Chapter Eighteen
Clink.
Clink … Clink.
“Are you gonna to eat today or not, McGuire?” the thin, balding officer yelled,
while banging a metal cup against the steel bars positioned at the front of the
jail cell as he glared at the seemingly asleep teen laying in his bunk, facing
one of its three damp cold gray walls. Deep inside Butch’s cell – it was dark
and smelled worst than a pair of sweaty athlete socks. “Or would you prefer
that I give your chow to one of the other teenage mongrels down here? I’m sure
any one of them would love to get a hold of it.”
“You got that right, Samuels,” a freckled-face, straggly longhaired fourteen-year-old hollered from the far end of the cellblock. “I’m starving enough that I’d even be willing to sweep and mop the hallway later on tonight – if you’d give me his tray.”
Butch paled as he pulled himself up to a sitting position. This can’t be real. I’ve been here a full five days now, and the same thing keeps happening over and over again – just like it did in that movie, “Groundhog Day." Are the other kids in this place that desperate?
“Just shut the hell up Cory and let Butch get his meal,” another teenage inmate shouted from the cell next to his. “It’s not right the way the officers here take advantage of us. And they definitely don’t need any encouragement from you, you HIV deathtrap.”
“I ain’t got any HIV, you jerk,” the freckle-face kid replied from inside his cell as Officer Samuels shoved Butch’s supper tray into the small rectangle window built inside the cell door. “I’m careful about who I’m with.”
“Don’t you mean whom you’re with,” a third inmate interjected. “You need to get your English right Goldilocks.”
“Yeah, Cory,” a fourth guy abruptly added. “And in regards to HIV, wasn’t it just last weekend you told us your latest boyfriend was diagnosed HIV positive?”
Cory frowned as he moved a couple of inches closer to the bars. He hoped to catch a glimpse of whoever made that last remark.
“Yes.” he eventually responded. “But it wasn’t because of m, he caught HIV. I'd swear that on a Bible. I’ve always been clean. … Ron caught it ‘cause last fall the fool decided to start prostituting himself so he could keep affording another fix.”
“So in other words, your boyfriend was a crack head,” a handsome black sixteen-year-old matter-of-factually stated.
“Yeah. Unfortunately, that’s true,” Cory reluctantly confirmed. “It was a damn shame too, ‘cause whenever he was straight, I seriously loved the guy. He was really cool.”
“So how can we be sure you don’t have HIV? … It seems like if your boyfriend had it, you should too,” another inmate asked.
“Not necessarily.” Cory paused for a moment to let his reply sink in. “Just because you're around someone with HIV does not mean you’ll necessarily get it – especially if no body fluids were exchanged. And we always used protection.”
“Oh?” someone’s voice from down the hallway resounded.
“That’s right. I ain’t stupid,” Cory continued. “Also, didn’t I already tell you idiots that soon after I arrived, the Nurse found out I was gay and gave me an HIV test – and it came back negative.”
“That’s true. I had forgotten about that. So what’s the odds we can get a little something going on tonight Cory?” the fifteen-year-old residing next to his cell asked, giving his compadre a wink. “It’s been at least 48 hours since I’ve had any action, and I think my eyeballs are starting to float.”
Cory opened his mouth and was about to respond when Officer Samuels gave him a stern look that strongly advised him to shut up.
“That’s enough, kidos. I’ve got enough problems without you bunch of horny desperadoes trying to get at each other. … So get it quiet and let me hand out this slop … okay?”
Butch slowly smiled. At least while the others are busying fooling around with each other, none of them will think about making me their girlfriend.
*****
During the next few days, time passed about as quickly as twenty-yard snail race. And with each day Butch waited for his court date, his six by eight-foot cell seemed to become increasing darker and smaller.
How could my Dad ever stand being locked up like this? Butch thought, staring at the cold cement floor in front of his bunk. There’s never any peace and quiet in this place except for the middle of the night. And even then, there're usually at least two or three guys snoring as loud as an elephant trumpeting. It’s almost impossible to get to sleep. … No wonder my Dad tried to escape a couple of times.
Briefly smiling at the thought of his father, Butch turned to see if he could find something he could read. Not that he actually enjoyed reading, but within the small confinement he was restricted to, there was nothing else to do. Thus, he took to reading whatever magazine or book a guard might hand him, then he’d sleep the other times just to pass the time.
The only other jail activities available were: going to a tiny rec room, which only occurred a couple of times a week if no one on their hallway had recently caused any trouble and every so often on a non-regular basis, a couple of the officers would let them take a five minute shower.
“Are you McGuire? Butch McGuire?” Deputy Henderson asked, checking his roster after opening the cellblock’s main entrance and coming to a halt in the middle of his doorway.
Tilting his head slightly upward, Butch leaned forward so the center of his back would no longer be resting against the wall that ran parallel with the side of his bunk. “Yeah. I’m McGuire,” he replied, though he wondered why he did. There was something within the deputy’s voice that seemed to tell him not all was kosher in paradise. “What do you want?”
