The Juke (Changes Book 2) Page 3

  “Just sit down and shut up,” the deputy said. He checked his watch. Where is Pete?

  “Look, man, I’m bleeding, I’m tired…I need a two-minute phone call. My wife is probably worried to death…” He yelled as loudly as possible, as the thick glass muffled sound. It caused an echo in the room. He knew it was nearly midnight. He hadn’t even been fully booked. He had been breathalyzed and tossed in this stifling, poorly ventilated room. No toilet. A flat white metal bench along one wall.

  “Well, you’re not bleeding much. Shouldn’t get in fights, buddy.” Another irritated glance at his watch.

  “I didn’t get this from the fight, asshole. I got this from the cop car.” He turned his face to show the checked print of the grating over his left eyebrow.

  The deputy let out a dry laugh. “Oh, you got waffle-faced? Tough luck, man.” He let out a sigh of relief when he saw Pete Jensen key in through the security door. He checked his watch again. Fifteen minutes late! He wanted to yell, but knew that would just delay his departure. Instead, he feigned concern. “Pete, you okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry…” he began as he moved to him. “Traffic…”

  “Monday at midnight?”

  “Yeah, sorry, man. Won’t happen again.”

  “No worries.” Half-hearted. “So watch this guy. He’s some VIP, or so he claims. I think he got booked in, but he says he never got a call. He only blew point-oh-eight-five, but he could draw a drunk and disorderly as he was involved in a fight. I’m kinda babysitting him a bit. Don’t think he’d do well in GP.” He turned as he heard the flat hand slapping the heavy glass. “Just wait, man!” he shouted back.

  “He causing problems?”

  “Not really…just expects to be in control, I think.”

  “I hate that type,” Pete said, teeth gritted.

  “Well, he’ll definitely bond out in the morning. He came in with a few others. We cut the rest of them loose…a couple of them knew the chief, and he called to have them released. We only have this guy left. He’ll see the judge at eight.”

  “Cool.”

  “Okay, well, that’s all then…I’m shoving off. Have a safe night.”

  “Yeah, thanks, man.”

  Deputy Jensen turned and regarded Frank, who had taken a seat on the bench, eyes to his feet. He moved to the nearby desk to sign in and start the evening paperwork.

  But Pete wasn’t fully there. He was back home. He was roiling in his problems that night.

  “I told you, I need these clothes for work! I can’t sell women’s clothing if I’m dressed like a bag lady,” his wife had shouted at him. He had heard their kids scurry to their bedrooms, which they always did when she started shouting.

  “Goddamnit, Crystal, we’re in debt…you can’t keep buying clothes like this. We’re going to lose the house, for fuck’s sake!” They always went back to the same argument. Every single time.

  “If you want me to work, I need to dress the part. I’m already the poor girl at work. Maybe if you got a real job I wouldn’t have to work and spend money on clothes!”

  He could still see her. Little fists curled up. Brown eyes afire. She knew right where to hit him. She knew right where to go.

  “I can’t believe you make such a crappy salary…you’ve been a sheriff for ten years…yet you get paid the same as a teacher…”

  Right to his manhood she had gone. They did that to each other. Both were unhappy, and both knew it. Both would move on at some point, and the divorce would be ugly. They both knew the kids would never recover from the damage. The daily damage. Both children saw both of their parents berate each other, so they would both grow to adults without gender models.

  “Hey man, come here!” he heard Frank shout through the window glass.

  “Not now, buddy,” he mumbled to himself. “Not tonight.” His stare was miles in the distance.

  “Hey…yeah, you…come here…”

  Frank couldn’t live in that claustrophobic room a minute longer. He couldn’t take the heat. He couldn’t live with the idea that the police officer had purposely slammed on his brakes to make his face mash into the metal screen. He couldn’t stand the indignities he had already suffered. He had been searched. He’d been forced to wear a ragged orange jumpsuit. He’d had his belongings confiscated. These things didn’t happen to people like him.

