Chapter 17. A Rude Awakening

Less than an hour later a knock on my door brought me out of a good nap after a tiring ordeal. The door was open a crack.

A plainclothes cop that stood on the stoop pushed the door open, “Police: Are you Max McGee?”

“Yeh?” sitting up, I wiped my eyes.

“Officer Ryan, do I have your permission to come in?” he flashed his badge.

“Sure,” I put on a shirt.

“Do you know why we’re here?”

‘I have a good idea,” I wondered what kind of story she’d told, “but not exactly.”

“Does Beatrice Brenner live here?”

“No, I just kicked her out today.” I was still a little buzzed from a few hours ago and had to clear my head.

“How long did she live here?” Ryan asked.

A young rookie; in uniform, who’d followed Officer Ryan in the door, was scanning the room looking around for evidence. He spotted the tomato soup that had spilled over some papers during our ruckus. “There some blood here,” he pointed out to Ryan.

Ryan could see the bowl turned over, “Tomato soup?”

I assured the Rookie, “Yeh, she spilled it last night.”

“Can you tell me, in your words, what happened?”

“Sure,” I wondered, who else’s words were going to come out of my mouth? But I disregarded that tautological blunder because I wanted to get this right, knowing it would all go into the report. I thought that if I explained it Ryan would just go arrest Bea and they’d be done with it. I told him about the bruises and the stab wound as Officer Rookie looked over the knife she had pulled.

“When was the last time you two had sex?” Ryan skipped to the meat of the matter.

“Let’s see. Today is Saturday? … Two, maybe three nights ago.” I counted on my fingers, “Yeh, Thursday, I was too tired after work and went to bed early… no, it was Wednesday night.”

“How about last night?” his eyes riveted… reading my face… but not to intimidate… they were asking, what really happened?

“I told you already that she didn’t come home ‘til three in the morning. I made her sleep on the couch after she pulled that knife…”

“This knife?” Officer Rookie probed, slipping it into an evidence bag.

“Yeh, that knife, Officer Rookie.” I read the name on the rookie’s name tag, Dan Richards, “I mean Richards.”

“Did you at any time have physical contact with Miss Brenner?” Ryan asked.

“Yeh, I had to take the knife from her?” I explained.

“And did you stab her with it?” Officer Richards asked as though he was talking to a child.

Richards was really starting to get on my nerves. “No, I told you, she came in the door already banged-up with a stab wound on her shoulder.”

“And you haven’t had sex with her since last night?” Richards continued with an air of pompous righteousness most experienced cops won’t display.

“Wednesday, not last night, damnit!” I glared at Richards.

“That wasn’t last night but did you have any physical contact with her today?” Ryan was an experienced detective and his tone was non-committal.

I knew Ryan was fishing and I was going to be hooked if I wasn’t careful. Still, I was getting impatient and could see this interview wasn’t going well for me, “And it was fucking Wednesday, fa-Chrissakes! And, see that broken window? She did that and I had to push her from my door.”

Rookie sneered when he asked, “How hard did you push her, hard enough to bang her up?”

“I told you, she already had the bruises,” I sighed. I was resigned to whatever was going to happen.

“But you did push her?” Ryan asked again.

“Yeh, but I didn’t,” I mildly protested, knowing there was nothing I could say that would get me out of this mess… it would have to run its course.

“Please step outside with us, Mr. McGee,” Ryan sighed.

I stepped out the door and Officer Ryan put the cuffs on me.

Rookie read the Miranda rights from a card and I was put in the back seat of the squad car.

“What are the charges?”

Richards said flatly, “You are being charged with spousal abuse, assault with a deadly weapon, and rape.”

“Rape?”

Ryan turned to look me in the eye, “Yeh, sorry Max, I have to. It’s the law. She’s claiming it and I’ve seen her do this at least a-half-dozen times. If I were to choose between the two of you… well, it is always the same. She moves in with some sucker and… you know the rest.”

“If you know that, then why am I in cuffs?”

“Once the charges are made and, if there is any evidence whatsoever, we have to make the arrest. You should have protected yourself by filing a restraining order first thing today.”

“I had a hunch,” I realized that she would have access to my place as we were pulling out of the driveway. “Say, can you guys stop a minute so I can get my wallet and tell my neighbor to padlock my door? I don’t want her getting back in there… my wallet is…”

“No, but you’ll most likely be out by tonight if you don’t have any warrants… and the judge will throw your case out once he sees it is about Beatrice Brenner.” He added apologetically, “the rape charges will be dropped because she refused a semen swab at the E.R.” Ryan went back to writing his report and Rookie drove to County Jail. I learned something that day about the criminal justice system.

I learned to never say anything hoping to keep from going to jail. Don’t say a word without a lawyer present because jail is the destination anyway.

A concrete pour was scheduled for the next week and I didn’t want to miss it. My boss told me, after I was hired on regular, that once I started working for him, I wouldn’t be fired unless I missed a concrete pour.

