“You can’t blame all that on Tennessee,” I replied, though I knew that he was half-joking. When he didn’t respond, I whispered goodbye and just held him until Jeeves gave me a gentle nudge.
“Who the fuck shot him?”
“We’ll ask the questions,” said the first uniform who had spotted me. “What were you doing up there?’
“Whoever shot him is a
murderer.
”
“You are trespassing,” said the single African American cop in the group. “You have the right to—”
“I know my rights! How about arresting the racist son of a bitch who shot Gustavo!” I yelled, searching around for those fat drunken losers I had seen in the bar who looked like they were just waiting for an opportunity to kill someone.
“Ma’am, you’re under arrest for trespassing and disorderly conduct,” said the black cop as he and another guy in a Smokey the Bear hat stepped forward. Out came the handcuffs. I was frisked and, still wearing only the one shoe, loaded into the back of his squad car.
When we arrived at the station house, I was led into a small interrogation room, where I was offered a towel and a cold cup of coffee. Then I was asked to take a blood test, which I consented to since I wasn’t caught driving and really didn’t think I was that intoxicated. A moment later, the inside of my forearm was swabbed and a hypodermic withdrew a small plunger of blood.
“Doesn’t it seem odd to you, deputy, that they killed Gustavo in the same exact way they shot that phony Elvis just three days ago?” I asked the arresting officer, who I imagined would be more sympathetic since he was African American.
“I’ll ask the questions,” he responded without looking up at me.
“Do they know who shot Gustavo?” I asked, crossing my legs so my bare foot wouldn’t touch the filthy floor.
“I’ll tell you who shot your friend if you tell me what the hell you were doing up there.”
“Taking a piss, or at least intending to. We decided to stop for a drink and found the place locked. So I went up to pee in the woods.”
“Were you driving the vehicle?”
“Nope.”
“What was your friend doing?”
“He wanted another drink, he probably tried pulling at the door just like—what’s his name—Pappy East. It was probably one of those old bastards who always sit at the bar! Because I’ll tell you right now, that Snake son of a bitch and his sleazy buddies tried raping me the last time I was there and—”
“I shot him,” the officer interrupted me.
“What!”
“I got a report that a suspicious car had pulled into the closed lot. The Blue Suede closed early tonight because of the weather. I went up to investigate and saw this strange man holding a rifle over his shoulder. When I told him to put the weapon down, he pumped it forward with both hands, like he was loading it, so I shot him.” He paused and added: “We didn’t know until afterward that it was an umbrella.”
“FUCK!” I remembered the goddamn novelty umbrella sitting on the floor of the car and would’ve taken it myself, but the rain was coming from every direction at once. It would have been pointless using it in a storm like this. He asked me a few more questions, but I just couldn’t talk. My personal effects were removed, then I was fingerprinted, photographed, and a pair of oversized flip-flops were located for me. Since I was permitted one phone call, I dialed the boy editor. Expecting to get his voice mail at that hour, I was surprised when he picked up. I told him that someone had killed Gustavo Benoit and I had been arrested. If he would call someone to try to post bail for me tomorrow morning, I’d greatly appreciate it.
“Why were
you
arrested?”
“Drunk and disorderly and trespassing, I think, but that doesn’t excuse him.”
“Who?”
“The cop who shot him.”
“Are you okay?”
“I guess.”
He asked for a variety of details, contact information and such, then said: “I’ll call our legal department.”
“Thanks.”
“Cassandra, I’m sure you’re a fine reporter and I’m truly sorry about Gustavo, I really liked him, but in this business we’d rather find the news than make it. We’re already regarded as one of the most hated professions, and stories like this don’t help us—”
Without even waiting until I was out of jail or had mourned the death of my closest friend, the jerk was firing me. Instead of letting him get there, I hung up.
Led back to my lonely little cell—no other women were incarcerated on that stormy night—I laid down on the hard cot and thought about poor Gustavo and wondered how I would get by without him. I don’t think either of us ever felt discriminated against in a major way, but we initially bonded because we felt like two outsiders in a white male profession. Perhaps because he was gay, I always thought of him as my best girlfriend, and felt painfully at fault for his death. I shouldn’t have even gotten out of his car, but I certainly never envisioned anyone shooting him. Danger was where you least expected it. As I tried to keep my eyes dry, staring up at the ceiling of my smelly claustrophobic cell, I knew that this was undoubtedly the single worst day of my life.
