A door to the outside was unlocked and opened up, and we went outside, shuffling along. Felix was first, maybe, I guess, because of his hand, and I was next to last. The man in front of me was pudgy and seemed ill, for his breathing was wheezy. The young man behind me looked like he had just started shaving, and he looked at me with contempt, like it was my fault he had gotten here. Outside the air was cold and sharp, but it was fresh air, the first fresh air I had tasted in more
190
than a day, and I could forget for a moment that I wasn't wearing a coat. We were quickly and efficiently bundled into a large passenger van, colored brown and with YORK COUNTY SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT emblazoned on the side, and up forward there was a mesh grill separating the passenger section from the driver and his partner. A sheriff's cruiser pulled in behind us as we went out into the light morning traffic' and I just stared ahead through the dirty windshield, as we made our way to another part of the criminal justice system.
The drive didn't seem long at all, and maybe that was because we were moving, or maybe because it had been so damn good to see Felix. We drove through Sanford --- how appropriate, where this fouled-up adventure had begun --- and then we were in the small town of Springvale, where the county superior court was located. We went around to the rear and the unbundling process began, as we were taken off the van and brought into another holding area in the basement of the courthouse. Same kind of benches, same kind of bolts in the walls where one hand was chained. All about us was the calm, efficient manner of court and police officials, keeping us bad guys in check, and I had this funny little urge to speak up and say, "Hey, really, I don't belong here. I'm one of the good guys."
A funny little image, one I'm sure Ray Ericson wouldn't agree with.
Waiting. A lot more waiting, chained to the wall, and then a deputy sheriff came into the holding cell and called out, "Cole. Lewis Cole."
"Right here," I said.
"Hold on."
He came over and undid my wrist, and he said, "Come with me. And nothing funny, you understand?"
"I understand."
I was taken down another corridor and let into a room with a wooden desk bolted to the floor, and with the scent of stale tobacco smoke. Sitting on the other side of the wooden desk was an attorney from Massachusetts, one whom I had met only once before, and one who was a dear friend of Felix, and who I was hoping was going to get my butt out of here and on its way home.
"Lewis," Raymond Drake said, standing up. "Nice to see you, even though the circumstances aren't good, are they?"
"I hope I'm not paying for that understatement," I said. Raymond allowed himself an embarrassed smile. "Knowing my history with Felix, you know exactly what this will cost you."
He was dressed in an expensive-looking two-piece suit, was tanned and fit, and was in his fifties. Gold bracelets were on both of his wrists, and as he sat down, I remembered how I had met him earlier, on another matter involving Felix. Some years ago, when both Felix and Drake had been younger, Drake had gotten caught up in a legal matter involving a relative of Felix's. Not quite knowing what he had gotten involved with, Drake had made a number of threats, which Felix's relative had countered with a late-night ride out into Boston Harbor in the rear of a cabin cruiser. Somehow Felix had learned of how this particular legal matter was going to be settled and managed to get a boat himself and secure Drake's release before he became lobster bait for the recovering Boston Harbor.
"Yes, you're right," I said. "Sorry to bring it up."
"No problem."
He opened up a folder and examined some papers. "Here's the deal. The goal right now is to get you out and home. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
"Okay. We'll be going in for a bail hearing shortly. I think we'll be able to succeed in taking care of business. You have a permanent address, standing in the community, and a relatively clean record. Bail will probably be set fairly high but I have resources. We can swing it. The thing is, Lewis, I need to know one thing."
"Sure."
Drake said, "If I'm going to get you out on bail, you're going to have to agree to a number of stipulations. Constant contact with either me or the Maine State Police. Surrendering your passport. Making each and every court appearance that will occur over the next several months. Is that going to be a problem?"
"Not at all."
"Good," he said. "I didn't think so."
"What about Felix?"
He put his folder back into a leather briefcase. “What about him?"
"Can you get him out as well?"
"I don't know," he said. "Felix's past history... well, let's just say it's more detailed and colorful than yours. I don't rightly know. But I do know that I'm going to do my best for the both of you, all right? Don't worry about Felix. He'll be fine. Worry about yourself."
"I do worry," I said. "All the time."
Drake got up and went to the door, and a deputy sheriff came and brought me back to the holding area. Felix was next, and he gave me another smile as he went out, holding his bandaged hand carefully in front of him. I looked around and there was Ray Ericson, still sitting and staring straight ahead. There was a low murmur of the other prisoners talking among themselves, discussing who they were, what they had done, and how it was all a mistake, and I kept my mouth shut, for a number of reasons. There was still this odd sense of disbelief, that I really didn't belong here, that this had all been a terrible mistake, but that odd sense was outweighed by the magnitude of the trouble I was in, and the trouble I had no doubt caused Diane Woods. I wondered if she was in the courtroom. I wondered what she was thinking about me.
And so I sat, until my name was called, yet again, by another busy and efficient deputy sheriff. I got up and was taken to another doorway, and it was like I was going through some magical transportation device. Behind me was all concrete and steel and the smells of sweat and fear, and the processing of men who had gotten themselves into serious trouble, and by passing through the door, I was now in the world of calm and deliberative justice. I was now in a small courtroom with a female judge on the bench, looking down at us like some disapproving parochial school principal. Before me was Raymond Drake, standing behind a wooden table, motioning me over.
I joined him and stood still and tried to imagine what kind of contrite look would work for the judge, whose nameplate said ROSE ROBINSON. Her hair was thick and black and she had on reading glasses attached to a little gold chain that looped around her neck. She looked down at her papers, as a young man in a black suit passed other papers over to her. She gave them a glance and looked up and said, "Mr. Drake. From Boston. I take it you're representing Mr. Cole?"