  He had reached his breaking point. He failed to consider that others had breaking points as well. He was completely locked in his own head, experiencing his own problems.

  But it was beyond him to bear those without protest. Frank wasn’t a man who could take slights or suffer fools. He had rights. He was somebody important. At work, people stepped out of his way. He certainly wasn’t about to be abused and mistreated. He knew he had the right to a call. He knew the deputies were required to uphold his rights. He knew he was a pillar of the community and deserved better treatment. Worse, the hot, room was stuffy and stank horribly, and he knew a phone call would mobilize forces to get him out. He expected that phone call, and he wanted it. He wouldn’t wait for the deputy to solve his personal problems; he was drowning in his own at the moment.

  “Seriously,” he shouted from within, “I want my fuckin’ phone call. I have that right. Read the Constitution…I have rights.” He didn’t bother to mask his supercilious attitude.

  Deputy Jensen moved back to the glass. They looked at each other through the crisscrossing wire reinforcements. “Sir, I’m not going to put up with this all night. You were given your phone call when you were booked. I’m just here to make sure you don’t hurt yourself…”

  “I never got my phone call! What part of that don’t you understand?” He yelled loud enough to make his own ears ring.

  He couldn’t see the turmoil in the deputy. He couldn’t see how close to the edge of breaking the man was. He didn’t realize how deep was the rabbit hole he was tumbling down. At this very moment. The deputy’s stare was far away, his face without affect. Inside, though, was a storm.

  “Look, I don’t have time to argue with you, sir. I don’t do phone calls…not in my job description. Just step away from the glass, sit down, and shut up. It’ll be morning in a few hours, and you can talk to the judge.”

  “You’re making a huge mistake, deputy,” Frank said, and had he thought about it, he would have realized his tone was condescending…dismissive. “I’m a senior vice president for Niver Technologies. Our taxes pay your salary. I have a legal team at my company that will crush your balls when they find out you are denying me my rights. I want my phone call. Give me my fucking phone call.” His accusatory finger pointed right to the deputy’s face.

  And that was enough. That was all it took. Just that amount. Nothing more required. Jensen snapped inside, like a taut guitar string turned one too many times. It wasn’t the first time, but this time was bad. He snapped in a way that his accumulated frustration ensured was his most violent, most extreme response possible. After all, these releases are really about escape. When someone blows up, they’re really seeking a violent way out of their situation. Jensen really wanted a divorce. He really wanted to file for bankruptcy. He really wanted a new job, one that challenged him in a different way. But he lacked the courage of his convictions. He lacked the ability to take the leap of faith needed for these changes.

  So he turned to violence to escape his problems.

  The flush in his face burned hot. He was vertiginous. Hands trembling as the adrenal fuel flooded volcanically into his bloodstream. That momentary rush reassured him that what was next was the right step. It just had to be this way.

  He turned the key on the door almost automatically. Eyes focused afar. Frank stepped back with a relieved look on his face. The door swung open, and he was in the room. Frank’s look of surprise as the door slammed continued as the black baton slid from its leather loop with a whisk sound.

  There was a moment of silence. Calm. But only because Frank couldn’t read the deputy’s body language. The blank façade was go
ne. In its place were tense shoulders, bowed forward. White knuckles on the baton. Teeth grinding. They made eye contact, and only then did Frank see it coming. He saw the boiling hate in the other’s eyes. Hate not for him, but hate all the same.

  Pete Jensen swung his baton with precision. He had received training on it, after all. He knew where to aim. Each stroke had a purpose. As the left arm rose to protect his face, the baton smashed down to break the small, slender bones of the lower arm. Next swing to the head to stun and compromise vision. Then, a hard shot to his knee, which dropped him to the ground.

  Frank looked up through his tears and saw the raw fury on the deputy’s face. Eyes of fire. The hard, bony thumps on his legs and arms echoed in the room. He could hear both of their breathing, each gasping with the hard strokes. “Why are you doing this?” Frank cried out, but in answer the deputy stepped over his legs and made a downward stroke with his baton. Frank threw up his already broken left arm, and he could feel the small bones in his hand snap from another blow. He shrieked in agony, which brought the deputy’s work boot down on his face, flashing stars into his vision.

