Authors: Julie Smith
When the second call came, and he actually heard her name, he snapped to as if someone had yelled “Fire!” It was instantly clear what had happened. Furious with him (maybe broken-hearted, he flattered himself), Terri had gone out and gotten drunk. She’d either gotten into some kind of altercation and been busted for disturbing the peace, or she’d gotten a DUI. Thank God she hadn’t been hurt.
He got up, pulled on some jeans, and headed for the nearest ATM for bail money, stopping only long enough to tell Lovelace what was going on.
He took about five hundred dollars, not knowing how much he’d need but figuring that would do it.
He had never been to Central Lockup, and certainly not at night. Thus, he was unprepared for the knots of shady characters hanging out in front, as if it were a crummy bar. What a weird place to hang, he thought. Why
not
a bar? As he went in, one or two accosted him: “Sir? Need a bail bondsman?”
So that was it. They were bail bondsmen.
There was a deputy at the desk. “Have you got a Terri Whittaker?”
He looked at something, maybe a computer screen. “She’s not showing up.”
“Theresa. Theresa Whittaker.”
After about ten minutes, maybe twenty, he finally nodded. “Yeah, we’ve got her.”
“I’d like to bail her out, please.”
“You can’t bail her out.”
“What do you mean I can’t bail her out?”
“Bond hasn’t been set.” He seemed to take pride in this.
“Well, can I see her?”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. Why?”
“She hasn’t even been booked.” As if that was supposed to mean something.
“Well, when will she be booked?”
The deputy shrugged.
“Look, when is bond going to be set? Can I get it set tonight?”
“Not unless you know somebody who has the nerve to wake up a judge. She’ll be in court at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. At the very latest, four.”
Isaac flat out couldn’t believe it. Not only was she going to have to spend the night in jail, she might end up there all day. He couldn’t even imagine that. There was no way he could let it happen.
“What court?”
“Criminal.”
“Well, whose?”
“What?” The man was a cretin.
“What judge?”
“You’re going to have to check the docket in the morning.” The guy was clearly dying to get back to his solitaire game.
“Could you possibly tell me what the charge is?”
The deputy looked utterly exasperated, as if the idea of spending this much time with a member of the public was out of the question for a man in his position. Obviously irritated, he fussed again with the computer.
“Forgery and bad checks.”
“What?” Impossible. It just couldn’t be.
“She wrote some bad checks.”
“She
wrote
some bad checks? You mean you’ve already convicted her?”
The deputy didn’t even bother to answer, just turned around and walked away, leaving Isaac alone except for the herd of bail bondsmen.
He couldn’t believe this. He never heard of a law-abiding citizen spending a night in jail unless they mouthed off at a cop.
Something nasty was nagging at him. How well did he really know Terri? Maybe he’d attracted some female version of his father and brother. He was no psychology scholar but he was perfectly aware that people with big-time criminals in their families might have to be careful about something nasty surfacing in their relationships. It was the same deal as children of alcoholics finding their nice, teetotaling spouses turning into alcoholics. Nobody knew how it happened, just that you attracted what you were used to.
Anyway, that was the theory, but Isaac figured his father was so mean and so dangerous a mere bad-check passer wasn’t half bad enough to fit it. Still, he had to wonder.
Well, he could wonder later. The thing was, to get Terri out of jail— he couldn’t think of anybody he wouldn’t bail out except his father. The problem was, he couldn’t bail her out. He was way out of his depth. He needed to have a lawyer in court with her the next day at ten. How to get one?
He went home and called the lockup, but getting to speak to a prisoner was the same as talking to one if you were there— an “are-you-kidding?” situation. Isaac had never felt so helpless in his life. In the end, there was nothing he could do but set the clock for seven, thinking to get up and get on it early. Lawyers ought to be up by then— he could call them at home, while they were picking out the power tie of the day.
At four, the phone rang. “Isaac? Isaac, I’m freezing.”
“Terri, I’m really sorry; they wouldn’t let me talk to you, or anything. I can’t bail you out until a judge sets bond, which they said will be at ten a.m.” He didn’t mention the “four at the latest” part.
“I’m so cold. It’s about forty degrees in here. Isaac, why did you lie to me about going home for Mother’s Day?”