The law, the police, the custody officers, the DA, or the courts don’t care about things like concrete pours. They’re primarily concerned about convictions. Time is irrelevant to them and, whether you are Charlie Manson or as innocent as Baby Jesus, it is a meat-grinder and it just plain doesn’t matter at all. You might lose your gig, or your digs, over a false accusation, but it doesn’t matter what happens to you. It doesn’t matter to them and they lose no sweat over it if you are cut loose or sent up shit-creek. The meat-grinder will take away the paddle, and canoe, to chalk you up on their scorecard either way.

The bench warrants from the Juan Carlos action came up so I couldn’t be released on O.R.

It was the week of the Bronco chase scene with O.J. and, when my mates in the cellblock asked me what I was in for, I just answered, “I did O.J.’s ole lady.”

They didn’t ask any questions after that.

Monday morning, I was taken down by bus to the courthouse. That day I waited in a holding cell all day without being called. One Banger, covered with West Side Boys tats, stuck out his tongue for my benefit to show his pierced tongue adorned with a diamond stud. He boasted, “See, I kept this… got past them with it.”

Getting past the booking search with such contraband was his way of putting it to the system. But, hell, by this time I could see where any impotent gesture would give a Banger the illusion of power against the castrating clockwork of the institution.

Letting the Banger know I recognized his tats, I asked him, “You know Bea Brenner?”

“Oh, yeh, I know her. We grew up together, eh? What, you know her?”

“Yeh, she had me busted.”

“I bet it was rape, huh?’ he wagged his head ever so slightly appraising me and said, “You know, that girl used to be a fox, man. She still looks good but you should have seen her back in her prime.”

I didn’t want to hear any more of her and wondered whether this, jailhouse-buffed West Side Boy, might feel obligated by his gang colors to get even for her sake.

“Hey, don’t worry, you’ll get cut loose. She’s pulled this shit before. They all know her… know what I mean.”

At this point I was more concerned about dealing with the Banger than the courts but his friendly assurance did offer me some respite on both accounts.

We were marched down in a file from the bus in chains to the courthouse where I could breathe the fresh air and hope… hope for what? Then have that hope crushed on the way back to the bus?

Back in jail, in time to be filed down to the mess hall, I sat at the table staring at my meal. The Banger offered, “Hey, Max, what? You don’t want any of this shit?” I let him scrape the shit onto his tray. I knew that, after a period of time, the chow would be agreeable to me… but not then. What the hell, I’d made a friend at any rate.

The night passed ever so slowly as I lay on the bunk. I had this urge to pray but   couldn’t think of what to pray. I knew that one of those jailhouse deals, “Get me out of here, God, and I will do whatever…,” wouldn’t do. I wondered, my life had been up and down but I hadn’t been this low in years. Even when I was homeless I’d always felt I had a chance. What kind of strange karma had me perpetually spinning my wheels? The debate was on between my ears as I’d think about all the times I’d gotten so close to having a life of meaning I could be proud of. Then, as I thought my mind would spiral down. I’d get pissed at whatever this God business was about for causing things like this to happen to me. The thought that came immediately after that one was, shit; this is all your own doing, drugs, booze, and chasing pussy.  Marley’s and Celeste’s words about my luck nagged at me, “but you always manage to fuck it up.”

Morning finally came and the jailhouse dogs were filed down to the bus again. My name was one of the first called for arraignment. The judge pulled out a big file and thumbed through it before he read the charges out loud to the stenographer. I heard the words rape and spousal abuse… assault or something like that. After hearing the word rape, I couldn’t focus on what was being read. I was asked if I could afford a lawyer and was told I’d be assigned a public defender and sent back to the holding cell to wait the rest of the day. Returning to jail on that damned bus hooked up in chains crushed what was left of my spirit.

There was no hope left for me. I’d probably lost my job and apartment, as well as my freedom. I’d gone a few days without a drink and everything was fine along those lines but the depression was unbearable. I thought back to that day when I’d prayed before Laura showed up out of the blue. How much of a coincidence was that? I looked around the cellblock where everyone seemed to be asleep. What would happen if I got on my knees and prayed? It wasn’t all that dark and I was sure to be seen. What the hell, I might as well… from the top bunk? What would it hurt to at least make the gesture, get on my knees up there? It would work or it wouldn’t. George Carlin once said that all prayers are a fifty-fifty proposition. The answer is yes or no… the odds are… would it matter to God if I was on the floor or prone on my bunk?

“I don’t see a way out of this one, Big Guy. Have it your way. I’ll go along with it. I just need somebody to help, some more direction here.” I tucked in and fell asleep.

The Sheriff’s bus ride downtown was the usual noisy affair. Jail as a whole is, in fact, a noisy affair. The concrete and steel all around amplifies the noises of the inmates and guards. Everyone is either yelling or a TV is on full blast. The only quiet comes a few precious hours at night. I was led into the holding cell and just sat down when I was called and led to a closet-sized room with a window separating me from a guy with receding hair and frayed jacket over his blue shirt and yellow tie. He had a file in his hand and he looked as though he would rather be at home in bed than shuffling papers for one plea bargain after another all day.