"That's true, your honor," he said, in a firm, polite voice.
"Mmm," she said, examining a few sheets of paper. "Seems like you've been a busy young man, Mr. Cole."
Drake nudged me sharply in the ribs, so I kept my mouth shut.
At an identical wooden table just a few feet away, a woman about five feet tall, wearing a black skirt, black jacket, and ruffled white shirt was standing as well. Her long blond hair seemed to reach the top of her buttocks.
"Miss Harrison, what says the State?"
"Your honor," she said, in a loud voice that seemed out of place in such a tiny body. "Due to the severity and barbarity of the allegations against Mr. Cole and his confederate, we request bail in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars, cash or surety."
Sweet Jesus, I thought, feeling like the floor was trembling beneath me.
"Your honor, based on my client's firm ties with his community and his lack of a prior record, we feel the county's request is way out of line."
"Perhaps it is, Mr. Drake," the judge said, making a notation on a piece of paper. "But it's a line that's not too far off. Seventy thousand dollars, cash or surety. See the court officer to your right. Tom, who's next?"
The next several minutes was a confusing mix of papers being signed, documents being exchanged, and then Drake disappearing for a moment and reappearing with a plastic shopping bag. "Here," he said, handing the bag over to me. "The jumpsuit doesn't do anything for you at all."
My own clothes were probably still in a bag back at the York County jail. Whatever. I slipped into a nearby men's room and stripped off the jumpsuit and put on the fresh clothes. I don't know how he knew my size or where he found time this morning to do shopping, and I didn't particularly care. He had even included slip-on Topsiders that were soft and comfortable, and I looked at my face in the bathroom's mirror, just before I left. My eyes were red-rimmed and heavy, there was a day-old growth of beard on my face, and my hair was thick and greasy. But it wasn't the appearance that bothered me as much as it was the look in those eyes. They reminded me of pictures taken right after the end of World War II, when German war criminals were led into the dock. A look of what had they done. What they had done.
Outside Drake met me and I gave him the plastic bag, with the jail clothing inside. He passed over a small paper bag. Inside was my wallet, keys, and other pocket stuff. But no 9mm Beretta pistol. I'm sure that wouldn't be coming back to me any time soon.
Drake said, "Court appearance here in two weeks. I'll talk to you before then. Ready to go home?"
"Yes," I said. "But what about Felix?"
"I'm going to take care of Felix," he said, grabbing my upper arm. "Actually, Felix is going to take care of Felix. He always does. Let's get out of here before some member of the Fourth Estate makes our lives miserable."
We went out into the lobby of the courthouse, past groups of people here to either seek justice or to watch it in action. Outside, he led me to a parking area to a black BMW with Massachusetts license plates. There was a young woman standing by the shiny front fender who smiled at the two of us as we came closer.
"Mr. Cole, allow me to present Miss Wynn, my associate."
I gave her a quick shake of the hand. She had short, red, thick hair, a winning smile, and gray-blue eyes. She had on a short black leather jacket, short gray skirt, and black high heels. Drake went on, "She's here to take you home."
"And what about you?"
"I'm going to stay here and work with Felix for a while. See what we can work out."
"And what's that going to be?"
Drake smiled. "Sorry. Lawyer-client privilege."
"Mr. Cole?" Miss Wynn asked with smile still in place. "Ready?"
I held some of the paperwork in my hands. "I guess so."
Drake slapped me gently on the back and led me around to the passenger's side of the BMW, opening the door for me. I got in and leaned back in the soft leather seat.
"Well, you're a free man," Drake said, lowering his head to look at me.
I thought about everything I had done the past two days, and everything that had happened to me.
"No," I said. "No, I'm not."
Chapter Seventeen
Miss Wynn got right to it as we left the courthouse parking lot.
"Mr. Cole, where would you like to go?"
"What do you mean?"
I liked watching the way her long-fingernailed hands worked the steering wheel and stick shift. I added, "I thought you were to take me home."
She flashed me a bright smile. "Raymond said I was to take you anywhere you wanted to go. If home is that place, fine. If it was Boston, fine."
"How about Los Angeles?"
She didn't miss a beat. "That would be fine, too. Though we'd have to go through a rather extensive and polite discussion over tolls, gas, and lodging arrangements."
"I'm sure," I said, suddenly feeling quite tired. "Any other day, Miss Wynn, that would be fun. But today, home will be fine. Tyler Beach."
Another nice smile. "Tyler Beach it shall be."
And so we headed south. If I was tired and felt soiled and didn't feel like talking, Miss Wynn took up the slack. She told me about her time growing up in Southern California, how she dropped out of college and worked for a hi-tech company, got burnt out, and how she ended up on the East Coast --- "a long and boring story involving a married couple who had a very different idea of what an au pair should do" --- and after a number of other misadventures, she was now a paralegal and working for Raymond Drake, and also taking night courses for a law degree from the New England School of Law.
"And how's law school?" I managed to ask as we passed over the Memorial Bridge into New Hampshire.
"Not bad, except for this law professor I have, claims to be a writer," she said. "He also claims to have a body of a nineteen-year-old paratrooper, but I keep my mouth shut and take good notes. And you, Mr. Cole ---"
"Lewis."
"Sorry, Lewis. I understand you're a writer, too?"
"On a monthly basis."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm sorry," I said. "I write a column for a magazine out of Boston. Called
Shoreline
."
"Oh. Is it fun?"
"Most days."