Chapter Twelve
Despite having visited his father on numerous occasions, Butch McGuire quickly
learned that things inside Guilford County Jail looked a whole lot different
from what he was accustomed to seeing the visiting area.
Not long after his arresting deputy’s patrol car came to a halt in the downtown Greensboro’s booking center, Butch was shoved into a fluorescent lit, twenty by forty foot sparsely furnished room.
Once there, he was led toward a heavily engraved wooden bench where many prospective inmates, it seemed, had used a key or some other sharp object to scratch their name or initials on its surface. Others apparently wanted to record a date or perhaps how they felt. Four and five letter profane words were definitely in abundance.
You think they’d have a least a decent air circulation system in here, Butch thought, as he took a seat on the spot were the short, semi-chubby, dark-haired deputy was pointing. This room smells like a large rat died in here and was left to stink … or perhaps it’s the officers I smell.
“Okay, Butch,” a slender four-eyed uniformed gentleman wearing a chrome-plated tag with the name Perkins on it said as he walked up and glanced at the sheet attached to a wooden clipboard he held in his right hand. “I need you to hand me everything on your wrists and in your pockets – watches, keys, money, wallet, you name it. … It’ll be returned to you if and when you get released.”
Butch looked at Perkins and then glanced at his watch before hesitating. Dad gave me this just a few weeks before he got locked up again. And I haven’t removed it since. Butch recalled as he studied the black digital Timex on his arm. Now, this jerk wants me to take it off?
“Do you have a problem with my request, McGuire?” Perkins asked, showing a grimace while using a slightly louder, more forceful tone.
“Ahh. No, sir.” Butch narrowed his eyes and sneered as he complied – handing the officer one item at a time in a manner indicating he really didn’t care if the booking process continued into the wee hours of the morning.
“That’s better,” Perkins stated when McGuire was finished, though the tightness within his cheek reflected his agitation. “Now we’re going to head over to the Sergeant Kirkland’s office, so he can ask about a few details regarding what lead to the charge you’ve been accused of. And mostly likely after that, you’ll be ordered to see our shrink so he can obtain a quick psychological profile.”
“So in other words,” Butch countered as he proceeded to rise to his feet. “You need to see if I got all my marbles in order.”
Perkins nodded as the two of them started toward a six by eight office whose door opened into the farthest side of the booking center.
“Once you’re done with those two,” he then added while raising a small plastic container Butch recognized as the type used in drug tests. “I’ll escort you to the restroom so you can provide us a urine sample. … We don’t want anyone coming in here whose about to go into DT’s (Delirium Tremors) without us knowing.”
After all the necessary paperwork had been completed (on a PC, which appeared to be a model barely a step above a 20+ year old IBM XT), a staff member handed Butch a bright orange jumpsuit and instructed him to put in on. “Guilford County Sheriff’s Dept” was embossed on its back, with the first two words resting across his shoulder blades in bold, six-inch, solid black, capital letters. The others were directly underneath.
A person would have to be extremely blind to miss wording like that, Butch thought as the officer in charge watched him zip up the uniform’s full-length front zipper.
Later on when a few more minutes had passed, Officer Perkins offered him the only opportunity he would ever get while incarcerated to make a free phone call. All calls afterwards would have to be made “collect.”
Butch appreciated the gesture but had a slight problem. Who could he call? His father was presently residing at the Guilford County Prison Farm – which was located about five miles west of Gibsonville. And since it was a Saturday afternoon, his mother would be at her job at the large 24 hr. “Simon Says” daycare center in Burlington.
Cindy McGuire was one of their three professional daytime instructors and had given Butch strict orders never to call her on the job unless: One – an earthquake had struck and their home now resided somewhere within a twenty-foot crevice (which was highly unlikely since the nearest major fault line from Guilford County was over a hundred miles away) or Two, the Rapture her preacher had harped about on numerous occasions finally occurred, and Butch was one of the many who was left behind.
Gee. Thanks Mom, Butch thought after contemplating the latter for a second. If the Rapture did transpire - trying to call you would be a total waste of time since you’re supposedly “saved” and would no longer be around.
In regards to calling another relative, even a distant one, not a single other member of Butch’s family cared a rat’s ass about what happened to him. As far as they were concerned as long as he stayed away and never bothered to contact them, they were happy. After all, like his father, George McGuire, Butch was considered a black sheep.
