Betrayer

(Fiction Piece. Was just curious if I could do something from an unusual point of view in less than 3000 words - barely made it. Don't get all picky if the procedural stuff is wrong - I wrote it cold, and the research is a little skimpy. Go away if you're not interested, it won't hurt my feelings. Seriously. I'm not even sure I'm going to keep it up here.)

It happens like this:

A patrol officer walked up on the young couple as they were fucking in the boy's car. There were a bazillion square miles of nothing right outside the city where they could have parked and no one would have paid them the slightest attention. To tell the truth, they could have built a bonfire, invited all their friends, and made a big ol' nekkid, smelly pile out there on the desert, and punctuated the event with mortar-fire and no one would have noticed. Why kids persisted in going to a closed park in the middle of town when even casual observation would reveal that the cops roll through at least every hour was a mystery.

It turned out that they weren't just nuzzling each other; when the officer tapped on the window and the naked teenager opened the door, a cloud of burning marijuana rolled out.

"Shit," the cop told me later, "I nearly got a contact high just trying to talk to the little turd."

Romeo did the hero thing and said it was his. Her only participation in the evening's events, he said, was getting naked, a statement of the obvious as the girl curling up hugging herself in mortification was wearing nothing but flowery bikini panties.

She turned out to be only 16, which meant she was out after curfew. Romeo was 18, which meant that he had no curfew. It also meant he was still young enough to legally get naked with her, which was good for him, but not in the park in the middle of the city, which was bad, and certainly not while toking on a giant roll of Rocky Mountain ditch-weed, which was VERY bad.

Her parents came and picked her up. She had by then put on a pair of flip flops and shimmied into a long sleeved pajama top which came down far enough to more-or-less cover the pretty panties. She didn't have anything else, having impulsively snuck out through her bedroom window to meet with Romeo.

The officer told me her father had brought along a baseball bat and had to be restrained by another cop, after which Romeo was ready to concede that going to jail was not the worst possible thing, and so Romeo was arrested.

Which is where I came in. In those days, we worked an extremely aggressive form of dope investigation. Our theory was that every joint came out of an ounce which came off a kilo which came off of a bale which came out of a car or ship or aircraft. We wanted the cars, boats and planes. So, every time some jerkoff got caught with a little dope, the on-call narc would have to decide what to do with him and evaluate whether it might be possible to run "up the chain" a bit.

Usually the arrestee was some burned out old hippie or a hard case. Neither would tell us anything. They knew that possession of less than half-pound quantities wasn't going to result in any serious lifestyle crimping. They knew they had nothing to lose and would therefore give up nothing, and were completely immune to our best techniques.

Occasionally, though, we would get some bright-eyed rookie making his first tentative foray into the System. The only jail cell he's ever seen is on TV, and the most dangerous person he's ever been around is the schoolyard bully.

This type is more useful.

Romeo, a middle-class, white-bread, rebel-without-a-clue, suddenly found himself snatched away from a pleasant evening of exploring the nooks and crannies of his high-school girlfriend and into an institution-green, 6' X 8' steel box lit by low-bid fluorescents.

He was utterly alone. Shouts and voices and the occasional distant scream echoed around him and alarms buzzed as cell doors rattled open and slammed shut. Even at 1:00 AM, jail is a noisy place. The chlorine odor of industrial-grade disinfectant didn't seem to much cut the stink of too many men in too small a place that had surrounded him since he came in.

The only window in the coffin-like room was a rectangle with thick glass in the steel door. There was a metal cover like a little door closed over the outside of it. Periodically the cover rattled open and someone looked in at him incuriously, then wordlessly slammed it shut again. A camera mounted in a steel case up in the corner stared at him, unblinking.

The steel toilet was in the back corner under the camera. Romeo had a vague urge to pee when he came in, but couldn't bring himself to do it in this terrifying place with people looking in at him. He sat on the steel bed which was welded to the wall. It was more comfortable than the mushroom-shaped "seats" welded to the floor on either side of the small steel tabletop, also welded to the wall.

No one would speak to him. He yelled for a bit when he first arrived, then started banging on the door, making a deep "boom, boom, boom." This resulted in the door being slammed open. A monster-sized black officer with sergeant's stripes filled the doorway.

"You banging on my door you little fuck?" the monster growled. Romeo backed up without thinking. He could feel himself going white.

"I just wanted to know what's going on," Romeo said.

"What's going on is this," said the sergeant. "You bang on my door again and I'm going to come in there and rip your fucking heart out." The steel door slammed.

Romeo suddenly found that he could use the steel toilet after all.

Romeo didn't know that someone who knew his way around the system would already be asleep on the steel bed, confident in the knowledge that some time before morning he would be taken out, booked in, his fingerprints taken, charges read, and then put into a holding cell which had a phone in it he could use to make collect calls to anyone he wanted.

