Chapter 2
Dallas County Jail began the booking process. “Fingers on the pad, Jeremy Wade.” “Can’t we do it the old fashion way? Ink and paper?” Jeremy said. The officer behind him shoved him. “Cooperate.”
“I am cooperating,” Jeremy said.
He touched the pad. The pad malfunctioned. He was instructed to try again. “Computer working?” Jeremy asked.
The computer was working. The pad didn’t seem to be capturing. “Take him to station two,” the officer behind the desk said, rebooting her computer.
Jeremy was hauled over to station two. He instructed to put his hands on the pad. He complied. The pad failed. So did the computer. Lights flickered.
“Ink and paper never has to be rebooted,” Jeremy said.
The delay in the processing resulted in the detective, Mateo Flores, to investigate. He got impatient.
“Just bring him back,” Flores said.
“The last time we didn’t follow procedure, we got in trouble,” the officer said. “Ink and paper?” Jeremy asked. He got evil glares. “Just trying to be helpful. You do have power failures from time to time, don’t you?”
Ink and paper were found. Finger prints were made. They spent another twenty minutes trying to get a photo. They gave up. He balked at going into the metal detector, which was very similar to the one at the airport. He was shoved into the metal detector. It rang and sparks rained down on him; it took five minutes to get the door to spin back open. After wards, he was patted down severely. Jeremy denied past surgeries and any metal on him or in him. The wanded him down. The wand broke. He was stripped and provided an easy suit, that hardly looked like scrubs. He was eventually brought to the detective, who instructed him to take a seat next to his desk. The chair was positioned right next to a monitor.
“Would it be okay if I sat on the opposite side of the desk?” he asked.
“Sit!”
Jeremy sat. The monitor blinked off. Flores sat down and tried flipping it back on. It didn’t come back on.
“Are you wearing a magnet on you?” Flores asked.
“No, Sir,” Jeremy said.
A fellow officer dropped by. “Boss wants you.”
Flores got up and went to the back of the room. Jeremy looked about, curious if anonymity would allow him to walk out. He decided no. Not likely with his special clothes. A hooker, a male who needed to shave, winked at him. Jeremy nodded and went to looking at his shoes, paper slippers, almost socks. The detective returned.
“Get up,” Flores said.
“We just got here,” Jeremy said.
“You’re going into a holding cell,” Flores said. “Maybe after you sit a moment you’ll be more cooperative.”
“I am cooperating!” Jeremy insisted.
“Yep, right into a cell,” Flores said, directing his charge.
Jeremy moved in the direction indicated. “Don’t you have to charge me first?” Jeremy asked.
“No, actually, move,” the detective said, pointing the way.
Jeremy was placed in a cell. He went accommodatingly. The door was closed. It clicked locked.
“Do I get a phone call and bail?”
Flores frowned. He hesitated, considering, and then opened the cell. He took Jeremy to a phone. “Local only.” “So, I can’t call the president?” Jeremy asked.
“If the president accepts a collect call from you at the Dallas County jail, I’ll let you go,” Flores said.
Jeremy mused. Decided that had gone as far as it was going to go. “You wouldn’t mind dialing it for me, would you?” Jeremy asked. The detective scowled. “Seriously, I don’t want to be accused of breaking the phone, too.”
Flores picked up the receiver. Jeremy gave the number. “Put it on speaker, please.” A moment later, the phone picked up. “Hello” “May I speak with Tory, please,” Jeremy said.
“This is she,” Tory said. “Jeremy?! OMG, I so knew you would call.”
“Um, yeah, Tory, I know we just met and all, but do you suppose you could come bail me out of Dallas County Jail? I’m good for it. Honest,” Jeremy said.
“What did you do?”
“I haven’t been charged yet,” Jeremy said.
“What do you think they think you did?” Tory asked.
“Maybe it has nothing to do with me and all about the irresistible urge to call you spell you did,” Jeremy said.
“Oh. I am sorry,” Tory said.
“No worries,” Jeremy said. “If it’s inconvenient, I understand.” “Times up,” the detective said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be there,” Tory said. “I know right…” Flores redirected Jeremy back to his cell.
