I took refuge that night in the toy room among the figurines and playthings of my youth. An old Artie Flake record spun on the player as I sat at my worktable. My time traveler was almost done. There was, however, some trim work on the clay base. Paint needed to be applied. Then there were the other figurines. Every good hero needs a cast of supporting players.
Monica looked as dazzling as ever. Her framed picture sat on the edge of my table, and we talked about Sammy and the Lost Boys. I didn’t tell her much about the family drama and Annie. Some things needed to be kept close, even if I was talking to a memory.
The record played through to the final song. The music was slow and simple. A light brush on the snare kept time. An upright bass carried the tune, and Artie Flake sang the tale:
Won’t you come down to Saint Louie.
Won’t you be my pretty baby.
Won’t you come down to Saint Louie.
This town’s got me crazy.
It was well past midnight when I turned off the lights and closed the door. I walked through the kitchen, then started up the stairs. My mind was now too dull and my body too tired for the worries that had stacked up over the past week to interfere with my sleep.
That was the magic of the toy room.
I got to the upper landing, thinking only about brushing my teeth and laying my head down on my pillow. Then there was a noise in the alley. It sounded like a few empty bottles rolling across the cobblestones.
I turned out the lights and stood at the edge of the window. Whatever calm I had felt seconds before was gone. I scanned the alley, not sure what I was looking for and even less sure about what I was going to do about whatever I might find.
I waited.
My heart beat faster. Adrenaline.
It took some time for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but even then there wasn’t anything to see. No cars drove by. Nobody emerged from the shadows. I saw nothing, but I knew there was someone out there.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The next morning didn’t go as planned. Emma had scheduled family interviews with a half dozen new clients, but I got a call from the city prosecutor as I arrived with Sammy at her school.
“Hold on.” I covered the phone and looked back at Sammy. She had her backpack in her lap and was staring at the front entrance. “You gonna be OK?”
She looked at me and nodded. “I’ll be fine.” She didn’t sound convinced. She reached out toward the handle, but hesitated.
“It’ll be OK.” I nodded. “Love you, Sammy.”
“Love you, too, Daddy.” She opened the door and got out.
I didn’t pull away, even though the volunteer running the school drop-off lane waved me forward. I watched her go up the large walkway to the entrance of the school, and then I waited until she was inside. The whole time I was half expecting her to run away.
“Mr. Glass?” It was a faint voice. The prosecutor was still on the line.
I put the cell phone back to my ear. “Sorry about that.” I pulled away from the curb. “What’s going on?”
Cecil Bates was in jail, scheduled to appear on the morning detention calendar, and the prosecutor wanted to cut a deal. No probation. No additional time to serve hanging over his head. Credit for time served with a minimal fine that everybody knew would never be collected.
It was a good deal, but it wasn’t because the prosecutor thought she had a bad case. She wanted to dump it. A trial would be a waste of resources.
I called Emma and told her to reschedule the interviews. She cursed, but I told her that I didn’t have any choice. That was the life of a solo street lawyer. There weren’t associates or other partners available to bail you out when there was an unexpected court hearing. The meetings had to be rescheduled, and I had to drive down to the City Justice Center and convince Cecil to take the plea.
The building was new—built in the last twenty years, when every major American city built a new jail and a new sports stadium downtown.
Constructed of polished stone and glass, it was meant to look like a mid-rise office tower. The cameras, metal detectors, cops, and lack of windows on the sides of the building, however, gave its true purpose away.
I found a parking space off Tucker at a surface lot behind city hall, then crossed the street. The last time I had been down at the jail was the night that one of Saint Louis’s finest kicked my ass.
I went up the steps, pushed through the revolving doors, and checked in through security. They directed me to the courtrooms on the second floor, and, from there, I was hustled to the back by the deputies.
Ten guys sat on a bench along the wall. I saw Cecil sitting at the end. He appeared to be about half the size of the other defendants in orange. That old Sesame Street song popped into my head. Cecil Bates was not like the others. Cecil Bates was doing his own thing.
I called Cecil toward me so that we could speak in semiprivacy. Leaning in, I said, “They offered a nice deal this time.” I relayed the details to him—no probation and no additional time.
Cecil shook his head. “Didn’t do it. Ain’t gonna say I did.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Done lots of stuff, but didn’t do this.”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “We aren’t playing games here. This is it.”
“I know.” Cecil’s face hardened. “Ain’t my first rodeo, you know?” He held his chin high and puffed out his chest. “Ain’t pleadin’ to nothing I didn’t do.”
The judge handling the detention calendar looked like a gigantic black buzzard peering down at us from the bench. His bald head had turned a splotched red. His sharp nose shot out from his face like a beak, and his beady eyes examined Cecil.
He gave a look of both hunger and disgust.
“Not taking the deal?” His face tightened even further. “Don’t get much better than that.” He swung his buzzard head toward the prosecutor and then back to us.
“I’ve explained the prosecution’s generous offer to my client, Your Honor.” I took a breath. “But he’s been clear with me from the beginning. Mr. Bates would like to take this matter to trial. He is not pleading guilty. If held, he’ll be demanding a speedy trial.”
The judge leaned back. “Lots of people say that, but then when the time comes, they plead. They all plead, but not before disrupting the lives of potential jurors, the witnesses, and the court.” He folded his arms across his chest, and we waited in silence. Finally, he looked at the clerk. “Set this matter on for trial in fifteen days, back with Judge Polansky. Bail is set at fifteen hundred dollars.”
“Your honor, Mr. Bates doesn’t have ten dollars for bail, much less fifteen hundred dollars.”
My argument was ignored.
The gavel came down, and Cecil went back to jail.
So far, the prosecution of Cecil Bates for allegedly drinking an alcoholic beverage in a public space had cost the good taxpayers of Missouri over $2,000 for booking, incarceration, prosecution, and defense.
And we hadn’t even had a trial.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO