Chapter Forty-Four

Joe sat on the concrete floor staring at nothing in particular. At a small sound, he turned his head. Brent was passed out on the steel bench with his damp coat serving as a pillow. Joe made sure he was in no danger of falling off the narrow bench then leaned back against the wall, this time noting the details of where he was.

It was a large room, ugly and rectangular, with long metal benches lining three sides, a single steel toilet in plain view in one corner, and the fourth side open to the rest of the precinct house, except for the bars coated in gray paint chipped and peeling in layers. There was a TV encased in plexiglass hanging from the ceiling in one corner, but it was out of order. The floor Joe was sitting on was mottled with mud, spit, urine, and various unidentifiable spills and sticky patches. Across the way, a wild-haired man in filthy overalls had vomited. No one had come to clean it up yet, and Joe wrinkled his nose when a breeze blew a whiff of its reek his way.

There were at least a dozen other men in the room-- most of them drunk, most of them sleeping it off like Brent. One man had been in a fight and blood was seeping through a bandage on his cheek. Another man, young and well dressed, was sitting in a far corner, looking around with wide eyes. From time to time he jumped to his feet and paced, his hands trembling. Then he would return to huddling in the corner as if on the lookout for invisible assassins.

One of the men sleeping on the bench appeared to be just a teenager. Joe's gaze lingered on him, his expression one of understanding and concern. He was wearing only jeans and a t-shirt and appeared cold.

Another sound drew Joe's attention back to Brent, who had opened his eyes. "Go back to sleep," Joe said. "You aren't missing anything."

Brent closed his eyes again, but let out a little groan. "Does it have to be so bright in here?"

"How else are they going to make sure we don't get up to anything?"

Brent raised himself on one elbow and looked around the room in distaste. Then he sank back onto his damp coat. "Shit," he mumbled. "There's nothing anyone can get up to in here."

An officer walked past the cell without slowing down or looking in. Joe and a few of the other men followed him with their eyes, but no one said anything.

"What time is it?" Brent asked.

Joe looked around but didn't see a clock. "Early morning I think. Hard to tell. They took our watches when they processed us, remember?"

Brent rolled onto his back and pulled a sleeve of his coat over his eyes. "How could I forget? That has to have been the most humiliating experience of my life."

"It's no party," Joe agreed.

"There anything to drink around here?" Brent asked. "I could really use a glass of water."

"They ought to be bringing breakfast after awhile. You'll get some coffee, and maybe you can ask for some water, too."

Brent lay quietly on the bench, giving the impression that he had gone back to sleep. After a few minutes, though, he stirred. "How long do you think before we're out of here?"

"Hard to say." Joe rubbed the back of his neck. "If we're lucky, we'll get to see the judge before lunch. We both have clean records, so he'll probably just fine us, unless the guy who owned that place wants to press charges for using his stuff and drinking his whiskey." Joe's eyebrows twitched in concern. "We'll pay the fine or bail, whatever they set for us. Then they'll take their sweet time about processing it and we should be out by late afternoon or evening. Of course," he added, standing up and stretching, "That's if we get to see the judge this morning. If we don't see him until after lunch, we could be here half the night or even until tomorrow."

"Great," Brent muttered. "We've lost her, haven't we?"

"Probably."

"This is all my fault. I really fucked up."

"Don't be ridiculous," Joe said. "You didn't break that door, I did."

"Yeah, but I was the one who insisted we stick around."

"So what? It was because of me we ended up there in the first place. We could've stayed in the truck, like you said. And once we were at the house, I still didn't have to go along with anything you said."

"Well, it's my fault we put the truck in the ditch in the first place."

Joe shrugged. "I had no business listening to you when my own gut feeling was that we were too close." He toyed with the cuffs of his shirt, noticing a loose button. "We both fucked up. No use worrying about it now."

"If I were you, I'd be pissed."

