Chapter Twenty-Six
It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.
Scanning the tattered copy of The Tale of Two Cities he found on a shelf within the Guilford County Jail cellblock he was assigned, Butch wondered why he bothered to bring it back to his bunk. Nevertheless, he opened it.
“Hmmph. I don’t know anything about the best of times, but this is certainly the worst of times.”
He then frowned and looked down the hallway towards the ten by twenty-foot common area each of the ten cells within the unit shared.
At the two stainless steel tables in view, a number of inmates were busy playing a card game – most likely, Spades. Others seemed to be passing the time conversing about women, sports, or the intimate details of their crime.
Well. At least, it’s not as bad as it was over the weekend. … Geez. Thirty inmates in a cellblock designed for sixteen. What were these people thinking? Are they trying to get someone killed?
Butch contemplated the thought before turning his head toward the book hanging loose in his hands.
If things are this bad here, I can only imagine what life is going to be like at Central Prison.
*****
It had been a number of weeks since Butch was moved from the psychotic single cell cellblock designed for inmates deemed potentially hazardous to themselves or others. And upon arriving in these new quarters, he felt the change would be an improvement. However, less than twenty-four hours later, he was starting to have second thoughts.
At least where I was, he began to think after spending his first weekend in the new residence, you didn’t have others bugging you about giving them your meal. Not to mention, it was a lot less cramped and noisy. And one could enjoy some private time.
Thus, starting the next day whenever he found someone who appeared to be experienced in long-term county jail life, he would ask them if there was a way to get reassigned to the psychotic cellblock. Unfortunately though, the answer he would get was always the same.
“In order to get sent back, you have to make a serious attempt at committing suicide – one good enough to land you in the hospital. However, the risk in making it look “for real” is, there’s always the possibility you’ll succeed in your attempt and end up dead.”
Hmmp. The odds doesn’t sound like it would be worth the risk, Butch recalled thinking.
*****
It was the age of wisdom; it was the age of foolishness.
“Man, why am I still bothering with this?” Butch muttered as he continued reading in a futile attempt to avoid boredom. “I’m no literary student. And I certainly don’t need a frigging book to remind me of what an idiot I was.”
Grasping its faded hardback cover, Butch took a deep breath and vigorously tossed the four hundred and twelve page novel toward a small lumpy pillowcase which covered the worn piece of foam, he was forced to rest his head on each night.
“What in the world was I thinking?” he shouted as the narrative sailed across his bunk. “Wasn’t beating the crap out of Paul Pontiac enough? Why in the Hell did I have to stomp his chest? I should have known doing something stupid like that would have killed him. Now, because of my idiocy, I’m gonna have to spend the rest of my life locked up like a caged animal.”
“Butch McGuire?” A voice that sounded like one of the jail deputy's, unexpectedly interrupted. “Butch Edward McGuire. I need you front and center.”
“Yes, sir,” Butch bellowed, rising from his bunk. However, soon after getting to his feet, he felt a sudden urge to urinate. … Glancing over his shoulder in the direction where the voice called him, he lined himself in front of the stainless steel sink/commode combo unit and then added, “I’ll be right there in just a sec. Okay?”
Officer Evans peeked through the window toward Butch’s assigned bunk and frowned. However, after seeing Butch’s position, he decided not to reply.
Dang nerves. Butch silently grumbled. I definitely would like to know why every single time one of the deputies calls my name; I get so dang nervous. Could it be, I’m afraid of my upcoming trial and what’s bound to happen?
Looking downward a few moments later, he verified there weren't any loose drips and zipped up his orange jumpsuit.
*****
“Butch McGuire,” a mostly silver-haired gentleman said, offering his hand and giving him a smile the instant deputy Evans led his client into the small six by eight-foot office public defenders was occasionally allowed to use. “I’m John McKinney. It’s been a while, since we last spoke.”
Butch nodded and took a seat in front of the dilapidated wooden desk his attorney sat behind, while the deputy moved to a position just outside the doorway. He then watched Mr. McKinney reach inside his Italian Analine briefcase and pull out a number of documents.
“I’ve got some good news Butch, considering the fact that the last time we spoke you were looking at a first-degree murder charge.”
“Oh?” Butch lifted his head, so he could stare directly into his public defender’s eyes.