  He knew without it being said that he should not utter a word or even a sound. He was to lie there and receive damage until the deputy was satisfied. Tears streamed as more blows rained down on him. Shoulder. Thigh. Ribs. He stroked the baton to be sure he caused damage to every structure of Frank’s body. Hip. Lower leg. Ankle. He continued striking with all he had. Sick thuds, heavy breathing. More thuds. Gasps. Groans of pain.

  The deputy began to breathe heavily, and his blows weakened. His face lost its rage.

  Then all at once the door flew open, and two other uniforms were in the room. One grabbed Jensen and pulled him back. The other stood over Frank, baton at the ready.

  “What happened, Pete? You okay?” The man was holding the baton like a miniature baseball bat, squeezing his fists to secure a tighter grip. Frank wondered if more blows were coming, and he braced himself.

  Deputy Jensen was panting heavily, gasping for air. He lowered his baton and made no reply. He was still looking down on his victim. Frank began to groan involuntarily. The ache of each baton strike began to burn and throb. He could taste blood pouring into his mouth from his smashed and swollen lips.

  Frank’s groans brought out the last bit of bile from Jensen, who stepped forward and stomped on Frank’s knee. The officer next to him grabbed him and pulled him back again.

  “What did he do? Pete, what happened?”

  Frank noted that the officer behind him, a heavyset black man, had three stripes on his tan uniform. “What happened? Did he attack you?” To keep from vomiting, Frank turned his head and was spitting some of the blood out onto the cement floor.

  Deputy Jensen made no reply. His eyes were still miles away, but all malice had now left them. They were vacant and distant again. He slid the baton back into its leather loop. His face was slack. His affectation was limp, like a man just awoken from a deep sleep. He looked at his supervisor, then turned and shuffled to the door. He opened it and walked out, moving in a slow, deliberate fashion.

  The two officers stood over and looked down at Frank, who was holding his left forearm with his right hand, gently wiggling his fingers. He could feel the broken bones grating from his elbow to his fingertips. The deputies had sharp eyes as they looked from him to each other and then back to him.

  “Help me,” he spat, and more blood flecked from his lips.

  “Sit him up,” the sergeant commanded. The other officer, young and slender, kneeled down and lifted Frank by his left shoulder. As he sat up, blood coursed from his nose, and he spat out another glob of blood. He used his tongue to wiggle two teeth that felt loose in his mouth.

  “What’d you do, man?” the sergeant asked, with hands on his hips.

  “I asked…” he spat again, “I asked for my phone call.”

  “Bullshit. What did you do?”

  “I told you…” His voice was a croak now. He could feel heat as his left eye began to close.

  Both men helped him up to the long white bench. Frank lay down on it, breathing heavily, turning to spit often. The sergeant stepped out of the room and radioed for the night medic.

  Sergeant Aldis Franklin then moved to the tape room.

  Something was wrong. Pete’s face was wrong. The amount of blood was wrong. Deep down, he already knew what he would find, and one replay of the grainy tape showed him what he feared to be true. He still watched it several times, wincing as the blows rained down. The images sickened him.

  He found Jensen in the break room, eating a bag of chips and sipping water. He was wan, eyes downcast, chewing slowly.

  “Pete, why aren’t you at your post?”

  “I needed a break, Sarge. I’ll get back in just a few minutes. Gotta get some energy.”

  Sergeant Franklin pulled up a chair and sat across from him. “Pete, I just watched the tape of what happened. You attacked him with no provocation. This is bad.”

  “He was being verbally abusive, Sarge,” Pete said with a reflexive response. He immediately went to, “I felt threatened. He attacked me.” He had learned that response on the streets a long time ago. Never accept responsibility…it was always self-defense.

  “Don’t bullshit me, Pete. I watched the tape. It has audio. He was asking for a phone call. What’s going on?” His eyes locked on Pete’s, and they were all business. Pete understood.