Early the next morning, a paunchy, balding man introduced himself as Sheriff Nick politely through the bars. Fearful that he might already be suspicious of me, I decided not to let on that we had briefly spoken just a few days earlier regarding the Vinetta Compton Loyd case. He informed me that he had elected to drop the drunk and disorderly charge, but could not dismiss the trespassing charge. He asked if I wanted to call anyone before going before the judge at ten o’clock.
“For a misdemeanor, I imagine they’ll ask if I’m guilty and if I say yes, it goes right to sentencing, right?”
“Usually it’s pretty informal. He’ll give you either a fine or a short stretch of jail time.”
“What kind of fine?”
“Well, I’m not supposed to be advising you on account of the fact that our office is pressing the charges, but for a tresspassing charge with no priors that led to your friend’s unfortunate death …”
“I didn’t shoot anyone.”
“But whatever hanky-pank you two were up to cost him his life, didn’t it?” When tears came to my eyes, he softly asked, “What exactly were you doing up there anyhow?”
“It was cold, we were wet. We just figured we’d stop for a drink. I never imagined anyone would shoot us.”
“If you don’t piss off the judge, you’ll probably get three hundred bucks or three days. Something like that.”
“Shit.” I had given the last of my cash to the plumber. I asked him if I could use a phone.
“How ’bout that one.” He pointed to a public phone just outside the cell and started opening the door.
“I’m sort of broke, but it’s only a local call,” I replied. I had decided to try to reconcile with Rodmilla for the second time in three days.
He took out his own private cell phone and handed it to me. “Keep it short.”
I dialed her number. The phone rang continuously for about two minutes before it turned into a busy signal. Either she wasn’t home or she wasn’t picking up.
“Is there any way I could get
my
cell phone.”
“Not until you’re released.”
“Damn, I need a number on it.”
“A local number?”
“Yeah.”
“One sec.” He came back five minutes later with a skinny White Pages covering the five towns and surrounding area that made up Murphy County. I looked up Vinetta Compton’s number and dialed it.
After ten rings she picked up.
“Vinetta, this is Sandra Bloomgarten.”
“Hallelujah! You got my message!”
“Yeah, but—”
“It’s like Floyd saw you from heaven and sent me a telegram from beyond the grave.”
“That’s wonderful but—”
“Do you want to see it?”
“I do, but actually, and I know this is going to sound funny, I need
your
help.”
“You? What on God’s green earth can
I
do for
you
?”
“I got myself arrested and I’m going before a judge in about an hour. I was wondering if you could lend me three hundred dollars just for a few days to bail me out.”
“You kidding?”
“I wish. I’m right near you.”
“You going to the county courthouse?”
I checked with the sheriff who said I would indeed be there. She said she’d see me as soon as she got the older kids off to school. I thanked her, gave the cell phone back to the sheriff, thanked him for his kindness, and laid back on my hard cot for about an hour before a jailer finally opened my cell door. I was handcuffed and led me out to a van where six handcuffed and scary-looking men were waiting. Silently, we were all driven to the courthouse. There, I was singled out and led me into a small courtroom, a large cherry-paneled arena partitioned by waist-high wooden balusters. I was up first. Although a few men, women, and children were sitting in the back rows, presumably waiting for their unlucky loved ones, I didn’t see any trace of Vinetta.
A bald, wrinkly, square-headed judge who looked like a giant shar-pei barely looked up during the entire proceedings. He seemed to be reading a magazine as he mumbled, “The People of Tennessee versus Cassandra Bloomgarten, for trespassing, how do you plea?”
“Guilty, your honor,” I replied meekly.
“You and a Mr. Gustavo Benoit were frolicking around the Blue Suede Shoes Tavern intoxicated, which led to his accidental death. Is that right?”
“We weren’t frolicking,” I said softly.