♫♪►
Tory pulled her four year old out of the car seat, and his head fell to her shoulder. She didn’t have enough information for the bondsmen to find a Jeremy in the system. She went next door to the police station and inquired.
“I am trying to find a Jeremy who was arrested earlier.”
“Jeremy who?”
“Um, I forget his last name,” Tory said, embarrassed.
“No Jeremy,” the officer at the desk said.
Tory wrestled out a cell phone and showed the call from the county jail. “That number came from here.”
“There is no Jeremy here,” the officer said.
“Well, that can’t be true,” Tory said.
“Excuse me?” the officer said.
“You’re reading the playboy that he bought while with me today,” Tory said. The man actually blushed. She hadn’t been sure, but what were the odds of seeing Marilyn twice today? “Do you know who Judge Hicks is? That’s my dad. My mother is a Surgeon at Parkland, trauma. You will give me that magazine, give me Jeremy’s number, so I can go pay the bondsmen and get him out. Or do I need to call your superior? Who is that? Michael? He is working nights still, isn’t he?”
The officer pushed the playboy across the desk. “His name is Jeremy Vale. He isn’t here.
Feds took him next door.”
“Really?” Tory asked. She leaned in. “Officer Keats?” “Yes, Mam,” the officer said.
“Take down my number. If he is transferred back before I find him, I want you to call me. Clear?”
“Yes, Mam,” the officer said.
Tory changed her tone. “Hypothetically, if it was just you and me shooting the breeze, what was he charged with?”
Keats looked about and leaned closer. “Suspicion of grand larceny. Scuttlebutt says the arresting detective screwed up. They have nothing.”
“What do the Feds want him for?” Tory asked.
“I have no idea. No sooner than we get his inks scanned in the Feds call looking for him,” Keats said.
“Really?”
“No lie, mam,” the officer said.
“Why are you still using ink?” Tory asked.
“Oh, that’s way above my pay grade,” the officer said.
“Thank you, Keats,” Tory said.
She carried her son across the street. The streets were shiny with a late evening rain that had come and gone, popcorn thunderstorms. James woke enough to complain. “I want to go home,” he said.
“I know, baby. It won’t be much longer, I’m sure.”
The building was locked. She tried another door. Locked. She went back to the front door, looked up into the camera.
“I demand that you send someone down to talk to me. You’re holding my husband here,” Tory said. “Jeremy Vale is my husband. I know he is here.” She held up the Playboy. “And you will want this for evidence. It was accidentally left behind.”
The door unlocked. She pulled it open and went inside. Two men in black came to escort her up. On the lift up, she casually remarked. “I really didn’t expect that to work.”
They escorted her to a conference room where a couch was available. They brought her blanket and a pillow for her son.
“Do you need anything?” the fed asked. “Information?”
“I can bring you food. Water. A soda,” he said.
“Soda would nice, thank you,” Tory said. “Coke zero, or anything diet.”
She made her son comfortable on the couch and sat down next to him. The guard brought her a bottled drink and then went outside. He remained in the hall facing the door. She took her cell out and discovered no signal. She turned it off and put it back in her bag.
♫♪►
Jeremy sat, looking down at his lap, trying to capture everything with his peripheral. He had been given back his clothes and allowed to dress. He had done so without privacy, figuring no modesty here as they were likely filming him beyond the mirror. He assumed it was working. There were two guards and two Federal agents in the room. A careful scrutiny of the guards caused him to suspect they were also agents. The two sitting at the desk seemed nice enough. Attractive, young Agents. They looked smart. Agent Anthony Ortolani and Agent Dawn Elizabeth Smith. He tried not meet their eyes. They sat for a long time. Insufferably long time. He had time to ask himself twice if he were dreaming; dream checks pointed to not a dream, but could not be considered absolutely conclusive. His backpack was emptied out onto the table. They had the advertisement from his pocket, unfolded, and back in the Bridal magazine from where it was torn out. Jeremy frowned.
“There was a Playboy?” Jeremy asked.
“No,” the detective said.
“Fuck, if you can’t trust the police, who can you trust?” Jeremy grumbled.
“Let’s talk about trust, Jeremy,” Ortolani said. “Your ID is a fake.”