Butch then considered calling one of the members of his gang. However, he quickly deemed that would also be a waste of time. The gang was bound to know where he was. And instead of making a conscious effort to help him get free, most likely, the whole bunch of them were hanging around the schoolyard – arguing about which one of them were going to be their new leader.
“Are you ready to head to your cell?” Officer Perkins asked when it became apparent that Butch wasn’t interested in calling anyone.
Frowning, Butch nodded he was and promptly got to his feet.
The officer then slapped a pair of slightly rusty cuffs across both his wrists and ankles, and they proceeded towards the back, triple-barred doorway.
“Is all this really necessary?” Butch asked, holding out his wrists as he shuffled down the dimly lit hallway.
“Is what necessary?” Perkins replied, even though it seemed like he was far more interested in observing Butch’s movement or potential movements than he was in conversing. “Making sure you don’t have an ice cube’s chance in Hell of getting free, or you wearing both cuffs and ankle bracelets?”
“The latter,” Butch replied as the two of them turned a corner.
“Yes, it is,” Perkins stated with a hint of a grin. “After our local psych got the results of the questionnaire you completed, he determined you’re both violent and suicidal.”
Butch smiled, then raised his head and let out a laugh. “Violent and suicidal? Me? That’s a good one, Perkins. I’ve never seriously injured anyone in my whole life. And I certainly shouldn’t be considered violent just because I gave Paul Pontiac a couple of love taps.”
“Love taps?” Perkins repeated as his lower jaw dropped. “Is that what you call impassivity committing first-degree murder in the middle of Gibsonville’s bus parking lot – giving someone a couple of love taps?”
“First-degree murder?" Butch’s eyes widened and he immediately came to a stop – which caused a second officer who had been watching them approach from halfway down the hallway to methodically place his palm around the Smith and Wesson in his holster. “What in the hell are you talking about Perkins? I haven’t murdered anyone. I’m here on a simple assault charge. … Paul Pontiac was very much alive the last time I saw him.”
“Yeah, right kid.” Giving Butch a smile, Perkins motioned for them to resume walking. “It sounds to me like you better have a long talk with your lawyer and fast. From what I heard, you’ve got a lot more hanging over that self-righteous pale-white ass of yours than you’re aware of.”
“I know my situation,” Butch replied as Perkins continued to lead him down the stairwell toward the basement. “And there’s no possible way you guys got anything serious like a murder rap you can pin on me.”
Perkins looked at Butch briefly and sadly shook his head. I guess the kid’s going to have to learn the unfortunate truth for himself.
Soon after the two of them arrived at the damp single cell psychotic block, Officer Perkins abruptly removed the dangling over-sized metallic key ring from his belt and opened a nearby cell’s solid steel door.
Butch, in reply, paused – just long enough to take in a good stare – then walked inside, deliberately showing a cold-faced expression so anyone who might be watching wouldn’t sense the ardent fear currently spiking down his spine.
Perkins then removed the cuffs.
“Are you going to need anything, McGuire?” he asked after handing the system’s newest inmate the standard county issued items – a pillow, one tan polyester blanket, a couple of fairly worn, white cotton sheets, one towel and washcloth, a roll of toilet paper, and a bar of generic blue soap.
Butch glanced at the sink/toilet combo unit residing in the middle of the cell’s back wall, then looked upward at the a/c vent located directly above. He then indicated no – even though the breeze blowing through was cold enough to where the temperature in his cell would be freezing.
“Good,” Perkins replied, locking the door behind him. He then stopped to gaze at the stainless steel Bullwinkle moose watch fastened around his wrist. “Supper should be served in about an hour. Should you need anything before then, just yell. Sooner or later, whoever happens to be on duty down here will either stop by, or tell you to shut the hell up.”
Butch smirked. “Gee. Thanks for the hospitality, Perkins.”
“No problem, kid,” the officer said, before trudging down the hall. “Living like this is something you better get used to since it looks like you’re going to be incarcerated for at least the next twenty to thirty years.”
Twenty to thirty years? Butch took a seat on the narrow, metallic bed frame, which had been built into the wall and began to contemplate Perkin’s words. No one ever gets twenty to thirty years for something like a simple assault. … Probation, yes. … Or even being given three to six months jail time. But not twenty to thirty years. That would involve being sent to prison! … Could Paul have possibly died?