“According to the results of your blood test,” he held up a form, “you were twice the legal limit for driving.”
“I wasn’t driving, your honor.”
“Well, either you or the deceased were,” he said accusingly.
“We didn’t start drinking until we had parked the car,” I said emphatically. They couldn’t prove otherwise.
“Well, what the hell were you doing up there?” He looked at me sternly.
If I said I was urinating, I’d be guilty of a crime; if I said I was searching for a shallow grave, I would sound just as crazy. I shrugged.
“Answer me!” he barked impatiently. “What were you doing while your friend was getting shot?”
“Regurgitating.” I didn’t think there was a law against that.
“We don’t have a lot of murders up here, accidental or otherwise,” he stated. I didn’t correct him by mentioning the two recent dead Elvis impersonators.
“Five hundred dollars or five days,” he said severely.
I let out a deep sigh. It was nearly twice the amount I had asked to borrow from Vinetta.
“Do you plan to pay?”
I thought mournfully about five more days in that cold tiny cell.
“She’s paying,” I heard a sharp voice ring out. The possible husband-murdering, would-be insurance cheat had entered the courtroom along with four of her clan.
“It’s five hundred,” I told her softly as she marched up the aisle.
“Got it,” she said, and handed me a roll of twenty-dollar bills with a rubber band wrapped around them. The bailiff brought me to a cashier and I paid. I signed some document and was free. In the hallway, I saw the arresting officer who said he was truly sorry about Mr. Benoit’s death. I asked how I could claim his body.
“He’ll have to be checked out by the M.E. first,” explained the cop. “Leave your number and we’ll notify you when he’s done.”
S
ince my car had been towed to an impound lot, Vinetta drove me back to the sheriff’s office and I claimed my personal effects. While the little mother went shopping, she left me at a small park where I checked my messages. Hearing an old one from Gustavo, it really hit home once again that he had been killed for nothing, for a bogus investigation that ended up costing me a job. Right then and there I thought life could get no worse. But then I suddenly knew what I had to do. I tracked down the phone number of Gustavo’s only living sibling, his poor sister Clementina, who had just lost a son. As I timidly introduced myself, I heard the trepidation in her voice. When I broke the news that her beloved older brother was gone too, I listened to her scream, “NO!!!”
She wept so harshly I found myself shaking and had to hold the phone away from my ear. I quickly regretted not making sure someone was with her before I told her.
“I don’t know how I’m going to endure this,” she said through wails. “I’ve been leaning on Gus since I got the news of Earl’s death. Now I’m alone.” After another moment I explained that I could stay in Daumland until they released Gustavo’s body.
“Oh God! I can’t even afford to bury him …”
“I thought Gus has life insurance.”
“He told me he canceled it to pay for cable TV.”
“I suppose I can bury him down here,” I heard myself saying.
“That would actually be a big help,” she responded with obvious resignation.
We talked a bit longer and I promised I’d keep her notified of the funeral when plans were made. She started weeping again, and before I could say anything comforting, my cell phone lost its weak signal. I tried hitting redial a few times until Vinetta’s truck pulled up.
“It’s a miraculous gift from beyond the grave, and it fills in all the blanks. It’s about the guy who owns the Blue Suede,” the young mama said leaning out the window. “It even establishes Carpenter’s motivation in killing Floyd.” Before I could find some polite euphemism for
Shut the fuck up!
she added, “And I ain’t letting Minister Beaucheete come by no more neither.”
“That sounds very wise,” I said.
“Why don’t you get in here and I’ll show you what Floyd left us.”
I owed her that much for bailing me out and had absolutely nowhere to go, so I climbed in. She drove me to the county impound lot where I reclaimed my car and slowly followed her. Twenty minutes later we pulled into the Tornado Alley Trailer Park.
“After you left, I finally got around to fixing my septic tank and found out why it wasn’t draining,” Vinetta said as soon as I got out of my car. “And that’s where I got my divine message. It was stuck in the catch basin.”
“What kind of message?” I remembered the terrible smell of her front lawn.
“A small cardboard tube sealed in a heavy-duty plastic bag was blocking the intake valve.”
“You don’t say,” I tried to act interested.