Eventually they took me home. I wanted to wait—he would be there any minute, I said—but they insisted. Whatever the problem ended up being, there was nothing I could do to help. A blonde man—who looked no older than twenty—drove me to my apartment in silence. I slept two hours, unable to get the image of those flashing lights out of my head. Then, around 3 a.m., Damon called.
He was in jail, and he was frantic.
“Just what in the fuck am I supposed to do?” he asked me, breathing hard into the phone and trying unsuccessfully to keep his voice down. “I’m fucked. I’m so fucked.”
“Ok, calm down,” I said.
“Seriously dude, fuck.”
“Alright,” I said. “Okay. What happened?”
“Well…fuck. The dude pulled me over. Asked if I knew why he did, but I can hardly even talk straight ‘cause I’m freakin’ out so much. I’m all sweaty and twitchy and shit, ya know? ‘Cause I know I just need to be cool and everything’ll be fine, but I was still jacked from seeing that shit in the trunk or whatever, so I was all messed up before he pulled me over. Then when he did…man, when I saw them blue lights, I just freaked. So I’m tryin’ to answer his question, but dude can obviously tell somethin’ ain’t right. So he talks to me a little more, tells me I was speeding. Meanwhile I can’t do nothin’ but nod. That’s it: just noddin’ along. So he tells me to get out of the car, and that’s when I knew I was fucked.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah so I get out, can barely balance to stay up ‘cause my head’s so messed up. He looks around a little, shines his flashlight into the windows and shit, asks whose car it is.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Told him it was a friend’s. Told him I was driving to meet him, in Frisco. Just made some shit up. He says okay, can he look in the trunk? And that was like…that was like a knife into my side or something. But I tell him yeah.”
“You told him yes?”
“Yeah! The hell was I supposed to do? Tell him no?”
“Yes!”
“Jesus, Julian, I didn’t fuckin’ know what to do. I figured dude would arrest me on the spot if I told him no.”
I sighed. “Alright. So what happened?”
“I’m like, listen, my dad always taught me, you get pulled over by the cops, you just go along with what they say. You just be polite, say ‘yes, sir,’ do what they ask, and you’ll be alright. So man, that’s what I was tryin’ to do. I tell the dude yeah, you can look in the trunk, ain’t no problem, figurin’ maybe he’ll just see the speakers and say alright. But right when I pop the trunk, another cop pulls up, this one even meaner. He sees the speakers, then they pull up the bottom. And I’m like, fuck, man, my life is over.”
There was a pause.
“So they found it?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, “they found it. And they were like, total dicks about it, too.”
“So they cuff you,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“And they drive you to jail.”
“Yeah.”
“And then what.”
He inhaled loudly. “Then I tried to explain myself.”
My head sunk. Fucked indeed.
“You told them what, exactly?”
He inhaled again. “Told ‘em the truth, sorta. Told ‘em I didn’t know that shit was back there, which up until today was true.”
“And when they asked for the name of your friend, who owned the car?”
“I didn’t give ‘em no names. I ain’t real smart, but I know I’m not supposed to tell ‘em that. So that’s when they got pissed, when I wouldn’t give ‘em names. And now I’m in a cell, and this is my phone call.”
“You didn’t name anyone?”
“No, dude, no one. Don’t worry, you ain’t involved at all.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” I said.
“Yeah, whatever.”
There was a long pause.
“Julian,” he said, “you’re a smart dude. I’m countin’ on ya here. What am I supposed to do?”
I thought quickly. “We need to get you a lawyer.”
“Alright. How do we do that?”
“Did they read you your rights?”
“My rights?”
“Yeah. Miranda rights. ‘You have the right to remain silent.’ That shit.”
“Yeah, they did that.”
“When?”
“Right when they cuffed me. Outside the car.”
“Fuck.”
“Is that bad?”
“No, just…you need a lawyer. Alright, when this call is over, next thing you do, before they ask you any more questions, you tell them you want a lawyer. They you don’t say shit until one gets there, alright?”
“Alright.”
“Not a damn word.”
“Got it.”
“I’m gonna make some calls. You sit tight until you hear from me again. If they try to ask you questions, just keep telling them you want to talk to a lawyer.”
“Cool.”
“It’s gonna be fine.”
“Alright.”
36
It was early morning by the time I got a hold of Vince. The sun came through my blinds, and a thin layer of frost melted down my window. Outside I heard a crow call echo through the trees.
Initially I texted Suzanne to get Vince’s number. She didn’t respond, which was understandable; it was late, she was probably sleeping. I then called her, twice, to no answer as well. Eventually I worked up the courage and sent Adeline a text, not because I wanted to—at all—but because it was the only real option if I was to get in touch with him. Surprisingly, she did respond, and didn’t question why I needed to speak with him so urgently. She simply relayed his number. I tried him five times and nothing. Hours passed and I paced the room, trying every 15 minutes. A pot of coffee sat warming in the kitchen when the call came in.
“Hello Julian.” The voice was firm and clear.
“Vince,” I said, my hands shaking and my voice erratic. I’d been drinking coffee for hours. “Damon got in trouble.”
“Yes, I heard.”
I stopped pacing. “You did?”
“Yes. Busted for speeding, I believe.”
“Well, yeah…but…they arrested him. He’s in jail.”
“Indeed. Unfortunately these local police can be quite disagreeable.”
I waited for more of an explanation, and received none.
“Well…we have to get him out.”
Vince chuckled. “I appreciate your concern, Julian. And I imagine Damon does too. But not to worry; I have it taken care of.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I’ve handled the situation.”
I looked around the room. “So Damon’s fine?”
“Of course. It was just a routine traffic stop, remember?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“I have to run, Julian. Glad we could clear this up.” He hung up.
Taken care of. So Damon was out?
I spent the day calling Damon’s cell phone every thirty minutes and being sent straight to voicemail. If he was out, his phone was still off. This continued until 3 p.m., my self-imposed cutoff time, when I called the jail and asked about him. They told me they couldn’t give out inmate information over the phone. So I drove there.
Eagle County Jail. Another stupid decision. Showing my face and giving my name to the people who arrested Damon for committing the same crime I’d committed, with him, that night. Dumb. But I needed to do something. Bad decisions weren’t affecting me like they used to anymore. I had decided there wasn’t always a good decision and a bad decision, a right way and a wrong way. Sometimes there were only wrong ways, and you just had to pick one.
The drive took an hour and I walked right in. The jail was tiny, connected to the larger Eagle County Police Department. I wasn’t nervous, but I figured I was out of nerves. It was easy; there was a small, bland reception area through the front door, just like a normal office. The only difference was the receptionist; a young man in uniform stood behind the front desk, fit and straight-standing, short blonde hair neatly pushed to one side. He was fresh off the assembly line.