Silencing Sam

by Julie Kramer

  Another, more animated cell mate walked up to the window, unsnapped her jumpsuit, and flashed her breasts at a male prisoner standing in the hall. He hooted with appreciation.

  I recognized a pretty blond woman accused of sneaking into schools, stealing teachers’ purses, and using their credit cards. Her picture had been publicized the past two days, and the cops must have picked her up earlier in the day. Already she seemed popular with our peers.

  I was trying to decide if it was better to just lay low and hope no one noticed me, or whether it might be nice if someone recognized me and wanted to be my friend. Then I heard my name.

  “Hey, you that TV chick?” A chubby woman with wavy black hair looked me over from top to bottom.

  I pretended I didn’t hear her. Yet she insisted I was Riley Spartz from Channel 3.

  “Really, you’re on TV?” Another inmate seemed suspicious. “What are you in for?”

  “Parking tickets, I bet,” said a third woman, piping up.

  “Maybe it’s one of them First Amendment things like not revealing a source,” another prisoner suggested.

  “What if she’s here to spy on us?” asked a scowling woman with lots of tattoos. “Maybe she’s wearing a wire.”

  Several of them formed a circle and started to move toward me, like a wall of orange.

  “Murder,” I blurted out. “That’s what I’m in for. Homicide.”

  They all pulled back, steering clear of me, and returned to their jailhouse business. I felt like I was in high school again, rejected by the popular girls.

  All except the chubby one, who shook her head and laughed. “I don’t believe you’re a killer. I think you just messing with us to sound important.”

  “Then I hope you’re on my jury,” I said.

  “Felons don’t get jury duty,” she said. “Courts don’t trust us to be impartial.”

  “So what are you in for?” I asked. It seemed only polite to show an interest in her life.

  “Hooking.” She smiled, like a night in jail was all in a day’s work, then flashed a shimmery set of fingernails in front of her face. “My customers call me Sparkles but you can call me Maureen.”

  She told me to stick by her ’til morning and I’d be fine. I wondered if she had a Facebook page. Maybe we could be cyber friends as well as jailhouse buddies.

  “This your first night inside?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Don’t worry, it goes fast.”

  Over the next few hours, some of our band were moved out and new ones were added. I was tempted to encourage them to call me collect from jail if they ran across any good story ideas, but I realized they might get out first. The tattoo woman snarled at me a few times, but Maureen snarled back.

  I dozed once, but a loud noise outside our cell woke me. My new best-friend-forever told me to go back to sleep, that it was only a couple of guys across the hall slugging each other.

  “Gang issues,” Maureen explained. “Routine.”

  By then, I had to go to the bathroom so bad I abandoned dignity and headed for the metal toilet. And that’s when I knew my life had hit bottom.

  TV news is a business in which success is often measured by seconds. Even tenths of a second. The highs are high and the lows are low, and while the lows are long and slow, the highs are brief and fleeting. Sometimes a minute of professional jubilation has to carry you for what seems like an entire career.

  I turned toward a corner in the holding cell, dabbing my eyes with toilet paper because I didn’t want the other girls to see me cry.

  CHAPTER 38

  In fiction, jail tunnels represent the hope of escape. I’d always known there was a winding tunnel under the street from the jail to the courthouse, but for security reasons, the area is restricted.

  For some inmates, perhaps, the tunnel does symbolize a chance at freedom should a judge pound a gavel and order them released. Me? I’d given up on hope, so the tunnel simply led to a more public humiliation: open court.

  Before our march to the halls of justice, jailers handed out combs and toothbrushes. The jailhouse green room was a holding cell with a shiny piece of unbreakable metal fastened to the wall, supposedly to function as a mirror. Those of us with first appearances primped as best we could. If my mug shot had been taken then, I’m not sure my mother would have recognized me.