“Really?” Jeremy asked. “Stand all day in line at the DMV and can’t even get a good license?”
Ortolani smiled. “You’re funny. I like you,” he said.
“I don’t,” Smith said. “You’ve been a person of interest since you disappeared at age 14. You know how many people lost sleep looking for you?”
“Well, I guess you shouldn’t have relied on the milk carton campaign,” Jeremy said.
“Again, humor,” Ortolani said.
“No, this is me being serious. I bought up like ten cartons. Even set the picture down facing the clerk,” Jeremy said. “Held one up and smiled at the cashier. ‘Looks like me.’ All I got was, you’re cute. No one takes milk seriously. Absolutely zero calcium in milk. You want calcium, eat spinach. Also, the picture really wasn’t that great.” “Good enough you bought ten cartons?” Ortolani asked.
“Well, I wanted a souvenir from my past,” Jeremy said.
“You ran away from foster care,” Smith said.
“Yeah. Those people were dicks,” Jeremy said.
“So, you ran away and left other foster kids with dicks?” Smith asked. Jeremy found renewed interest in his lap.
“Do you know those dicks were arrested and charged with child endangerment and child abuse soon after you left?” Ortolani asked.
“Yeah, I said they were dicks,” Jeremy said. “Many foster parents are. Very few smart families sign up for foster; they know how hard it is to take in kids who have been abused or suffering from PTSD and depression. And no one is training foster parents for the shit that’s coming their way.”
“You sound a bit jaded,” Ortolani said.
“Nope. Just know the system. And it hasn’t gotten much better,” Jeremy said. “There are still parents taking kids in for state funding. Some chain-locking the refrigerator. Some put the kids on ADHD med to shut them up. Some just get the ADHD meds for themselves because very few providers want to treat ADHD in adults. Some get the meds to sell on the street. Milk the kids for as much as you can as long as you can. Go figure. Sex abuse, child trafficking, alive and well, right here in the big ol’ heart of Texas. What, we’re number two? Number two in sex trafficking, number 49 in terms of delivering mental health services to folks that need it. Go Texas! If you’re curious who’s fifty, well, don’t go to Oklahoma if you need psych meds faster than Texas.”
“You know stuff. You’re smart,” Smith said.
“Knowing stuff isn’t a sign of intelligence,” Jeremy said. “Any ten year old kid can memorize baseball statistics. Doesn’t make him street savvy.”
“Why did you run away and not report the abuse?” Smith asked. Jeremy was quiet.
“Were you trafficked?” Ortolani said.
“Are you charging me with something?” Jeremy asked.
“This is just a friendly little chat,” Ortolani said.
“Are there fries with that?” Jeremy asked.
“Where have you been for the last six years?” Smith asked. Jeremy folded his hands into his lap.
Smith spoke: “Five years ago, a CPS agent in Chicago investigated a rumor there was a young man in an apartment, no parents. She spoke to you, took a picture. Supposedly took a picture of you and your mother together. When she showed this photo to her boss, they came back to investigate further and you were gone. Nothing left but some clothes, several ready to run backpacks, and lot of magazines. ”
The photo in question came up on a screen. It was undoubtedly him. The woman even looked like his mother. In the picture, the apartment in questioned appeared fully furnished. He and mother were sitting on the couch together.
“I liked her. She was nice. She had a 35mm camera,” Jeremy said. “Any chance I can get a copy of the negative?”
“Why?” Ortolani asked.
“Just curious,” Jeremy said.
“The really odd thing about this pic is you were in foster care because your parents died an airplane crash,” Smith said. “This woman looks a lot like your mother. Who is she?” Jeremy didn’t hide a tear. “My parents are dead. Clearly, this can’t be my mother.” “Detective Flores arrested you today on suspicion of grand larceny. Interestingly, we are also interested in what happened tonight, as the alleged crime resembles a rash of pawn shop thefts where a young man, fitting your description, would pawn a diamond ring at multiple shops, and the rings would end up missing by the next morning,” Ortolani said.
“Probably should have called in Mulder and Skully” Jeremy offered. “Are you an illusionist, a cat burglar, or a petty thief?” Smith asked.