“You have a visitor, kid.”
“I do?” Butch paused, then dragged himself onto his feet. Hmm. I wonder who it might be? Mom, maybe? Glancing at a wall clock down the hallway, he noticed it was a bit after one-thirty. Naw. She’d still be at work. Not to mention, she was here yesterday so I’d doubt she’d be back today. “So who’s come to see me, Henderson?”
“Some man in a suit. I don’t know,” the deputy replied, opening his cell and slapping a pair of stainless steel handcuffs around Butch’s wrists. “I haven’t seen him before.”
“Are you sure you don’t know him?” Butch stated as they proceeded down the dimly lit hallway.
Henderson didn’t say a word, though by the way he kept gazing at Butch, one could tell that the words he had recently spoken wasn’t running true.
Whoever it is that has come to see me, Henderson seems determined not to reveal their identity – which is stupid. I’m bound to find out once I’m in the visitor’s center. So why doesn’t he just go ahead and tell me the guy’s name?
Butch shook his head in frustration.
A few minutes later when he sat down inside the small booth he had been ushered to, an older gentleman whose hair was far grayer than black, looked up and gave him a business-like smile. He then motioned for Butch to pick up the phone receiver located near the right corner of the double paned window which separated them.
“So you’re Butch McGuire. Correct?” the man said, looking deadpan into the teen’s eyes.
Butch unconsciously shuffled in his unpainted wooded seat. “Yeah. What about it? Who are you and what do you want?”
“Well. Depending on your attitude, I could be your best friend … or perhaps your worst enemy.”
Then reaching for something located on the dark-gray tiled floor beside him, the guy nonchalantly lifted a black leather briefcase and sat it on the narrow counter in front of him. It appeared to be an Italian Analine, which meant either he or the firm he worked for recently had spent some real serious bucks for it. “So which would you prefer?”
Butch glared at the suited personage in front of him as he contemplated his decision. Without knowing who this guy worked for or the purpose of his visit. He wasn’t sure if the man was a lawyer or an FBI agent. Either way, he would most likely end up being totally useless.
“The name’s McKinney. John McKinney,” the lawyer finally admitted after a number of moments had passed and it was clear, Butch wasn’t going to respond. “The county’s assigned me to be your attorney.”
“Oh really?” Butch leaned backwards in his seat and gave John the impression he was about to break out laughing. “You look old enough to be spending your time inside some cozy retirement home, instead of wasting time with simplistic welfare cases. And where did your lawyer’s degree from – Walmart or Kmart?”
“The Methodical School of the Arts. And I minored in Psychology of Circus Clowns since I knew they’d be times in this business I’d eventually have to deal with morons like you.”
Butch chuckled. “I see you have a sense of humor,” he commented before crossing his arms across his abdomen.
“I’ve had to develop one.” Moving his seat an inch closer to the glass, John pulled a few documents out of his suitcase and laid them out on the gray painted shelf residing between them – despite the fact there was no way Butch could read them unless he held them against the glass. “Are you now really to get down to some serious business, son?”
Butch nodded affirmatively.
“Good.” John said, before stopping to take a deep breath. “As you are aware, when you were first booked into this place Butch, it was for a simple assault charge – with the possibility the prosecutor might add attempted murder. Isn’t this correct?”
“Yes.” Butch glanced at the ceiling. “Is the son of a bitch going to press for the latter?”
John shook his head no.
“I’m afraid things are a lot worse than that, Butch. Charles Greenfield, who is the prosecutor in this case, has been keeping close tabs on the status of the kid you had dealings with. … What was his name, Paul Pontiac, or something like that?”
“Yeah. That was him,” Butch interjected. “So what’s happened? I figured the geek’s probably back at school by now.”
“I wish he was,” John exhaled. “Then I could be talking to you about a probationary sentence or maybe doing about 180 days jail time. However, things have substantially changed and neither option is currently on the table.”
“It’s not?” Butch half choked as eyes widened.
“No. It’s not,” John confirmed. “Due to the severe injuries you inflicted upon Mr. Pontiac, he ended up being sent to Duke, where a short time afterwards – he died.”
“Paul’s dead?” Butch couldn’t believe his ears. “That mother-f_cking, son-of-a-bitch. It can’t be. I only tapped his chest a couple of times with the heel of my boot. It was nothing near enough to kill somebody.”
“He’s dead, Butch,” John repeated in a perfect monotone. “You killed him. And now, not only are they going to try to charge you with premeditated first-degree murder. The prosecutor told me this morning that the state’s going after the Death Penalty.”
Butch’s mouth flew wide open as a resounding “NO” tried to escape his lips. However, before his vocal denial could be uttered, his brown eyes unexpectedly rolled upward, and he collapsed on the wooden floor below.