Romeo, in fact, didn't know much of anything except that this was probably the most terrifying thing that had ever happened to him. The really important thing that Romeo didn't know was that the reason he was in the room with no one talking to him is that they were waiting on me to decide whether I wanted to see him before they booked him and let him call his daddy for bail.

After speaking to the officer on the phone and getting his evaluation that Romeo was "a pushover" who'd tell me anything I wanted but that he probably didn't have anything worth telling, I mentally flipped a coin.

OK, I decided, I'll go see him. Ya never know...

I quietly got out of bed, trying to not disturb the wife, and pulled on a pair of trashy levis and combat boots, and tucked my gun into my waistband. I threw the dirty field jacket on over the black t-shirt that displayed a ravening wolf in red. The wolf was surrounded by the bleeding legend "If It Smells Good, Eat It." I grabbed the chain with my badge swinging from it off the dresser and put it around my neck, the badge dropping down under my t shirt.

I checked myself in the mirror, running a wide-tooth comb through my near-shoulder-length hair to knock the sleep-tangles loose. I hadn't shaved in nearly a week.

I looked like shit.

I drove to the jail in my turquoise narc ark, an Olds Cutlass that we'd seized from a doper who was not going to be needing it for the next 8-12 years. Like me, the car looked like shit. It wandered all over the road due to bad tie rods, and was spectacularly dangerous to drive. But it was also loaded up with a 455 that had been tweaked to the tits, and would outrun anything except the high-end Highway Patrol interceptors.

I loved that car.

I checked through Main Control and spent about 10 minutes casually flirting with the dispatcher as I watched Romeo on the monitor. He seemed pretty agitated; stoners are generally laid back, although they can get kind of weepy.

"He was crying," reported Angie, apparently reading my mind. "Then he spent some time hitting himself in the forehead with his fist and saying 'Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!' I almost sent someone back there to tell him to cut it out before he hurt himself, but now he's just pacing. I think he might still be crying."

The arresting officer was right. If I couldn't get this kid to at least give me a name for his dealer, I'd just as well turn in my badge. I put my gun into the locker and went back into the jail and met with the the sergeant who'd been chatting with Romeo. He assigned a jailer to me to get me in and out of the cell block.

I instructed the jailer as to how I wanted to play it. He was young, and didn't know why, but he followed my instructions to the letter.

We walked heavily down the hallway, marching, in step, boots going "clump, clump, clump." The jailer jammed his foot against the door, almost kicking it, making an echoing "BOOM," then immediately rattled the keys into the lock, as noisily as possible, making a loud metallic "BANG" as the lock disengaged.

Standing there with his foot holding the unlocked cell door shut we fell into total silence for a full count of ten. He then looked at me and nodded, and stepped back, pulling the door silently open, remaining out of sight.

Romeo heard heavy steps coming down his hallway - were they for him, or just checking another cell? Were they going past, making rounds? HOLY SHIT THEY STOPPED AT HIS DOOR. The door BOOMED! echoing through the tiny space, keys rattled, the bolt rasped and slammed back and...NOTHING.… The tension mounted, stretching his nerves as if he were being racked...WHAT THE FUCK ARE THEY DOING?!?!....and suddenly the door whooshed open like a magic trick and I was there, looking like shit, grimly unhappy, the badge dangling from the chain around my neck, glittering like doomsday.

I stepped through the door, and almost before my foot cleared the threshold, the door BOOMED back into place and the lock bolt slammed home.

"Hello, Romeo," I said casually, lighting a cigarette and sitting on one of the mushroom seats. I leaned back against the wall, never taking my eyes off him as I took a deep drag. I blew the smoke out through my nostrils, then took out a ballpoint pen and a small pad of paper and laid them carefully on the steel table.

"Looks like you've got yourself in a jam. We should talk about that, I think."

Romeo was badly rattled.

"Don't hurt me," he said. I looked at him, cocking an eyebrow in surprise.

"What the FUCK are you talking about?" I asked, putting on an air of complete mystification.

"I - I - I -I don't know," he stammered, "I - I - I -I just thought...." he trailed off.

"Jeezus, kid, you need to take a breath and calm down. You want a cigarette?" He nodded and I tossed the pack over to him. He fumbled, hands trembling, and finally managed to get one out of the pack.

"I think I better hold on to the lighter," I said. "The way your hands are shaking, you'd probably set yourself on fire." I laughed and he snorted.

"Are you OK?" I ask, with my concerned voice. "I'm kinda worried about you."

He looked at me, and gratitude washed over me.

"No, I'm fine. I was just scared," he said in a rush. "I didn't know what was happening, and no one would talk to me."

"Yeah, well it's a pretty scary place," I said, "but maybe you watch too much TV. Has anyone in here hurt you?"