  This time, they handcuffed our wrists in front of us, a concession to the lengthy walk ahead. This was the first time during my incarceration that women and men were mingled together. Maybe because they’d had time to sober up, heckling was minimal. About thirty of us made up the perp parade. The guards leading the way were unarmed; the ones following the inmates had holstered weapons. I remembered Garnett telling me once that cops use this technique because it’s easier for a prisoner to steal a gun from an officer if they don’t have to turn around.

  We were herded into the tunnel, turning corners like lemmings in a maze. When I brushed up against a wall of textured stone, I realized we were directly under Minneapolis city hall.

  That’s when I hit the ground backward, pummeled by a man in a jumpsuit matching mine. We rolled together on the cold floor. He landed on top of me, his handcuffs around my neck. I could hardly see or breathe.

  Then Maureen wrapped her handcuffs around his neck, trying to yank him off. She seemed to be swearing encouragement to me the entire time; he didn’t say a word.

  I’m sure only seconds passed, but it was one of those long, slow lows that last forever in your mind.

  Guards yanked Maureen off him and him off me before pulling me to my feet.

  “You okay, honey?” Maureen asked.

  Even though I was no longer being strangled, I still couldn’t talk. But I could see well enough to recognize my attacker. The dine-and-dash thief. And he kept muttering “You, you” in my direction.

  I was shaky, and there was some debate about whether I should delay my court appearance and go to the infirmary. The last thing I wanted was another night in jail, so I mustered enough words to convince the folks in charge to stick to the schedule. And since I wasn’t actually bleeding, they agreed.

  When we reached the basement of the courthouse, men and women were put in separate holding areas while we waited for our turn to appear before the judge.

  A few names were called before mine. But then they put me in an elevator that opened to a normal-looking hallway. My hands were unlocked. I knew that meant showtime because there’s a legal rule that unless an inmate is proven dangerous, no one should appear in court while handcuffed.

  A door opened. I saw a full courtroom and heard muffled gasps as I was seated next to Benny in a chair at a table. I remember thinking how good it felt to sit on something cushioned instead of cement or plastic.

  “Riley, you look horrible,” Benny whispered.

  “I’ve had a really bad night,” I answered, and left it at that.

  The bailiff was still getting the courtroom settled before announcing the judge.

  “What were you up to last night?” Benny continued. “The chief tells me first thing this morning that some inmate offered to testify against you if they’d drop her charges.”

  No doubt he was talking about snarly lady. “What could she possibly have to testify about?” I asked.

  “She claimed you were bragging about killing a guy. I hope that’s not true.”

  “Come on, Benny, she’s some scammer trying to land a snitch deal.”

  “Well, the sooner we get you out of here the better.”

  He got no quarrel from me. I was tired of being tired.

  “Are those scratches on your neck?” he asked.

  I simply shrugged.

  “Our goal is not to argue you didn’t do it,” he continued. “That comes later. Today we argue for your release from custody.”

  “I know how the legal process works.”

  “That’s what worries me. I mean it, Riley. The only thing I want to hear from your mouth is, ‘Not guilty.’
”

  His lecture stopped because the judge entered. The only break for me was that Hennepin court judges rotate handling the criminal calendar each week, so my media-hating, grandstanding nemesis Judge Tregobov was not on the bench.

  Benny waived reading of the criminal complaint. No need to have the assembled crowd hear the word “murder” said out loud in the same sentence as my name any more often than necessary. There’d be plenty of journalists doing that later.

  I know it sounds egotistical, but during my simple assault hearing involving Sam, I had felt more like a peer than a defendant. That’s why I was so unsettled when things went against me. Now I actually believed that Minnesota truism—it could be worse.

  I knew I should muster hope, but frankly, hope had been beaten out of me somewhere between a dingy toilet seat and a violent choke hold.

  A courtroom artist sat in the front row sketching me. I could hear the scratchy sound of her colored pencils on paper.

  Minnesota has one of the strictest rules in the country regarding cameras in the courtroom. All parties—defense, prosecution, and judge—must agree or no go. And they never agree. So there’s never any video. Unlike across the river in Wisconsin, where cameras flourish during court proceedings.