"Well, you're not me. And I'm not pissed. I should be, but for some reason I'm not. I just want to get out of here and be done with it"

Footsteps approached the cell. A guard fumbled at the lock while another held up a reeking drunk, his pants recently soiled. The gate opened with a clang and the drunk stumbled into the cell, weaving about for a place to sit. The only bench space available was next to Brent, and he made his way toward it. Horrified, Brent scrambled to his feet, grabbed his coat, and moved to the other side of Joe, scanning the floor for a somewhat clean patch of concrete to sit on. Noticing Joe's sudden grin, he scowled. "No wisecracks, please, about how I don't like poor people. I'm not in the mood."

"Actually," Joe said, "I was thinking that for once I don't blame you."

Brent looked at the other people in the cell. He made a face when one of them got up and went to the toilet to urinate. "How can they do that, with everyone watching?"

"If they keep us long enough, you'll find out."

"You know, you sure are laid back about this whole situation," Brent observed. "I guess you're used to it."

"You never get used to it." Joe had been working steadily on his loose button and now it popped off. "You just get more accepting, although I sure didn't expect to land back in here again." He dropped the button in a pocket. "It was kind of a promise I made to myself that I wouldn't go looking for trouble any more."

"Well now I feel really bad about all this," Brent said. "I don't think we've done anything but look for trouble since Elise disappeared."

"Yeah, but what makes you think you have any bearing on what I do?" He looked at Brent's haggard face. "Don't kid yourself. Most of what folks do hasn't got a damn thing to do with you."

"But if it wasn't for me, maybe Elise--"

"Oh, hell. If it wasn't for you, if it wasn't for me, if it wasn't for the phases of the moon..." Joe waved his arm. "Your heart's in the right place, Conner, but you've got to cut this bullshit thinking everything is about you. You'll be happier, and people will probably like you a lot better."

Brent turned away. "That's way more words than I'm in any shape to be hearing. I can't believe you're not as hung over as I am."

"Maybe I'm just dealing with it better."

There was a distant rumble, resolving into the clatter of metal wheels on concrete. Joe sat a little straighter. "Breakfast is coming.”

Brent got to his feet. "Oh, good. I need something to settle my stomach."

"Then whatever you do, don't eat this crap.”

"It can't be worse than dorm food."

"I wouldn't know about dorm food, but I sure wouldn't bet on this not being worse."

A cumbersome cart of styrofoam trays was pulled up to the gate. "Single file!" shouted the guard, as she picked up the first tray and positioned herself on the other side of a slot in the bars. The paranoid man had been growing increasingly agitated, and pushed past Joe and Brent to be first in line. The guard shoved a tray at him, and he scurried back to his corner. Then Joe took his tray, muttering a quick thanks as Brent did the same. They found themselves a place on the floor out of the path of traffic. Joe started eating without comment, but Brent stared at the scoop of runny eggs, the burnt toast, and the cup of weak coffee in dismay.

"If you can't eat it, I will," Joe said through a mouthful of toast.

"I don't see how anybody could eat it. I wouldn't give this to a dog."

Joe shrugged, picked up his paper cup and took a sip. "At least the coffee's no worse than that machine coffee at the hospital.”

Encouraged, Brent took a cautious sip. He was about to comment when the man in the corner appeared to reach the same conclusion about the food. With a gut-wrenching yell, he flung the tray against the cinder block wall where it hit with a splat, flinging bits of egg and coffee over the three men nearest him. One started to protest, but the paranoid man shouted incoherently and began stomping and kicking the tray, cup, plastic spoon, and anything else in his path. He knocked over the teenager's tray and the boy backed away, stumbling over a derelict who moved over a bit and ducked his head in hopes of avoiding the rampage.

There was a thunder of footsteps outside the cell as guards came running. "Cut it out in there!" one of them barked.

The man continued screaming, picking up pieces of the foam tray and flinging them around.

One guard shouted down the hall and the cell door sprang open with a boom. Then the guards trooped in, grabbing the man and pinning his arms behind his back while he howled and kicked. More shouting ensued, as the guards tried to bring him under control. A tall guard who appeared to have a higher rank than the others ordered cuffs to be put on, and in less than a minute, they dragged him out of the cell and down the hall. The other guards looked around the cell for other signs of trouble, but everyone pretended to be looking at something else. Satisfied, they moved toward the door which clanged shut behind them.