“Yes,” John confirmed. He then paused and started to read one of the papers he had previously placed on top of the scratched desktop. “It would seem a mistake was made regarding your victim. And as a result, the first-degree murder rap has been dropped.”
“Been dropped?” Butch mouthed in disbelief. “How can that be? Is Paul Pontiac alive?”
John hesitated before answering, without showing even a hint of a reciprocating joyous expression.
“Yes. It would seem so,” he replied. “And with this major charge dropped, you will no longer have to worry about potentially facing the death penalty or having to spend your remaining life incarcerated.”
“Wow. That’s fantastic.” Butch's eyes sparkled as he beamed from ear-to-ear. “So how soon can I go home?”
John McKinney leaned backwards in his wooden seat and let out a chuckle.
“Now hold on, Sport. Nobody said a word about you going home. I just wanted you to know that the worst of the charges against you has been dropped.”
Butch’s smile instantly disappeared, and a somber expression replaced it. “There’s more charges?”
John nodded in reply. “There certainly are, Son. The least of them, Assault and Battery.”
Butch sat quietly for a moment, momentarily glancing toward the ceiling.
“You WILL be able to get me off with something like six months probation … won’t you?”
John laughed. “It's highly unlikely,” he said, grabbing one of the documents from his desk. “In consideration of the fact that your victim, Paul Pontiac, somehow survived your brutal attack, the initial charge of first-degree murder was dropped a few weeks ago. However, Prosecution isn’t about to let you go with just a minor slap on the hand.”
John then stopped to let what he had just said sink in.
“In view of recent events, the prosecuting attorney is willing to offer you a plea bargain.”
“A plea bargain?” Butch’s face rapidly transformed into a scowl. “What kind of plea bargain? I’d make a bet it’s one where I get the shaft.”
John gazed into his client’s dark-brown eyes and slightly nodded.
“Butch,” he began as he mentally reviewed how to say what needed to be said. “You cannot almost kill someone and expect the law to tell you ‘You were a bad boy. Now go home and please don’t do it again’. Therefore, in recognizing your past legal history and what you did to your victim in order to get the original charge, accepting an eight to ten-year Attempted Manslaughter sentence is a heck of a good deal.”
Butch turned and stared at John, as if mummified.
“Eight to ten years,” he whispered after several seconds had passed.
“Eight to ten,” John solemnly repeated.
Butch sat frozen as he mentally watched his whole world, his life as he used to know it, come to a sadistic end. Then suddenly, something inside snapped.
“Eight to ten friggin' years!” he wailed, leaping to his feet. The commotion created was so loud, Deputy Evans instinctively dashed inside to apprehend him.
Mr. McKinney smiled a sad smile as the officer proceeded to wrap a pair of handcuffs around Butch’s wrists.
“It’s okay, deputy. There's no need.”
Officer Evans stopped, still holding Butch’s arms behind his back.
“Are you sure, Mr. McKinney? Butch has a reputation of occasionally being violent.”
“I’m well aware of that,” John affirmed, reaching and raising a document from inside his opened case. “I have a copy of his record, right here, in front of me.”
Evans gazed at the public defender and shook his head, before letting Butch’s arms drop to his side. “Okay. But if there’s another outburst like…”
“I know,” John stated, giving Butch a hard stare. “I don’t think there will be any more trouble. Butch just got a bit upset over the news I had to give him.”
Evans intensely gazed at Butch as if he was ready to sic a few K-9’s on him, before turning to head back to the edge of the small office’s doorway.
John waited a second so Butch could settle himself in his seat. “So. Are you now ready to talk… as one man to another?”
Although his expression remained grimacing, and his eyes reminded John of the eerie yellow glow of a pair of cat's eyes reflecting moonlight in the darkness of night, Butch nodded his willingness.
“Okay then,” John stated, taking on a business-like tone. “You basically have two options, Mr. McGuire. One – you can accept the Prosecution’s plea bargain, and all other charges will be dropped. Or, we can turn the deal down and fight the case.”
“And if we fight it?” Butch scornfully asked.
“Not only would you be facing assault and battery, most likely, prosecution will go for an attempted first-degree murder charge, Butch. You could end up doing at least fifteen to twenty years.”
Butch snorted, before leaning his tan plastic chair back.
“It seems like either way, my life might as well be over. … So what do I have to lose?”