Skorpio (6 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

"Jailhouse Talk"

The cell was made of yellow-painted cinderblocks and contained two steel bunks on opposite walls, hanging from chains. It smelled of piss and disinfectant. There was a stainless steel toilet with a sink over it on the wall between the cots. Beadles, deprived of his belt, sat on one cot with his head in his hands. A black kid with an explosion of weasel tails on his head sat opposite. He wore a gray wife beater exposing blue tats, a cut torso and baggy cargo pants.

"Hey man whatchoo in for? They holdin' me on a federal beef. I hacked into Homeland Security's Atlanta Fusion Center. Man, I had those babies looking at naked women on rooftops! They think I'm some kinda terrorist threat all I want to do is look at naked women! I could shut them all down I wanted."

Dude had to be piped on meth. He radiated a raw animal odor as he gesticulated like a signer for the deaf.

"Hey my name's Ninja. Whatchoo in for?"

Beadles looked up. "They think I stole a pot from the university."

Ninja snapped his head on his long neck like a towel. "Whaaaaat? You stole pot from the u-ni-VERS-ity?"

"Not pot as in reefer--a clay pot."

"That's fucked up man."

"I didn't! It's some kind of set-up! I've been framed. Now I'm trying to figure out who and why."

Certainly the distinguished head of Anthropology would never stoop to such a thing. Why? Out of pique? Because Beadles had once made fun of him? That would make Liggett a psycho, and psychos didn't get to head major anthropology departments.

"Hey man, what's your name?" Ninja said with a hint of impatience.

Beadles looked at him. Two men in a cage. It always came down to this. Can I take him? Beadles thought that he could. Beadles had boxed in college and still sparred regularly at the University Health Club. He had a black belt in karate. He was four inches taller and had Ninja by at least forty pounds. Ninja looked like a Mad Max extra but his brain was probably fried on meth.

"Vaughan," Beadles said.

"So what were you gonna do with that pot, Vaughan, fence it or what? It must be some kind of rare sumbitch like something you'd see on Pawn Stars or something 'cause fucking pots are hard to fence, y'know? I mean, it's bulky, it's breakable, it's a piece of shit! I was gonna steal something it would be something valuable like a diamond or some gold or something, you know what I'm sayin'?"

Beadles was developing a healthy loathing for his cellmate. A baton banged against the barred door. Outside stood a jailer the shape and size of a refrigerator. "You two lovebirds shut the fuck up," he said, "or ahmina come back and mace ya. That means you, Preston."

He glared to punctuate his message, satisfied when the occupants had turned away.

As soon as the guard moved on Ninja spoke in whisper. "Hey man you gotta mouthpiece? I know a Jew lawyer slicker 'n' a preacher. Name's Feldstein you want I could put a word in for you. He's my lawyer."

"I have a lawyer," Beadles replied lying down and staring at the ceiling. Maybe motormouth would get the hint.

No such luck. "Yeah? Who's your lawyer? I know a lot of lawyers in this town."

I'll bet you do.

"Does it matter?" Beadles said softly willing Ninja to shut up.

"Fuck it matters! You probably got some high-priced corporate asshole or tax lawyer don't know shit about the criminal justice system."

Snap
! Ninja was exactly right. But Mel also knew most of the lawyers in the city and if he didn't feel capable of handling the situation he would pass Beadles on to the right man.

Ninja suddenly got to his feet and in one smooth motion dropped his trousers and swiveled his ass onto the stainless steel toilet. Seconds later he exploded releasing a cloud of poison from which there was no escape. Beadles buried his mouth in his sleeve and turned to the wall.

"Sorry, man. I had a parastaltic rush. When you gotta go you gotta go, you know what I'm talkin' about?"

Beadles willed the man gone.

"Hey," a guttural whisper. "Hey I'm talkin' atchoo."

Beadles sat up and faced his cellmate who had returned to his cot. Beadles held his sleeve in front of his face. "I don't wish to appear unfriendly but this is extremely difficult for me. Could you just give me some space here to figure it out?"

Ninja put his hands up a placating manner. "Okay. Okay. Don't go all gangsta on me, y'hear?"

Beadles lay back down with his arms crossed and stared at the ceiling. He could hear Ninja muttering to himself but as long as he wasn't interactive that was enough. He remained awake all night until pale morning light crept in through the cube-like window high up on the outside wall. They'd taken his watch so he had no idea of the time. About an hour after sunlight, when Ninja had finally run out of fuel and was contorted on his cot facing the wall, two guards came by and delivered two box breakfasts consisting of cardboard coffee cups, packets of creamer and sugar, a cold, uncooked English muffin, a small tin of Philadelphia cream cheese, an apple, an individual tub of applesauce, and a napkin. No utensils.

It was Sunday.

