Custody of the State (18 page)

As the bailiff led Will to the side of the courtroom Crystal Banes reached over the audience railing and thrust the microphone of a small tape recorder in Will's direction, yelling one final question to him.

“Mr. Chambers, what's your next move?”

The bailiff was opening the side door to the jail corridor that lay on the other side, his hand tightly on Will's arm, and Will had time for only one last comment as he disappeared through the doorway.

“I guess I'll catch up on my Bible reading.”

Then the door that led from the courtroom to the Juda County jail closed with a bone-jarring bang.

Banes turned to Spike, her cameraman, who was standing next to her in the front row of the courtroom.

“Bible reading, I'm sure!” she said with a sneer.

But Spike was not smiling. His lips were pursed and his brow was furrowed as he stared at the door that had just slammed shut.

23

A
S
W
ILL SAT ON THE METAL COT
, his back against the wall, he found it difficult to believe he was an inmate in jail. He had his pocket New Testament in his hand and had been trying to do some reading, but he couldn't focus. He was distracted by the constant stream of profanities being yelled by inmates, the din echoing down the gray corridor.

Will had no idea how long Judge Mason was going to hold him. For that reason, he knew he had to be mentally prepared for the long haul.

Somehow, he had thought that, as a lawyer, his confinement might be different. There he was wrong. Whether permitted by the judge or required by jail regulations, he was treated no differently than any other inmate.

He had been taken to a holding cell, where a uniformed officer introduced only as guard Thompson stood ready with an impassive expression and surgical gloves on his hands. He was told to strip and leave his clothes in a pile on the floor. After that, he was submitted to a humiliating physical search. He was allowed to keep his New Testament, but he was not allowed to keep the toothpaste or toothbrush that he'd put in the pockets of his suit coat. He was also refused an immediate phone call.

“I am a lawyer, guard Thompson,” Will said. “I don't want to hassle you—but I've got a right to a phone call and I need to make that phone call right now.”

The guard did not change expression. He had heard similar requests from nearly every inmate who had been checked into
the holding cell before being assigned to a bunk. His answer was always the same.

“You will get your required phone call when it is convenient for us—and
after
you have been processed and checked into your cell. Not before.”

Will was issued an orange jumpsuit with the words “Juda County Jail” stenciled on the back. He was also issued a pair of paper shoes with stretched-out elastic at the ankles, which were barely capable of remaining on his feet.

Will found a blessing in the fact that the jumpsuit was soft and comfortable to wear. Yet he knew that was only because it had been worn by countless other inmates before him. He tried to keep that thought out of his mind.

As he sat on the bunk and gazed across the cell, he realized the other bed was unoccupied. He wondered whether he would be assigned a cellmate.

He did not have to wonder long.

Soon, another guard led an inmate to the door of the cell and opened it noisily. The inmate slowly shuffled in, the door slamming with a metallic bang behind him. He was of medium height, thin but muscular, with greasy, blond hair and long sideburns. His sleeves were rolled up almost to his shoulders, revealing a tattoo of a grim reaper that wound down his right arm from his bicep almost to his wrist.

The man's eyes focused like lasers on the little book on Will's lap, then he looked at Will's face and studied him for a moment. After a moment, he raised his right arm and pointed right at the attorney.

“What makes you think I don't want your bunk? What makes you think you ought to be sittin' there lookin' at me?”

Will leaned forward on the bunk, tensing for a challenge. “This is the bunk the guard assigned me. That means the other bunk belongs to you.”

“How do I know you're not lying? Maybe you're a punk. How 'bout I take you down right now?” The other man steadied
himself by planting his feet and tilting his head down, as if he were gazing at a caged animal through the bars.

Will stood up quickly—so quickly the inmate took a half-step back.

“I think that would be a big mistake—we both know that,” he said authoritatively.

The other inmate slowly took a step toward Will until he was eyeball-to-eyeball. Then he broke into a wide smile, showing yellowed teeth and a lifetime of dental neglect.

“Hey—I'm just messin' with you,” the inmate said, laughing. “Lighten up.”

Will eased back into his bunk and managed a modest smile.

“I'm Ivan. You got a name?”

“Will Chambers,” Will replied and got up out of his bunk again, this time reaching out to shake hands with his new cellmate.

Ivan's smile disappeared, and he waved Will off with both hands.

“Oh no, man. You don't do that in here. You don't reach out to another guy's body—
ever
.”

Will understood instantly and retreated to his bunk.

“See,” Ivan continued, “all you got in here is
you
. Your body and your space. Now
The Man
controls your body. He tells you when to get up, when to get down. When to eat. But your space—your space belongs to
you.
Your space is that half-inch around your body that nobody better get into.
Nobody
.”

Will acknowledged that he understood. Then he asked Ivan what his last name was.

Ivan studied him for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to answer. Then, very slowly and cautiously, he spelled it out—
T-S-O-U-G-R-O-S-K-Y.

Then he added, “It's pronounced ‘Sugrosky.'” He raised an index finger in the air as a warning. “Just don't ever call me Ivan Sue. That would not be a good idea.” He stretched out on his bunk, two hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

Will eased back in his bed and flipped his New Testament open to where he'd marked the place with his finger. He'd been reading the second chapter of Matthew.