  This was the first time I was okay with the no-camera policy. Especially since the rules also required I wear my orange jumpsuit, and I look bad in orange.

  As a matter of legal procedure, the judge let the criminal complaint stand. I didn’t expect otherwise, especially with a full media pack watching. To be fair, the prosecution’s case looked strong on paper. Forensics. Hair follicles. Gunshot residue. Motive. No alibi. If I was part of the working media right then, I’d probably have viewed me as a slam-dunk conviction.

  “Killer!” The shout came from the back of the courtroom. We all turned to see an older woman standing and waving her arms wildly.

  “Order.” The judge pounded his gavel a few times. “We’ll have order.”

  “Sam’s mother,” I whispered to Benny. His parents must have decided to stay in town while they sorted out their grandchild situation.

  “Don’t worry,” Benny whispered back. “No jury to influence.”

  “She deserves the death penalty!” Sam’s father was trying to quiet his wife’s shouts but not having much success.

  “Don’t worry,” Benny whispered again. “Minnesota doesn’t have the death penalty.”

  A bailiff hurried down the row of spectators toward them. “You came to his grave!” Sam’s mother yelled. “How dare you come to my son’s grave.”

  “Please tell me that’s not true,” Benny said.

  Before I could answer, both of Sam’s parents were escorted out the door, but not before his mother burst into noisy tears. “She thinks it’s funny she killed him. I saw her picture on the news this morning. Laughing like it was all a big joke.”

  Benny had no legal response to her description of my smirking mug shot. He probably agreed she had a point. The judge called for order a few more times to quiet the buzz of courtroom spectators who don’t generally get this kind of show, certainly not in Minneapolis.

  “The state requests no bail,” the prosecutor said. “The defendant clearly poses a danger to the community and should remain incarcerated until trial.”

  Benny glanced toward her as if he’d like to snort but didn’t want to be cited for contempt.

  “This is America. Defendants have rights. And in this case, the defendant asks to be released on her own recognizance. Not only is Ms. Spartz a highly respected member of the community, she is a highly recognized member of the community. Her chance of fleeing unnoticed is virtually nonexistent. She also is a skilled investigative reporter, capable of assisting in her own defense—and we argue she is most certainly innocent.”

  “Save that for another day,” the judge said. “We’re here to discuss bail.”

  “Two million dollars,” the prosecutor said. Her voice was beginning to sound like an auctioneer’s.

  “In this economy?” Benny said. “Get real. Bail is not supposed to be unattainable, merely to ensure the appearance of the defendant.”

  As the two growled lawyer talk, I scanned the audience for friendly faces. Father Mountain sat next to my parents, and I felt shame at being accused of such a mortal sin as murder in front of the man who had baptized me.

  My mom held a hankie; my dad held her hand. I held my breath.

  I felt a pang in my heart when I didn’t see Garnett. I scoured the courtroom again, but nope. I didn’t know whether to be sad or mad, so I decided to be both. Sad, for what we’d lost. Mad, for what a jerk he was to shun me. This was lousy timing for me to grasp that we were through. I found myself hoping his plane was late and wishing he’d walk through the courtroom door, flashing a supportive grin in my direction. I glanced over my shoulder, just in case, but Benny nudged me to keep my eyes straight ahead out of respect for the judge.

  The audience held plenty of unfriendly faces. Noreen, in a rare appearance outside the newsroom, sat next to Clay Burrel, who scribbled something on his notebook. He threw me a wink, which I ignored. Competing media filled many of the rows. Some looked almost gleeful, others merely curious.

  Then Rolf Hedberg caught my eye. He’d shown up at Sam’s funeral. And here he was at the murder hearing. True, he had a lot of time on his hands. But his interest seemed atypical.

  By then the judge tired of the attorney squabbling and announced bail would be set at half a million dollars on the condition I didn’t leave the state. He pounded his gavel.