Beadles mutilated his cream cheese tin to spread it on the cold English muffin. He ate the applesauce directly from the tub. He poured all the packets of creamer and sugar into the coffee which still tasted like cardboard. He rinsed out the cup and used it to drink water from the faucet above the toilet.

Ninja awoke with a jolt, looked at Beadles as if seeing him for the first time, saw Beadles' empty breakfast box, looked down and saw his own beneath his bunk. He picked it up and looked inside.

"Why you not eat my breakfast?" he said, honestly bewildered.

"It's your breakfast," Beadles replied.

"Shit. I woke up first, I would have eaten yours."

Beadles crossed his arms, sat back and stared at the wall.

"Okay," Ninja said. "Okay." He ate his breakfast.

There was a blessed five minutes of silence filled with the echoes and shouts from other inmates.

"My man Feldstein gonna get me outta here," Ninja said. "You got a mouthpiece?"

"We had this conversation last night, don't you remember?"

"I don't remember nothing, man. Whatchoo in here for anyway?"

Beadles felt as if he were trapped in a bizarro version of
Groundhog Day
. "Theft. A pot."

Ninja' face lit with recognition. He pointed. "That's right! You stole the fuckin' pot from the university! You a gangsta!"

Twenty-four hours later the door opened. "Let's go, Mr. Beadles," said the refrigerator.

***

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Initial Appearance"

Mel Berenson waited in the jail foyer to accompany his client across the street to the courtroom. Berenson was a tall, dignified man with glasses and a Roman nose. He'd handled the closing on Beadles' house and other matters that had come up over the years. He watched as a jailer returned Beadles' belt, watch, and wallet.

Beadles remained uncuffed accompanied by a policeman as they took the elevator to the second floor and from there an enclosed pedestrian bridge over 10th St. to the courthouse, a Georgian revival with fluted columns. The streets were alive with vehicular and pedestrian traffic, people going about their Monday morning business.

"Vaughan," Berenson said. "I read the warrant. I assume you had nothing to do with this."

"Absolutely not. It's a frame-up."

"Well let's just let that slide until we get you out of here. Considering your lack of record and standing in the community I don't think we'll have to wait too long."

"How's Betty?" Beadles said.

"She's coping. She called her parents who are driving down from Elgin to be with her."

Great. Betty's parents had never really warmed to Beadles, although they put up a good front. They were hide-bound conservatives who were not shy about expressing their opinions and turned every family get-together into a harsh debate.

They joined a half dozen supplicants, their lawyers and police in the corridor outside the courtroom and sat on marble benches beneath a painting of Lincoln.

"You need anything? Coffee? There's a vending machine downstairs."

"No thanks, Mel. Let's just get this over with."

Shortly the bailliff called them into the court. Judge Shirley F. Black was a wizened crone with pince nez peering down at them like a hawk at a mouse. The bailliff called their case.

"Creighton University versus Vaughan Beadles."

"This is grand larceny, Mr. Beadles. How do you plead?"

"My client pleads not guilty, your honor," Mel said.

"I'd prefer to hear that from the client if you don't mind."

"Not guilty, your honor."

Black pored over papers four inches from her nose. "Very well, Mr. Beadles. I'm not going to set a trial date because judging from your history I expect you and the university to come to some kind of agreement before then. Bail is hereby set at five thousand dollars."

"Five thousand dollars, your honor?" Berenson said. "Isn't that a little steep for a first-time offense?"

"Well according to my documents Mr. Beadles was arrested for shoplifting in Rockford in 2005."

"That was a misunderstanding, your honor," Beadles said. Berenson looked at him reproachfully.

"We're satisfied with the bail, your honor," Berenson said.

Black nodded her head. The door to the hall popped open with a degree of urgency. Whitaker appeared before the judge clutching a warrant.

"Your honor, if I may?"

The judge nodded. "Go ahead, officer."

"Last night one of Professor Beadle's students, Rob Whitfield, died from a poisonous insect sting that occurred when Beadles violated university policy and a non-disclosure agreement he had signed and admitted Whitfield illegally to view a closed exhibit. That makes Professor Beadles an accessory to manslaughter. Professor, I'm placing you under arrest for involuntary manslaughter."

Whitaker whipped out his handcuffs.

***

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Phil Ruby"

This time Beadles had a cell to himself. Betty came to see him in the afternoon. They ushered him into a common room with a formica counter running down the center and individual cubicles separating the inmates from visitors with a thick, plexiglass shield. There was a slot at the bottom like they have in box offices but everything was done under the watchful eyes of two armed guards and cameras in every ceiling corner. There were three other guys on his side spread out among the six slots.

Betty wore jeans and a loose-fitting plaid blouse and looked worn without makeup, her hair gathered in a ponytail. They pressed their palms together on the plexiglass.

