paramedics. By this time, Charlie was merely oozing blood, anyway.

  As soon as one set of cuffs was removed, another was slapped on. This time, Charlie’s hands were placed behind his back. Agents Finch and Drew were in such a hurry to move their prisoner that he had to literally dig in his heels before they would allow the desk sergeant to retrieve his keys from the property lockup. They pushed him out the side door into the transfer bay. Charlie saw their car and stopped cold. The Crown Victoria looked like the vehicle that had followed him briefly when he left Kathleen’s house back in November. And the one that staked out Danny Patterson’s place. The damned car was everywhere—maybe it had even blended into Kathleen’s funeral procession. So that’s how—

  “Oh, hell no!” Charlie yelled. “I’m not letting you take me into the woods and shoot me! Help!”

  The agents pulled harder. Charlie shook them off and staggered backward, then started kicking at them, which was, in retrospect, a mistake. The agents called for help. Two deputies came running and tackled Charlie, pinning him to the concrete floor. While Charlie was down, Finch kicked him in the ribs. Oof. The four men brought him to his feet and shoved him into the back of the car. “They’re going to kill me!” he shouted. “Third time’s a charm.” He thought for a second. “Fourth time, overall. But who’s counting?”