That made three times, but forget it. “No,” I said. “What wedding was that?”
“Nobody’s. Nobody’s. Just the police chief’s daughter’s, that’s all.”
“Oh,” I said.
Suddenly I felt naked.
Chapter 3
The cop behind the desk looked up at us, noted what we weren’t wearing, then looked at the two cops who’d brought us in and raised an unimpressed eyebrow.
The cop Wheaty had knocked over (whose identifying name badge read BURDEN) said, “Streakers.”
“No kidding,” the desk man said. His face was as rumpled as the seat of a bus driver’s pants.
Our clothes were under Burden’s arm. He didn’t seem to want to let go of them. He said, “Shouldn’t we take a picture of these guys?”
The desk man shrugged. “I got the Playmate of the Month hangin’ in my locker, Burden, but if you’re into that, be my guest. To each his own.”
Burden’s face reddened and he said, “I’m going down and have a smoke, do what the hell you want with ’em,” handed our clothes to the younger, friendly cop (whose name badge read FRIENDLY, coincidentally — I wouldn’t lie to you) and stalked out.
The desk man said, “Touchy, ain’t he?”
Friendly said, “He’s just in a bad mood ’cause this big guy here knocked him down.”
“You don’t mean these girls resisted arrest, do you?”
“Not exactly. Anyway we’re not gonna charge ’em with that.”
“Pictures,” the desk man said, shaking his head, returning to his paper work. “Give ’em their clothes and get ’em out of here.”
“Hey, now, Sergeant, Burden may just be right about that. Taking pictures, I mean. The Chief’s gonna want this handled right.”
“Why,” the desk man asked, looking up from his paper work with the strain on his patience obvious, “would the Chief give a damn about these two particular streakers?” He said the word “streakers” with the expression of a man holding up an especially smelly sock by two fingers.
And Friendly explained why the Chief would give a damn about these two particular streakers.
And the desk man got a Polaroid out of his desk and took our picture.
Then Friendly took us in the captain’s office, which was empty (empty of the captain, that is: there was some furniture, of course, desk and chair, plaques on the wall) and gave us our clothes.
It felt good to be dressed again.
I said, “What’s going to happen to us?”
“Tonight? Probably nothing. Not unless you don’t have enough cash to post bond.”
“I got my check book.”
“That’ll do.”
“Then what?”
“Court tomorrow morning. A fine of some sort.”
“What sort?”
“Maybe a hundred bucks.”
“Each?”
“Each.”
“What happens if we don’t pay?”
“Don’t as in won’t, or don’t as in can’t?”
“There’s a difference?”
“Listen, I’m no lawyer. You should talk to a lawyer.”
Wheaty shouted suddenly. “Nobody gave me my rights!” He was waving his hands around. He looked like Hamilton Burger in the process of getting the legalistic crap kicked out of him by Perry Mason. “What about my rights,” he was saying, “what about my rights.”
But they didn’t need to give us our rights for what they wanted to know. Out in the other room again, they asked for our name, address, date of birth, Social Security number, did we have $10 each to post the necessary percentage of bond?
I gave them a check for both of us, and wondered if I’d be going through all this again tomorrow, when the check bounced.
Wheat was over at the drinking fountain when Friendly came up to me and said, “Listen, do you know any lawyers?”
“Sure. We rent from a guy who’s a lawyer. Real nice guy. What’s all this talk about lawyers, anyway? What do we need a lawyer for, in a deal like this?”
“Because the Supreme Court ruled that a judge can’t give a jail sentence to anybody not represented by counsel.”
“Jail sentence?” This time I was the one waving his hands around. “Who said anything about a jail sentence?”
“The judge might,” Friendly said. “It’s not likely, unless he wants to be a real S.O.B. and really make an example of you.”
“You mean we could actually go to jail?”
“Probably not...”
Chapter 4
We went to jail. We did not pass go. We did not collect $200.
We owed $200. (The $100 fine each was the part of Friendly’s prediction that did come true.)
The jail was a big double-story brick building built around the turn of the century. I had driven by that building dozens, perhaps hundreds of times since moving to Sycamore. Sycamore is only five miles or so from DeKalb, and is a quiet, little town, a restful retreat from DeKalb’s busy university campus. Wheat and I sought Sycamore out after a bad first three years of college, divided between dorms and a frat house; actually it wasn’t that the three years were bad, but that they were so good: so much fun, with both Wheat and me giving our all to playing cards and other social activities, and lip service to studies.
So we’d moved to more secluded digs at the beginning of the school year, in an attempt to keep our four years of college from stretching into five or even six. We had a nice basement apartment that we rented from a terrific couple named Nizer, whose door was always open to us. They were always willing to help out, and Mr. Nizer was more than willing to go to court with us. Unfortunately, Mr. Nizer, while a bona fide lawyer (of the corporate type), is not named Louis, which brings us back to the jail.
While I had driven by the jail countless times, I had never really looked at it before. It didn’t look like a jail unless you looked at it close. It didn’t look that much different from the nearby city hall, or an old school house, or any old double-story brick building.
But when you look close you can see bars on the windows. And when you see bars on the windows of a building, that’s a real good sign the building’s probably a jail.
Wheaty and I were going to jail.
But I’ll tell you something funny: Wheaty did not get irrational, did not wave his hands or talk about what his mom might think if she knew he was going to be incarcerated for a month. No. Wheaty only starts waving his hands and talking about his mom and all when he gets flustered. There is no telling what will fluster Wheaty: it can be just about anything, anything that’s at all confusing, or disorienting. But everything today was happening in a smooth, orderly fashion, go to court, be released into the custody of a correctional officer from the DeKalb County Jail (the jail located in Sycamore because Sycamore is the county seat) and go with the officer to the jail. So Wheaty was not flustered.
He was, in fact, fascinated by the whole experience.
And as we were walking up the sidewalk toward that ominously looming structure, Wheat said, cheerfully, “Gee, I never been to jail before, Kitch.”
Like, “I never been to Boy Scout Camp before.”
Then, once we got inside the front door, the place really got to looking like a jail. There was an electric lock door made completely out of tall, thick iron bars, and we were buzzed through and taken upstairs by the correctional officer and we were booked.
Yes, booked.
Isn’t there a show on TV that always ends with some self-righteous cop glaring at the shifty-eyed crooks and saying, “Book ’em!” Dramatic phrase, right? Ever wonder what booking actually was? Maybe they take the crooks in back and beat ’em silly with a bound book of statutes; or put ’em on the lineup or other exciting things.