43
Wyman Ford and Melissa Shepherd had driven all night, twelve hours straight. They were on a lonely stretch of freeway in western Arizona when the cop pulled them over. Ford could see in his rearview mirror the flashing light bar of a police car behind him, approaching fast. He glanced at his speedometer but it read seventy exactly, where the cruise control had been keeping it steady, a good five miles under the limit. All the way from Albuquerque he had been a fanatically careful driver. He felt a sudden panic: perhaps the car had been reported stolen.
The squad car came right up to his bumper, and the man gestured through the windshield for him to take the exit.
“Son of a bitch,” breathed Melissa. “We’re screwed now.”
“Let me handle it,” said Ford, putting on the indicator and pulling onto the off ramp. The sign read REDBAUGH EXIT, but there was no sign of a town—just the vast, ocotillo-spiked desert of western Arizona, shimmering in the heat.
With the sheriff riding his bumper, he pulled over to the side, put the car into park, and waited. The cruiser pulled in behind him at an angle. Emblazoned on the side of the car were a logo and the words SHERIFF MOHAVE COUNTY.
As the sheriff got out, Ford felt a sick sensation. Here was a cop straight out of a Stephen King novel, with the mirrored aviator sunglasses, shaved head, and enormous paunch, his pudgy hands adjusting a belt dangling with sidearm, stick, Taser, pepper spray, and cuffs. He had three stars on his collar. This was no low-ranking grunt.
The man came over and leaned a meaty forearm on the car door as Ford rolled down the window.
“License and registration, sir,” came the deadpan voice.
Ford opened the glove compartment and took out the registration. As he did so, he got a good look at the name and address: Ronald Steven Price, 634 Delgado Street, Santa Fe. He handed it out, praying that the car hadn’t been reported stolen.
“License?”
“Officer, my wife and I are traveling cross-country and our car was broken into back in New Mexico. They took our wallets, ID, driver’s licenses—everything.”
A silence. “Name and address?”
Ford quickly gave Price’s name and address.
“Did you report the theft?”
“No, we just didn’t have time. We’re in a hurry. You see, my mother is in the hospital, dying of cancer. We want to get there before…” He managed a gulp and throat closure and let the sentence dangle.
“Wait in the vehicle sir.”
He watched the sheriff go back to his car. A hot flow of air came in the open window, and waves of heat rose from the surface of the road. Melissa cursed under her breath, but neither one spoke. Ten minutes passed as Ford listened to the occasional crackle and hiss of the police radio. Finally the policeman came back, with the same jangling, insolent swagger. “Mr. Price, sir, may I ask you to step out of the car, sir.”
Ford got out into the brutal heat. He realized that he was unshaven and that his clothes were rumpled and smelled none too good. The policeman gave him a long looking over. “Mr. Price, does your wife have her driver’s license?”
“No, it was stolen, too.”
“Then I’m afraid we’re going to have to leave your car here and both of you will come with me in the squad car into town. We’ll send a tow truck out here to tow it later.”
“But … what did we do?”
“Failure to indicate. And driving not in possession of a license.”
“You mean, I changed lanes without using my indicator?”
“Yes, sir.”
Ford knew he’d used his indicator at all times, but it was the one thing he couldn’t prove or disprove: just his word against the cop’s. His overwhelming feeling was one of relief that he wasn’t under arrest for car theft. They were going to get through this.
“Instead of towing, you can’t send someone to get it?”
“No, sir.”
“How much is the towing?”
“You’ll be presented with the bill at the appropriate time.”
“How far is the town from here?”
“Five miles.”
Both of them got into the back of the squad car. They were a sorry sight. The policeman shut the door for Melissa, went around to the front, and slid into the driver’s seat with finesse, given his bulk. They set off down the two-lane highway, heading for Redbaugh, Arizona. Nobody spoke on the ten-minute ride.
The town, when they finally got there, was even worse than Ford had imagined: flat and shabby, cracked streets melting in the heat, trash strewn everywhere, plastic bags caught on chain-link fences and flapping in the wind. The policeman drove them down the main street to a low, metal building with a sign that read, MOHAVE COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE, REDBAUGH SUBSTATION. And then next to it: REDBAUGH DETENTION FACILITY, ARIZONA CORRECTIONS CORPORATION, INC. This was a much larger brick building, brand-new, the largest and nicest-looking building he had seen in town, with fresh landscaping and a big flower bed.
The sheriff heaved himself out and opened the door for them.
“Follow me, please.”
They stepped out into the dumbfounding heat and followed him into a blast of air-conditioning as icy as the air was hot outside. It was a depressing place, an entry room with sheets of bulletproof plastic defending a slatternly receptionist and another small-town booking officer. They were buzzed through a door in the rear into a decrepit booking area with rows of scarred wooden seats crowded with what looked like small-time drug dealers, hoodlums, and undocumented laborers.
But they were not seated with the rest. The cop turned to Shepherd. “You’re free to go, ma’am.”
“What are you doing with my husband?”
The cop didn’t bother to answer, just kept walking, giving Ford a nudge to follow.
But Ford didn’t move. “I’d like to know what’s going to happen, Officer,” he said, making a mighty effort to be polite. The policeman stopped and turned slowly to him. Ford could see himself reflected in his big dark sunglasses. A long stare of silence, and then the cop said, “Driving without a license is a serious crime in Arizona. Seeing as how you’re not from around here, I’m afraid we have to consider you a flight risk and detain you until your hearing.”
“And when is that?”
“Tomorrow.”
“What about bail?”
“That’s what tomorrow’s hearing is about. It’s a bail hearing.”
Ford turned to Melissa. “You better get me a lawyer.” He pulled out all the rest of his cash, pressing it into her hand.
The policeman gave Ford a hard shove in the direction of the rear door. It led into a corridor to the adjacent, much newer holding facility. Passing a row of plush, wood-paneled offices, the cop led him through another door, to a long row of noisy holding cells packed with people. Past that, on one side, was an office with a man behind a metal desk.
“Have a seat, sir.”
Ford sat down, and the man behind the desk, a spare man with a wisp of hair and hollow unshaven cheeks, booked him. When that was done, the cop pulled him to his feet and led him to a cinder-block alcove painted white, with a curtain. To the catcalls and cheers of the prisoners, the cop pulled the curtain aside to reveal a photo booth.
“Hold up this sign and look at the camera.”
At the flash of the camera, the prisoners clapped and cheered.