After they were gone, Joe darted a glance at Brent. "Things aren't usually so entertaining in a holding cell."

Brent had been watching the scene in morbid fascination, but now he turned back to his breakfast in disgust. "I can't eat this crap."

"You sure about that?"

"Hell yeah, I'm sure. Don't tell me you want seconds."

Joe picked up Brent's tray and walked across the room to where the boy was now sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, staring sullenly at his overturned breakfast tray. Joe handed him Brent's tray and murmured something Brent couldn't make out. The kid looked up with a hostile expression. Joe made a few other comments, then set down the tray and walked away.

"That was nice of you," Brent said as he sat back down.

"A kid shouldn't be going without food.”

Brent glanced across the room to where the boy was shoveling eggs in his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in days. "Were you about that age when you a regular around here?"

"Younger. Up until the last time, I always went to juvenile, though. He's what I could've turned into. I can't ever let myself forget that."

"So why didn't you end up like him?"

"Luck. I was assigned a caseworker to keep me out of trouble. Those programs are a crock of shit, by the way." He picked up the plastic spoon from his empty tray, examined it, and tossed it aside. "I lucked out, though. Me and this guy hit it off. I was ready to quit stealing, though, and that helps. Ott couldn't have done a thing for me if I was still enjoying breaking into places."

"What didn't you like about it?"

"Getting caught, mostly. But seriously, I was just tired of the lifestyle. Tired of always having to make up lies and watch my back." He sighed and stretched his hands out in front of him. "I could see where it was all headed. The older guys who'd taught me were starting to get county jail sentences and even prison, if they'd gotten into heavier shit than just petty larceny, or had killed someone by mistake during a robbery. One guy I knew ended up dead, shot by a man while climbing through his bedroom window." Joe shook his head. "I may be kind of slow at times, but I'm not stupid. Even I could see there was no future in what I was doing."

"So this guy Ott, what did he do that was so helpful?"

"He was a friend. Gave good advice. Didn't get on my case about anything, ever. That was cool, because I sure didn't get that around my mom and stepdad. They had something to say about every little god-damned thing."

"My folks were the same way."

"At least yours gave you things."

"So?" Brent shrugged. "What good are money, nice clothes and a fancy car if nothing you ever do is good enough?"

"You’re wrong that things don’t matter. But it does suck when your folks don’t care," Joe agreed. "You wouldn't believe the shit my family gave me for going into welding. But I made good money, especially when I started working off shore. Then I hit it big with my crazy sculptures and suddenly I was my stepdad’s ‘beloved son.’"

"Figures," Brent muttered.

"I don't have anything to do with them. I won't read their letters, won't take their calls, and they especially aren't in my will. Everything is going to Elise."

Brent raised his eyebrows. "Even now?"

"Of course even now."

"If we don't find her, or if she doesn't want to come back, are you going to change it?"

Joe frowned. "I can't imagine why I would change anything. I still want her to be happy, no matter where she is. And when I go, I sure won't be needing the money."

"You could set up a fund, help other kids go straight. Kids like that one over there."

Joe looked back to where the kid was now nibbling on a crust of toast, glancing around the room with dark, distrustful eyes. "He's probably too far gone by now," Joe observed. "But you've got a good point. Gives me something to think about."

They were sitting in silence, staring at nothing, when a female guard approached the gate. "Listen up!" she shouted. She started reading names off a clipboard, ordering the ones she called to make a line, single file.

Joe looked at Brent. "Court," he said. "This is good. They're calling us early."

Brent's eyes widened. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Tell the truth. Judge will read the charges, you answer guilty, not guilty, or no contest. Simple."

"What are you going to do?"

"Same as you. Tell the truth. If I'm guilty, I'll say so."

"But what--" Brent looked around as his name was called.

"Go on," Joe said.

"But--"

"Conner, Brent!" the woman shouted again.

"Just go," Joe said. "You don't want to piss her off."

Brent slung his coat over his arm and went to stand in line. A few names down the list, Joe was called and did the same. After checking that all was in order, the door opened and the men filed out, following another guard down the hall toward the courtroom.