  “What do you want me to say?” He took a sip of water.

  “The truth.”

  “No, you want me to give you a reason, Aldis. I don’t have one.” His voice was resigned.

  “You don’t have a reason?”

  “I just snapped, I guess…just snapped…” and his voice trailed off. He focused in the distance. He knew his career hung in the balance of this conversation. He knew he was now under investigation. He knew the routine, the process. He had been there before.

  “Pete, you’ve snapped too many times. You’ve been warned before. You can’t go around beating people. This guy is somebody…he’s not some homeless guy we picked up. He’ll have lawyers and media. We don’t need this.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Pete, I’m filing this in your report. You’re on leave while I investigate.”

  “Sarge, I don’t…”

  “I have no choice, Pete. If this turns bad, I have to have shown that I took action. I’ve already got a call into HR. You’d better hope the tape of this beating doesn’t come out. You’ll be brought up on charges. You could lose your job over this.”

  Pete looked down at his chips. He wasn’t hungry anymore.

  “Pete, I’ve known you a long time. You and I were trainees together. I’ll do what I can to help. Let me start here…this is the number for the union lawyer. Call him. Protect yourself.” He slid a slip of paper over to him. “The second number is for a psychiatrist. You get ten free visits as part of our medical plan…no questions asked.” Pete looked up at him. “You have issues you’re not addressing in your life. You need to talk to someone.”

  Jensen didn’t protest. Sergeant Franklin left without another word. He went back to the tape room, retrieved the tape from the VCR, and took it to his office. He put it in a locked drawer, where it sat for some time.

  At the end of his shift, Pete called the union lawyer.

  He never did call the psychiatrist.

  IV

  “Christopher Francis Joseph, please step forward.”

  The shackles yanked as Frank stood up. The shackles only allowed him short steps. Each of those small steps pulled on the waist-chain, which in turn jerked the handcuff on his left wrist down on his swollen, broken hand and arm. Though they were bandaged heavily and the cuff opened the widest possible, the pressure forced a grunt out of him. He stepped up to the podium gingerly, feeling his joints ache with the exertion. He scanned the room for Tony, but didn’t see him.

  “Mr. Joseph, this is an arraignment. Have you been read your rights and do
you understand the charges that have been filed against you?” The judge looked above the bifocals perched on her nose.

  Frank’s left eye was nearly closed, but he made eye contact with his right. He spoke through swollen lips. “Your honor, I was beaten in jail last night. I demand that charges be…”

  “Mr. Joseph, you are in no position to demand anything from this court,” she shot back. “You are being arraigned for the charges you were arrested for last night.” Her voice was sharp, like the crack of a whip. “Disorderly conduct, assault, and battery. Other charges may be forthcoming.” She was filling out a long form with multiple carbons as she read the charges. He was now part of the machine, after all, and the machine had to be fed paperwork.

  “Your honor, I was beaten by a deputy last night simply for demanding…”

  “Bailiff, help Mr. Joseph.”

  The thick-necked, crew-cut uniform stepped to the side of Frank and grabbed the waist chain with his right hand, sending it up his back. The sudden sharp motion jerked hard on his cuffs, and he let out a yelp of pain. The uniform stood beside him and held the chain in this position. Tears fell from Frank’s eyes.

  “Now, to be clear, Mr. Joseph, you are being arraigned on charges related to California penal codes 240, 242, and 647. These charges together carry possible fines of up to ten thousand dollars, and/or a sentence of up to two years in jail. Other charges could be included for what happened in the jail last night, but for those there will be another arraignment. Now, I see you have been read your rights, and I see you have waived an attorney…”

  “I never waived…” but the jerk of the chain made him yelp again.

  “…you have waived an attorney being present this morning. Therefore, I’m going to ask you to enter a plea. How do you plead to the charge?”

  This time Frank did not respond. He looked at the bailiff next to him. The bailiff made a side-tilt of his head, toward the judge. “I’m not guilty.” He braced himself for another jerk of the chain, but none came.