In that Gospel story, Joseph had been warned in a dream by an angel to take his young bride, Mary, and their newborn baby and flee to Egypt. Joseph had been warned that Herod—jealous for his throne—had been told of the birth of Jesus and now wanted to locate and destroy him.

But while Joseph, Mary, and Jesus had been staying in Egypt, Herod died, and so an angel in a dream once again instructed Joseph. This time he was told of Herod's death. It would now be safe to return to Judea.

“So—you're a Holy Roller, huh?” Ivan said, breaking the silence.

“You mean this?” Will said, raising the book up so that Ivan could see the text.

“I can smell a Holy Roller a mile away.”

Will smiled and returned to his reading. After a few moments, the silence was broken again.

“So what part are you reading?”

Will gave a simple description of Joseph's return from Egypt with Mary and the young baby Jesus.

After a bit, Ivan chimed in again.

“So—let me get this straight—Joseph and his old lady and the baby—they go to Egypt 'cause they're runnin' from The Man—right?”

Will paused before responding. “Well…you might put it that way.”

Another minute went by, and then Ivan offered his own homespun interpretation.

“So, that means—if I follow you—if I bust out of here and escape and run off somewhere to escape The Man, then I'm just doin' what Jesus' old man did. That right?”

“Not exactly,” Will replied.

“Why not? What's the deal?”

“Joseph had specific instructions from God himself to escape to Egypt. He hadn't committed a crime—in fact, a crime was about to be committed against his family. And when Joseph took his wife and his baby away, he was under the guidance and protection of God himself. That's the difference between the hypothetical case you're telling me and what's in the Bible.”

After a few more seconds, Ivan asked, “You're that lawyer, right?”

“Yes,” Will replied. “How did you hear?”

“You'd be surprised,” Ivan said.

Will put the book down. “What have you heard?”

“That you wouldn't give some information about your client even though the judge told you to. That you're protecting your client and the judge hammered you. And here you are, wearing the orange—just like the rest of us.”

Ivan was now lying on his side, his head propped up with his arm, talking directly to Will. “No lawyer
I
ever had would do something like that for
me
—no way. My lawyers never did much for me—
ever
.”

Will studied Ivan and then cautiously volunteered a rebuttal.

“So—are you saying that you're in here because of your lawyers? That's why you're in here?”

Ivan scratched his head furiously and laughed.

“No, man. No way. Let's face it—my lawyers were losers but that ain't why I'm here. I'm here because I was buyin' and sellin' stuff that was falling off the back of a truck—you know what I mean?”

“Receiving stolen property?”

“You got it,” Ivan said.

“You just get in here?” Will asked.

“Naw—I've been in for a while.”

“Why did they just move you into my cell?” Will asked.

Ivan paused and narrowed his eyes. He looked at the cell door, and then back to Will. Then, lowering his voice, he leaned toward Will and explained.

“I was in a cell with a guy they call Jumpin' Jack. His real name was Victor, but everyone called him Jumpin' Jack. He threw a food tray or something like that. Anyway, they sent him to the overflow pen.”

Then Ivan broke into a strange sneer and shook his head.

“So? What happened?” Will asked.

“Well,” his cellmate continued in a hushed voice, “when they finished with him at the overflow, they had to check him into the hospital. He's in a coma now, on life supports. He's breathing through a tube and his brain is all bashed in.”

“How did it happen?” Will asked intensely.

“They said that he slipped in the shower and smacked his head. Of course, that ain't it. That's not how it happened.”

“How do you know what happened?” Will asked.

“'Cause there's this guy that runs the overflow, this big guard. He loves messin' people up. This ain't the first time it's happened.”

Will was trying to patch Ivan's story together.

“But I still don't understand why they moved you into the cell with me.”

Ivan laughed. “I thought you were smart. Big lawyer man and you can't even figure it out,” he said, still chuckling. “‘You're a lawyer from Virginia. Your client's name is Mary Sue Fellows. She hit the road when the cops tried to arrest her for child abuse. The judge and dirty Harry Putnam—that's what we call him, ‘dirty Harry' Putnam—want to find out where she is, they figure you know where she is, but you won't talk. Have I got all that straight, Mr. Attorney-at-law?”

Will was trying to piece together what appeared to be a stream-of-consciousness narrative from Ivan. And then the dawn broke.

Ivan must have seen the light go on in Will's expression.

“So here I am, and here you are. So you'd better watch out, anything you say
can
be used against you!” Ivan said with a laugh.

Will was surprised that he had not assumed on his own that the prosecutor would place a snitch in his cell in hopes of gaining information. The attorney suddenly recognized his own naivete.

“You owe me one,” Ivan said with a half-grin. And then he added, “And I got somethin' else for ya.”

“What's that?” Will asked.

“You're a Holy Roller—I got somethin' for you to pray about.”

“Such as?” Will followed up.

“You better pray they don't ever haul you down to the overflow pen. You better pray to God that doesn't happen to you.”

24

W
HAT
'
S THAT
, M
OMMY
?” Joshua asked, pointing to a clear plastic cylinder containing ten sticks with cotton swabs at each end.

“They look like Q-Tips, don't they, honey?” Mary Sue answered.

Joshua was methodically walking around the doctor's examining room, inspecting each piece of medical equipment and all of the medical supplies.

Mary Sue glanced nervously at her watch. It had been at least fifteen minutes since the nurse had ushered her and Joshua into the office and said that the doctor would be “in to see you in a few minutes.”