“You know who you should be investigating? Pawn Shop owners,” Jeremy said. “I traded a 50k ring for 60 bucks. That’s a crime. Technically, he’s probably more in line with actual value. We should investigate the DeBeers. They’re scamming the whole world.”
“Where’s the ring?” Smith asked.
“What ring?” Jeremy asked.
“The ring you sold to the pawn shop,” Ortolani said.
“In the safe?” Jeremy asked.
“No,” Smith said. She nodded and someone turned on a video.
A camera view of the pawn shop, poor quality, black and white, panned the store. As it panned directly over Jeremy it flickered, but kept going. It captured the owner depositing the ring into the safe, closing, spin locking it and coming back. It captured the arrest. The flicker as the camera passed over him was sharper, coinciding with his head being shoved into the counter and a clear spark of emotion.
“Can we use that for evidence of police brutality charges? I wasn’t resisting,” Jeremy said.
Jeremy was taken out of the shop. The detective asked for the ring. The owner went and opened the safe. The safe was empty.
“Fuck. You guys lost my mother’s ring?” Jeremy complained. “That was the only heirloom I had left. I want to press charges.”
“I suppose, if we can’t get answers from you, we can get them from your wife,” Smith said.
“Or your son. How old is he? Five? Five year olds will spill their guts over bowl icecream, you know,” Ortolani said.
“What are you talking about?” Jeremy asked.
Someone brought in the missing Playboy and put it on the desk. There was a sticker on the back that placed all the magazines at the bookstore on the square. The receipt revealed the time of sell and the collection was again complete. A video of Tory demanding to see her husband came up. She was holding a toddler.
Jeremy frowned at the desk, brought his hands together. “It is my humble opinion, plea bargaining and negotiating is a form of evil. It’s manipulative, playing on people’s fears and weaknesses, and often the people who get fucked over down the line had nothing to do with any crime. Tricking children to betray family, that’s worse than evil.” His eyes came up, providing clarity of his feelings about his position on this. “Both of you can go fuck yourselves. You have nothing. Charge me, lock me up, or let me go.” Ortolani sat back. “You’re free to go,” he said.
Jeremy sat there for a moment. Not trusting it. He gathered his magazine and stuff and put it all into his backpack. He zipped it up and repositioned a charm that hung from the zipper key; a tiny glass vial displaying a mustard seed and rose seed together. He walked to the door. He thought about saying something. He wondered what the Manifestor would say. He wouldn’t say anything. He wouldn’t threaten. The comic book hero and Jeremy were two different people. His hand shook.
“We need an address and a phone number so we can reach you,” Smith said. “Just in case we have any further questions.”
“I’m homeless and I don’t have phone,” Jeremy said. “Maybe when cells become mandatory and free and my phone number becomes my social security number and there is absolute ban on debt collectors and solicitors calling you at all hours of the day even though you’re on the do not call list we’ll talk. Seriously, there shouldn’t be a do not call list. It should be a call me list! Do you see my name on the list? Fuck you.”
He opened the door and would have stormed out but there were two agents semi blocking a fast exit. They escorted him to the conference room where Tory was sitting on the couch. She stood, greeted him with a hug.
“Are you okay, honey?” Tory asked, meeting his eyes. Her concern was genuine. “We should go,” Jeremy said. There was a sadness in him.
“Okay,” Tory said.
Tory collected her son. She left a soda that was half finished on the couch. He collected it and drank it as they walked. They were escorted out. They walked across the street to her car. The meter had expired. She had a ticket. She put her son in his car seat. He mumbled and she quieted him, telling him they were on their way home. She closed the door and smiled faintly at Jeremy.
“I am sorry,” Jeremy said. “If I had known you had a son, I wouldn’t have called you.” “Why? You hate kids?” Tory asked.
“I love kids. He should have stayed at home in bed,” Jeremy said. “Why didn’t you just say no?”
“Want me to leave you here?” Tory asked, a little annoyed.
“No. I’d like to go home,” Jeremy said. He looked up at the Federal building. “Home is the last place I should go.” He looked at her. “You have put yourself and your son at great risk.”