He couldn’t speak; he felt so helpless. No way could he tell her. He said, “Let’s talk about it later. I’ve got to focus on getting you out.”
She sighed. She was in no position to argue. “They just booked me a few minutes ago. I have the place where I’ll be: JPSO. Wait a minute, that’s not it. CDC Section J.”
“I’ll be there, Terri. They said you’re in for forgery.” He blurted the last before he could stop himself.
“That’s what they told me at first too. Now I’ve got an official blue slip that says the charge. Are you ready for this? It’s bank fraud.”
“Bank fraud. What does that mean?”
“I wish I knew. Bank fraud! Me! I can’t even balance my checkbook; how would I figure out a bank fraud?”
That was reassuring, anyhow. “I’ll get you out,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out. Whatever happens I’ll be there at ten a.m.”
“Thanks.” There was so much gratitude in her voice he felt his chest get tight. Dammit, if there were just something he could do! There wasn’t, not till tomorrow at seven, but the anticipation of it was so strong he couldn’t go back to sleep.
He got up at six, and, to Lovelace’s surprise, made her breakfast. She had been asleep when he came back from the lockup. “Get her out?” she asked.
“I couldn’t; bond hadn’t been set.”
“I thought she got stopped on a brake tag… she called right after you left.”
“That might be why they stopped her, but she’s in for bank fraud.”
Lovelace brushed red-blonde hair from her eyes. “My God. What did she do?”
“She says she doesn’t know. Want me to make you some grits?”
“Sure.”
They ate in near silence. Isaac’s stomach was in knots, with worry about Terri and regret that Lovelace was leaving. As always when she left, Lovelace seemed sad too. In a way, it would have been better if he’d let her sneak away in her taxi, but in another way, he wanted to prolong their time together. He understood why people hated good-byes, though he found them indispensable.
Eventually, they got through theirs, with promises to see each other soon, and Isaac got out the phone book. First he called every lawyer specializing in criminal defense who also had a listed home number. Not one of them answered the phone, and he didn’t blame them; with that kind of clientele, he wasn’t sure why they were even listed. Next, he started calling their offices. Finally, he found one open, that of a Mr. Alvin Puglia. He poured it all out to the receptionist. “Listen, I have an emergency. A friend’s been arrested, and she’s going to be in court at ten o’clock. Could I please speak to Mr. Puglia?”
The lady couldn’t have been nicer. “Oh, my goodness. I’m afraid he’s not in yet.” She paused, and Isaac could see her looking at a clock. “He’s usually in by now. Shall I have him call you?”
“Could you, please? My name’s Isaac James.”
Isaac hung up, feeling anxious. He needed to move around. He went to take his shower and, to his surprise, found that a normal shower wasn’t enough.
“Oh, no,” he thought. “There isn’t time for this.” But there was no way around it. He had to stand in the shower until the hot water ran out.
He called the lawyer’s office again, and still Puglia wasn’t in. So, very carefully, he dressed for court. He had no tie and, in fact, no summer sport coat. He had a tweed one, for winter, but it was boiling outside. What to do? Had to wear it. No choice. He couldn’t go to court in shirtsleeves. Terri deserved better than that.
It was after nine. Once again, he called Puglia. He still wasn’t in. Isaac wondered if he should try to get another lawyer but decided it was too late. He’d have to go to court alone. Somebody had to be there.
“Listen,” he said to the receptionist. “I’ll call from the courthouse. Can you tell me where it is?”
She hollered the question to someone else in the office, neglecting to put her hand over the receiver. That nearly blew out Isaac’s ears, but then she came back all soft and pleasant. “Four-twenty-one Loyola.”
He hustled on over on his scooter, and when he got to Section J, out of breath, only minutes to spare, the judge wasn’t in and wasn’t scheduled to go on the bench.
“There must be some mistake,” he said, and at almost the same moment saw the sign that said Civil District Court. A criminal lawyer’s office had sent him to the wrong court, wrong courthouse, wrong part of town.
“You want magistrate’s court,” the clerk told him. “Over on South Broad. Near the police station.”
Once there, he asked and was directed a second time to the wrong court and finally arrived at ten fifteen to find that there was no Section J. He was winded by now, carrying the sport coat over his shoulder, his shirt nearly soaked through.