"How's Lars?" Beadles said.

"He's upset. He knows there's something wrong, but Mom and Pop arrived and are trying to jolly him up."

"How you holding up, baby?" Beadles said.

"I can't believe this is happening. Don't worry. Mel is getting Phil Ruby, a big-time criminal attorney to take over."

Beadles did a mental audit of his bank account and assets.

"We can afford him," Betty said. "Mom and Pop are willing to help out if it goes to trial."

"It won't go to trial. This is absurd. Listen. I've had a lot of time to think about this. You've got to find that girl Stephanie."

"The babysitter?"

"Yes! She had plenty of opportunity."

"But why, Vaughan? Why would she do something like that?"

"I don't know. Maybe Liggett put her up to it. He's hated my guts ever since he overheard me doing my impression of him at a faculty meeting."

Betty bit her bottom lip. "That thin-skinned son of a bitch."

"I don't know it's him. It's all I've got. Maybe the girl had her own motives. Maybe I flunked her, I don't know!"

Betty nodded. "I understand. What was her name again?"

"Stephanie Byrd. First thing you do, tell the new attorney about her, okay?"

"You got it, big guy."

She looked like she was going to say something else but she didn't. "I love you," she mouthed as she stood and went to the door, waiting for one of the guards to buzz her out. Three other guys on Beadles' side of the partition watched her go.

Beadles was released into the day room with the other non-violent offenders. Three blacks, two Mexicans and three white guys. The three blacks huddled together laughing loudly with big hand gestures. The three white guys sat in plastic chairs bolted to the formica floor in front of the flat screen television fastened high up on one wall watching the Quality Value Network. Two breathless blond cougars hawked ersatz emeralds in Empire settings.

Beadles had no intention of joining the Aryan Brotherhood. The two Mexicans sat in the back row talking quietly in Spanish. Beadles sat in the back row at the opposite end. The Mexicans glanced over once and looked away. Nobody else paid any attention. Cameras hung from the ceiling corners.

Was it possible? Was Liggett a psycho who would plant stolen goods in his house? It was the move of a desperate man and not something that could withstand scrutiny. If Liggett were responsible, this would mean the end of his career. Beadles expected full exoneration and permitted himself a daydream of assuming the chairmanship of the department.

Why not?

It was only just. He was the star academic. He was the one who'd landed the Azuma Collection. He'd even been in talks with the Discovery Channel about doing his own show, out in the field. People loved that sort of thing. They were willing to watch men fish off Alaska, surely they would watch anthropologists and archaeologists uncover lost civilizations.

Mel would know a good show biz attorney. At six everyone returned to his cell and received a boxed dinner: two Arby's roast beef and cheddar sandwiches and a bag of chips. Beadles drank water directly from the faucet.

He fell into a shallow sleep near dawn and dreamed he stood in a desert as flat and as hot as a restaurant griddle. The sun blazed so brightly that he couldn't see. Something was coming for him but he couldn't see it because the glare was everywhere. The glare surrounded him as if he were standing inside the sun. He tried to run away but he could barely move--like a cripple dragging one leg. That thing was closing in. Anxiety, sweat, thirst, running in place.

A baton running across his barred window woke him. His clothes were drenched with sweat.

After breakfast a guard took him to the visitor room where Phil Ruby waited. Ruby was a short man with a full head of wavy hair over a boxy face and square glasses. He had a surprisingly high voice.

"How are you doing, Professor Beadles? I'm Phil Ruby."

"Thank you for seeing me."

"I'm sorry I couldn't get here any sooner. I was downstate. Your wife told me about the babysitter. Ms. Byrd seems to have disappeared. Her roommate said she left late Saturday night right after coming home from your house. I have contacted the state police and informed them that she is a material witness. Unfortunately, they pointed out that since she is our witness, it is up to us to produce her. With your permission I'd like to hire a private investigator."

The words echoed from a great distance. Beadles felt trapped. How had this happened? "Are you shitting me?" he said.

"No sir."

"What about Liggett? Did he split too?"

"No, but Professor Liggett has not returned my phone calls. I believe he has retained an attorney of his own."

"Why does he need an attorney?"

"To protect himself from false accusations, he said."

Beadles felt a vein throbbing on his forehead, sending jabs of pain into his eye. "You don't think I did it, do you?"

"It doesn't matter what I think, Professor. But I must warn you--if this goes to trial that old shoplifting charge is bound to come up. They will go over your past with an electron microscope. If you were ever stopped for a traffic or drug beef they will find out. I hate surprises. So I want you to tell me the straight story. What are they going to find?"

The throbbing had assumed Olympian proportions. Beadles felt as if his head would explode. "Can't that wait until I'm out of here?"

"You're scheduled for arraignment this afternoon. I'll see what I can do."

***