He read the charges before he said anything, “So, how are you Mr. McGee?”

“Okay, I guess.”

Peeking over his cheap reading glasses he introduced himself, “I’m Jeffrey Connelly, Mr. McGee, I’ll be representing you.”

I raised a hand towards him as though I was going to shake hands but stopped, mildly embarrassed, at forgetting a glass barrier separated us, “Okay, good, can we get going on this?”

“Do you know the charges against you?”

“Vaguely,” I wanted badly to get this interview over with and get on with the court proceedings, “but we have a concrete pour on our job site this week and I need to be there.”

“The good news is that the rape charges have been dropped and…”

“Great, then, can I just plead guilty to the rest… or you could plea them down to the lowest… er, you know… to minor charges? Maybe I can do community service or weekends for my jail-time… anything… I’ll take anything to get out of here.”

“Are you kidding? These are still serious charges.” Looking down at the file opened in his hand he looked worried, “You know that spousal abuse and assault with a deadly weapon can send you to prison?”

What I’d been told sank in after a few minutes. I’d been so worn down by the anxiety of not knowing what was going to happen, and so worried about stupid shit like my job and apartment, that I was ready to cop any plea just to get it over with. I remembered the prayer from the night before as a surge of confidence welled up, “Yeh, you’re right, counselor, I’m not guilty,” then I added, “but, in all honesty, I’m may not be entirely innocent.”

“I hope you don’t mean that last bit.”

“I do mean it.”

“That is why I’m going to do the talking when we go before the Judge,” Jeff said. His tone was stern enough to convince me that he knew more than I did about how to navigate through the courts. We parted and I went back to the holding cell.

With that understood, we went before the Judge by late afternoon. The changes in the charges were cause for more consultation and the assistant DA requested that the arraignment was postponed ‘til the next day. The Assistant DA was a hard-looking woman whose three-piece suite made her look determined enough to send this rapist off to the Graybar Hotel and Spa for as long as she could.

The attorney and I met in that glass partitioned cubicle afterwards, “May I call you Max?”

“Sure, if I can call you Jeff.” I was still miffed that I wasn’t on the streets already. “Man, you can just call me screwed if I don’t get back to that job site.”

“Don’t worry, I had a talk with your boss and he said that the concrete pour was delayed until you get back.” His grin was disturbing. It bordered on glee.

“Whew, that takes a load off my mind.” I was beginning to think this guy was alright… like it wasn’t just another case to plea bargain down.  “Did you talk to my landlord and neighbor, Teddy?... he saw everything.”

“Yes, Mr. Larson says you were the sole occupant of the apartment and your neighbor witnessed most of it.” I became more relaxed, “You have people backing you on this. Miss Brenner was seen at Jon’s with a known gang member that night. She even tried to cash in the Greyhound ticket at the Sportsman. You have a lot of cab drivers, waitresses, and bartenders, for friends. Your story checks out.”

“Thanks.”

My throat constricted and I tried to hold my face but a tear betrayed the mask.

The next day I was with a couple other inmates in a row of chairs behind a glass partitioned room where I listened to the assistant DA make an offer to reduce the charge of assault with a deadly weapon, assault and battery to misdemeanors. She kept the charge of felony spousal abuse on the table. We refused that offer. The assistant DA consulted with another attorney from her office and came back with an offer to reduce the drop the deadly weapon charges keeping the assault and battery but insisted on the felony spousal abuse.

Jeff said something about how the fact that they are backing off might mean they will take a misdemeanor charge on the spousal abuse. I was getting some vigor back and contended, “Besides the fact that I didn’t do it, she wasn’t even my spouse. She’d only lived in my place a few weeks”

Another round came after lunch break. The judge consulted with the assistant D.A. … and Jeff. The judge looked perturbed and the assistant D.A. scowled indignantly all the way back to her desk. She then determined to drop the spousal abuse and reduce the rest to drunk in public.

Jeff refused the offer saying that there was nothing in Detective Ryan’s police report saying that I had been drinking and, had I been drinking, I was in my home and not in public at the time of my arrest.

The Judge called the opposing attorneys to the bench and after a few minutes sent them back. Speaking to the assistant DA he said, “For all of this, I don’t see a crime here.”

Looking at me for the first time he called for me to stand, “Though I don’t see a crime I do see an incredible lack of judgment on your part Mr. McGee.” He shuffled some papers around on the top the file he was holding, “You have a bench warrant for failure to complete sentencing… at, let’s see here, Zona Seca? three years ago? Is this true Mr. McGee?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Why didn’t you complete the sentence?”

“I lost my job and had no way to pay for it. I was homeless until three months ago.” That was all I could have said because it was true.

“For failure to complete your sentence you are sentenced to a year in county Jail. But, with consideration for time served, the sentence is extended another three years’ probation for that time and during that time you are to have no contact with Miss Brenner. Is that agreeable to you, Mr. McGee?”

There was more but it was all blah… blah… blah to me from there on. I was free and that was all that mattered to me.