"No," he said, "but that big guy said he would if I pounded on the door any more."

I laughed.

"Well, when you pound on the door it wakes up the other inmates and makes his life hard. He's not going to hurt you - probably transfer you to a padded cell, if anything. He just wanted you to stop banging around. Did it work?"

Romeo laughed, a genuine laugh, relief.

"Yeah, it did," he admitted.

"Well, there ya go." And that easy, he was on tape that he had not been mistreated.

"Look," I said, "I don't work in here. I don't care how you do your time, or what kind of problem you are for the Sergeant. And that's why I don't bother with any silly threats of hurting you. It isn't going to happen. This is a jail, and you might get hurt, but it won't be any of us doing it."

I stood and called for the Sergeant to come to the door. He appeared, over 6' of heavy muscle. He was a brawler.

"So, Sarge, I hear that you're going to rip my friend's heart out?"

"He was banging on the door."

"Yeah, that sucks, but you're not really going to rip his heart out, right?"

The Sergeant looked at Romeo, then me.

"No."

"Good," I said, I turned to Romeo. "He's not going to do anything to you - isn't that right Sarge?"

"I ain't gonna do anything to the little pissant," said the Sergeant. Then he looked at me and said "But you ain't gonna be here to protect him forever."

I almost laughed out loud - perfect. This slab of beef had some real acting talent.

He turned, and again BOOM! the door shut out the world.

I could see Romeo beginning to relax, just that little bit as he smoked and listened to me. I was now his protector. He smiled at me.

"Thanks. I'm glad to hear that," he said. "When can I get out of here?"

"Well, it's going to be at least Tuesday. That's the first time a judge can see you to set bail."

"TUESDAY? That's three days!" he yelped. "I can't be in here till Tuesday. I have tickets - I'm flying out for my Grandmother's house in Washington Sunday night! That's why me and Sherry were saying goodbye!"

Of course I already knew that. The tickets, which had been taken from him along with everything else when he was arrested, had caused some interest. The arresting officer had already heard this story.

"I HAVE to go," said Romeo.

"No, sorry, kid," I said. "It isn't going to happen. I mean, I can try to find a judge, but they aren't going to talk bail unless the prosecutor agrees with it. It's out of my hands."

"Shit!" said Romeo, "They're non-refundable. Why can't I just post bail? Why do I have to see a judge?"

"Well, you could if it was a misdemeanor," I replied, "but for felonies, the judge wants to personally see you."

"What felony?" asked Romeo, suddenly white again. "Possession is a misdemeanor!"

I stubbed out my cigarette.

"No one has told you this?" I asked, feigning complete astonishment.

Romeo shook his head.

"SHIT!" I said, annoyed. "I gotta do everything? Look, Romeo, you aren't going to be charged with possession. The arresting officer wants you booked for delivery to a minor. He's getting a search warrant for the girl's blood right now, and if she's been smoking -- and you know she has -- he's going to charge you with delivering it to her. You DID say all the dope belonged to you, right?"

Romeo said nothing, frozen in place.

"Geez, kid I'm sorry, I thought you knew all this. Her father has just gone fucking nuts, and delivering drugs to a high-school girl is bad mojo - you're probably going to prison."

Romeo began hyperventilating, on the verge of tears.

"Now, calm down, it's your first offense, so they won't max you out. You'll probably only go in for a couple of years, and with good behavior, you'll be back out in, what, 12 or 18 months or so?"

I leaned forward and and casually propped my foot up on the bed next to him, as if just conversing with him. This effectively cut the dimensions of the cell in half, psychologically crowding him even further in steel and concrete. He looked at me, stricken.

"I'm sorry, kid," I said again. "I hate delivering bad news. Whatever it's worth, maybe you'll get lucky and make a deal of some kind. I don't like to see you so jammed up over something this stupid. I was just going to ask you some questions about where you got the dope, but you have other worries, so I won't bother. Is there anything I can get for you?"

He caught the straw as it floated past....

"What kind of 'deal' did you mean?" he asked.

"Well, sometimes guys 'work off' their problems, go to work for us, trade us some worse players for themselves, you know? But I don't think that's for you. You don't know shit about anything, so I doubt you have anything or anyone to trade."

Silence for a long count of five...

"Can I have another cigarette?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure. Keep the pack - I'm just sorry I'm going home tonight to sleep in my own bed and have to leave you here for...(I gestured, taking in the cell)...this. You seem like a nice enough kid."

He lit the cigarette and leaned toward me, glancing up at the video camera.

"What can I do," he said softly, "to get out of this?"

I had him. THAT'S the question I've been waiting for, kid.

"Well," I said, picking up the pen and paper, "let's talk about that."

In Our Next Episode: Non-Fiction (i.e., lies I pretend are real.)