  “I’m working on it,” Benny said as guards herded me out the side door.

  I had a mess ahead. Either pay a bail bond of 10 percent—fifty grand—or put up a half million bucks as insurance I wouldn’t flee.

  If I had to, I could muster fifty grand, but I hated to kiss away that kind of cash. Especially since Benny was costing me a fortune. As for half a million bucks, I didn’t know the immediate value of my stocks, pension, 401(k), and checking account … but after the black stock market crash, I knew I’d come up short.

  A few hours later, I was handed my street clothes. But the price for emancipation was higher than I thought I’d ever have to pay.

  “No, lock me back up,” I begged. Benny had just told me my parents had signed over the family farm to bail me out of jail.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “No land changes hands unless you skip town. It’s just a formality.”

  He didn’t understand my mortification … or my parents.

  With that kind of money invested in my freedom, they would feel like majority shareholders in my life.

  CHAPTER 39

  Paparazzi waited outside the jail for my release. I tried to think of a literary description of them so they’d seem less a tabloid threat.

  They moved like a windstorm across the prairie, throwing muddled questions in the air.

  It didn’t work. I almost turned back inside, but Chief Capacasa gave me a taunting wave good-bye, shutting the door behind me.

  Benny grabbed my arm and pushed through the thicket of microphones, calling for order. “Give us space. Give us silence. Or no sound.”

  That was language the media mob understood. They fell back and quieted, waiting for the reward of a quote or sound bite.

  “My client is innocent of all charges.” Benny looked good in a dark lawyer suit. “The victim had numerous enemies. The police have yet to fully investigate this case.”

  Now my turn. “I welcome my day in court.” Benny had drafted my line and told me to utter it and nothing else.

  When it became clear that was all I was going to say, questions exploded from behind the camera lenses.

  “Was it a crime of passion?”

  “What about all the forensic evidence?”

  “Is the station going to fire you?”

  I was curious about that last question myself.

  Murder wasn’t part of my job description. Whenever my bosses had praised
me for landing a “killer” story, this wasn’t what they meant.

  Noreen had come to jail earlier to tell me in person—through the glass visitor window—how badly she felt about my “situation,” yet the station couldn’t help me out with bail money. She insisted that decision had nothing to do with our shrinking ad revenue, and that probably was the truth. Noreen also thought it best I not be photographed leaving jail and climbing into any vehicle with a Channel 3 logo. So I’d need to arrange my own transportation as well as bail.

  “It’d be different if you’d been arrested during some freedom-of-the-press stunt,” she said. “Then we’d back you. As it is, the station is still weighing how best to handle your predicament.”

  Her words had the same ominous tone she used during job reviews.

  Benny ignored all the paparazzi questions, shoving me toward the curb, where a dark sedan pulled up. My attorney opened the front door and pushed me inside. Before he slammed it shut, he warned me—remember, no interviews.

  Father Mountain was behind the wheel and my parents were in the backseat. Once the news throng was smaller in the rear-view mirror, I was able to start to relax and thank them for the rescue.

  Father Mountain explained he’d always wanted to drive a getaway car. “This way I get to say ‘I’m on a mission from God.’”

  If those words had come from Nick Garnett’s mouth, I’d have answered, “Dan Aykroyd. The Blues Brothers, 1980.” Suddenly I felt even lonelier than I had in jail, and I knew our romance was officially over.

  “We would have driven ourselves,” Dad said.

  “But we get nervous in all the downtown traffic,” Mom said.

  “And we worried we might get lost,” Dad explained.

  “So we left our car at your place,” Mom said, finishing up.

  Clay Burrel and a photographer were sitting on my front steps when we pulled into the driveway. A Channel 3 live truck was front and center. The other stations had vehicles parked along the curb but none of their reporters had the guts to step onto my property. Maybe fear that I really was a murderer had something to do with them keeping their distance.