With mounting horror, George hung up the phone and eyed his three cellmates. One was passed out on the floor in a pool of vomit. Another was obviously an addict, his fingers heavily stained with the black tar of heroin. The third was a massive biker with tattoos running down each arm and a mass of ink climbing up his chest. He was watching George with a bored look.
George gave him a tentative smile and quickly turned away.
“Hey!”
George felt a flash of panic. He was pretty sure the biker was talking to him. Having no real choice, George turned to the man. They stared at each other for a good ten seconds. George wasn’t sure if he was expected to talk or what. Finally, the biker reached over and hiked up one of his orange shirt sleeves.
George slowly shook his head in confusion. “I don’t—”
The biker reached down and tapped his finger on a tattoo on the inside of his massive, hairy forearm.
George took a tentative step toward the man. He had no idea what the guy had in mind: Was he showing off the quality of his ‘inkmanship’? Or luring George closer to grab him? George carefully leaned closer for a better look, ready to raise holy hell if necessary. But it wasn’t. He realized that the guy was pointing to a phone number tattooed on his arm.
“He’s a lawyer, and he’s good.”
How’s your bank account?”
George had the holding cell’s reeking phone away from his face to avoid whatever germs were on it. He hoped to take away nothing more than horrendous memories from this hellhole. The lawyer’s name on the other end of the line was Mario Bonifacio, and after he had quizzed George about the particulars of the case and how George had gotten his number, he had gotten right to the point: He asked George about his financial resources.
“It’s… I don’t really have a whole lot of money.”
“Credit cards?”
“Yes. Visa.”
“The credit line?”
“Pretty high, I think. About ten grand.”
“Okay. I’ll take a credit card. My fee will be twelve hundred dollars. That’s for my work today and tomorrow. I can’t get you out of there tonight, so you’ll have to cool it until morning. And smile, you’re getting a discount on my fee because you’re a referral from a trusted client.”
George glanced at the biker, whose name also turned out to be George. He could overhear the conversation since George was holding the phone receiver away from his ear. The biker grinned upon hearing of the discount and gave George a thumbs-up sign.
“Will that be a problem?” Bonifacio inquired.
“No. That seems fair.”
“It is fair. Now bail, that will be the big hit. A bondsman will want ten percent of the amount set by the judge. That is their fee, which you will not get back. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t suppose you know any bail bondsmen?”
“I don’t.”
“No problem, I’ll take care of it. One thing I have to warn you about up front: Your charges are serious felonies, so they will come at you with a big number. But I know the filing deputy and can maybe get it reduced. You have no priors, so that’s a plus.”
“When will my arraignment take place?”
“In the morning. I’ll be making calls to the jail after we hang up. You’re going to need to pay me and the bail bondsman prior to the hearing. I assume you have a Visa card with you?”
“They have it with my personal effects.”
“That’s fine. No problem. Okay. Try and relax. I’ll speak to you in the morning.” Bonifacio ended the call abruptly, leaving George with a dial tone.
George hung up the phone and thanked the biker for the referral.
The biker nodded back and turned his attention to his fingernails.
George scanned the room for a place to sit. It hit him that he was stuck here for the whole night! Abandoned, how would he manage? He located the cleanest-looking spot he could find on the floor at the front of the cell and eased down into it. He closed his eyes and shuddered. He was square in the center of society’s garbage can. He had officially reached a new low in life, wondering what additional disaster the morning would bring.
BOOK THREE
46
George was ushered into the courtroom along with three other men. A cramped seating area with a thick glass partition running up to the ceiling separated him from the courtroom proper. A narrow opening ran the length of the glass at face level so that the imprisoned men could be heard by the judge and attorneys.
George had met with Bonifacio and a bail bondsman early that morning in an interview room to take care of the necessary financial transactions after the lawyer had secured George’s credit card. George thought both men had been sent from central casting. They were tall, overweight, and practiced marginal personal hygiene.
George was more exhausted than he could ever remember being in his life, which was saying something after slogging through four years of medical school and three of residency. During the night he had been joined by a number of other cellmates, and their activities squashed any hopes of getting even the briefest spell of shut-eye. One man had tried to “cuddle up” to George. The biker, apparently not concerned with politically correct attitudes toward gay men, had put an end to that in a terrifying flash of homophobic violence.
The topper for George had been when stomach cramps necessitated his use of the toilet. It was so filthy, he refused to sit down and tried to suspend himself in midair. As if he hadn’t been self-conscious enough, his antics made his cellmates burst out laughing, taunting him as a “fucking aristocrat.” Even the experience of obtaining toilet paper had been humiliating. The jailors literally made him beg for it.
George was a physical mess. He hadn’t showered or brushed his teeth. Neither had the three men standing next to him. Their stench was nauseating, and he imagined he might not be much better.
Bonifacio, as big and beefy a man as the fellow who had recommended him, made his way over to George. The one thing he had going for him was that he was obviously very familiar with the goings-on.
“Doing okay still?”
George nodded.
“Good. I talked with the prosecutor. The deputy DA has assigned your case to a guy I know. He can be a dick, but the judge isn’t so bad, so we might be okay. With your credit card limit, anything under seventy-five grand is good.”
“What’s the likelihood of that?”
Bonifacio shrugged. “Like I said, they got a lot of counts against you. We could be talking as much as a couple hundred Gs plus. But don’t despair, I’m pretty well connected around here.” The man smiled. From the looks of his teeth, George understood why he had such bad breath.
In keeping with his luck of late, George had to wait while the other three men were called before him. George’s nervousness mounted as none of them made bail, which suggested that the judge was not in the best of moods. When George’s name was finally called, Bonifacio and the deputy district attorney assigned to the case stood and announced their credentials. Then Bonifacio waived a prolonged reading of the charges and told the judge that his client pleaded not guilty on all counts and wanted a speedy trial to prove it.
The judge looked up, obviously surprised, and stared at George. “You don’t wish to waive your right to a preliminary hearing within ten days?”