A tie
, he thought,
would have killed me. And the stress might still.
He was astounded at how hard this was, this thing that ought to be simple.
And I’m white and educated
, he thought.
They say it’s
really
hard if you’re black and poor.
Finally, someone directed him to the office of the clerk of court, where he was told that Theresa Whittaker wasn’t on the docket. “She’s got to be.” Futilely, the words came out. Nothing so far had worked out as it was supposed to. But, still, she’d spent a night in jail. They had to bring her before a magistrate (or so he thought).
The clerk looked at his records again. “Sorry, I just can’t find her.” He seemed a nice and sympathetic man, which might be quite a trick in the job he had.
Not knowing what else to do, Isaac prowled the halls till he found an office labeled Indigent Lawyers. It wasn’t a phrase he’d heard before, but surely it meant public defenders. He marched in and stood before a woman whose desk nearly spanned the doorway. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. I need a lawyer.”
“All of our lawyers are court-appointed.” Naturally. Another roadblock.
Isaac considered. “Well, maybe I just need help. A friend of mine’s supposed to be in court at ten a.m., and the clerk says she’s not on the docket.”
“Did you ask him if she’s scheduled for four o’clock?”
“Well, no, she was arrested last night. Surely she’s scheduled for morning.”
“Not necessarily. If a lot of people came in, they might not get to her till then.”
So it was back to the drawing board, and once again the clerk was patient, but no. Theresa Whittaker wasn’t scheduled for four, either.
Feeling wrung out, Isaac called Puglia yet another time, and still he wasn’t in. He was out of ideas and out of starch, as limp as if he’d done a whole day’s work, and he’d hardly started and hadn’t accomplished a thing. Plus, he’d already missed his first class.
The hell with classes. He wasn’t going to make it today.
He called his next-door neighbor, who was more or less like a guardian angel to him. “Pamela, it’s Isaac.”
“Oh, hi, Monkie.” This was her nickname for him, a holdover from the days when he called himself The White Monk. “Want some coffee? I’m just making some.”
He did. He wanted some desperately, and, more, he needed it. He was fresh out of adrenaline. “Thanks, but I can’t stop, I’m trying to get someone out of jail.”
“Not Terri, I hope.”
“Terri? I didn’t even think you knew her.”
“Of course I know her. She and I visit all the time.”
“Pamela, listen. Do you know any criminal lawyers?”
“Sure. My brother’s wife, Tiffany.”
“Tiffany? That’s a lawyer?”
“Tough little cookie. Just ask Leo.”
“Well, I mean, would anybody take her seriously?”
“Only everybody. She used to be an assistant D.A. Give her a call, why don’t you? And listen, let me know if there’s anything I can do. Terri’s a good kid.” Good old Pamela. She not only had what he needed, she offered more, and no questions asked. Everyone should have a friend like her.
“Someday, you know, I’m going to buy you that castle in Spain.”
“What castle?”
“The one I owe you.”
“Oh, by the way, about your lawyer— her friends call her Tiffie.”
If he hadn’t been so desperate, Isaac might have disqualified Tiffie on grounds of cognitive dissonance, but he was desperate. And Tiffie was in. Quickly, he explained the problem.
Tiffie wasted no words. “She must be in Jefferson Parish.”
“No, she can’t be. I was at Central Lockup myself. She was there.”
“Maybe they transferred her this morning. What did she tell you when she called?”
“She said CDC Section J— oh, wait. JPSO, she said first. Could that mean Jefferson Parish?”
“It might.”
“But she was stopped in Orleans. Why would they take her to Jefferson?”
“Simple. That’s where she wrote the bad checks.”
There it was again. Instant conviction. It was one thing coming from a jailer and quite another from Terri’s lawyer. “I guess,” he said, “there’s really no such thing as the presumption of innocence.”
“What?”
“You just convicted her.”
There was an edge to Tiffie’s voice. “You’re going to find, Isaac, that most people who get arrested are guilty.”
Well. He really needed
that.
“Look, do you think you can find out where she is?”
“Let me try.”
She called back in ten minutes. “She’s not in Jefferson Parish, but she’s not in Orleans either. I just talked to the clerk of court. He remembers you.”