lady, he’ll be lucky if he remembers how to talk.”
4
T HE OFFICERS SHOVED BEN down the stairs of Two Warren Place and outside, using as much force as possible. Ben was paraded through a phalanx of at least twenty SOT officers. A searchlight beamed down from the chopper overhead, practically blinding Ben and insuring that there was no one in a half-mile radius who couldn’t see him. They led him to the back of the Armored Personnel Carrier and shoved him inside.
Fifteen minutes later they arrived at the police headquarters building downtown and dragged him up to the fourth floor. He waited while the four officers accompanying him checked their weapons in a locker. As Ben well knew, no one was allowed to take weapons onto the fourth floor—not even cops. They wanted to eliminate all possibility of an arrestee grabbing a weapon and making an escape. The cops traded their guns for keys, which they placed in their holsters, a sign that they had stored their weapons. Then they dragged Ben inside the county jail.
Because the holding cell belonged to the county, Ben was patted down by sheriff’s deputies. They were none too gentle about it, and didn’t avoid any place where a weapon of any kind could conceivably be hidden.
“Is this a frisking,” Ben asked, “or are you giving me a physical?”
The officer to his left “accidentally” cuffed him on the jaw with his elbow.
They dragged him inside the cell block. “Stand on those footsteps, asshole,” the jailer said, pointing to a set of yellow prints painted on the floor. Ben complied. “Lean forward.” The jailer searched him again, just as thoroughly, if not more so.
When he was done, the jailer barked, “Take off your clothes.”
Ben squirmed. “On our first date?”
The jailer kicked him in the back of his knees. “Take off your goddamn clothes.”
When Ben was naked, and the officers had let him stand around exposed long enough to humiliate him, they tossed him a pair of the orange coveralls that were standard attire for all inmates. Then they dragged him to a small cell.
Ben noticed that the cells on either side both had someone inside. One if not both of them were probably plants, he realized. He would have to be careful with what he said.
The jailer removed his cuffs. Just as Ben began to stretch his aching arms, the jailer twisted his right arm around and pinned it behind his back. He shoved Ben forward till his face was pressed against the hard bars of the cell.
“I hope you’re enjoying this,” Ben grunted, though he could barely move his mouth. “ ’Cause I’m going to be out of here before the second shift arrives.”
“I don’t think so, creep,” the jailer whispered. “We have special rules for lawyers who help cop killers. The wheels just don’t seem to turn as quickly.”
“All I did was my job,” Ben said. “Why are you doing this?”
The other man’s voice hissed in his ear. “Joe McNaughton was my best friend. He and his wife are my kids’ godparents.”
Ben closed his eyes. So what you’re saying is, this stay isn’t going to be quite as nice as a night at the Ramada Inn.
Without warning, the jailer whirled him around and pounded him in the gut, hard. Ben doubled over. The jailer followed up with another blow, then another. Ben fell to his knees.
“I’m hitting you in the stomach because I don’t want to leave a mark. If you tell anyone about this, I’ll say you had to be restrained while attempting escape. And every man on the force will back me up. No one will speak up for the creep who helped kill Joe McNaughton. But you’ll get some extra time for attempted escape.”
He opened the cell door and kicked Ben inside. Ben crashed against the opposite wall of the tiny cell, banging his head against the concrete.
“Get used to being treated like this,” the jailer growled, as he locked the cell door behind Ben. “It ain’t gonna get any better. And you’re gonna be here a good long time.”
5
K
4
T HE OFFICERS SHOVED BEN down the stairs of Two Warren Place and outside, using as much force as possible. Ben was paraded through a phalanx of at least twenty SOT officers. A searchlight beamed down from the chopper overhead, practically blinding Ben and insuring that there was no one in a half-mile radius who couldn’t see him. They led him to the back of the Armored Personnel Carrier and shoved him inside.
Fifteen minutes later they arrived at the police headquarters building downtown and dragged him up to the fourth floor. He waited while the four officers accompanying him checked their weapons in a locker. As Ben well knew, no one was allowed to take weapons onto the fourth floor—not even cops. They wanted to eliminate all possibility of an arrestee grabbing a weapon and making an escape. The cops traded their guns for keys, which they placed in their holsters, a sign that they had stored their weapons. Then they dragged Ben inside the county jail.
Because the holding cell belonged to the county, Ben was patted down by sheriff’s deputies. They were none too gentle about it, and didn’t avoid any place where a weapon of any kind could conceivably be hidden.
“Is this a frisking,” Ben asked, “or are you giving me a physical?”
The officer to his left “accidentally” cuffed him on the jaw with his elbow.
They dragged him inside the cell block. “Stand on those footsteps, asshole,” the jailer said, pointing to a set of yellow prints painted on the floor. Ben complied. “Lean forward.” The jailer searched him again, just as thoroughly, if not more so.
When he was done, the jailer barked, “Take off your clothes.”
Ben squirmed. “On our first date?”
The jailer kicked him in the back of his knees. “Take off your goddamn clothes.”
When Ben was naked, and the officers had let him stand around exposed long enough to humiliate him, they tossed him a pair of the orange coveralls that were standard attire for all inmates. Then they dragged him to a small cell.
Ben noticed that the cells on either side both had someone inside. One if not both of them were probably plants, he realized. He would have to be careful with what he said.
The jailer removed his cuffs. Just as Ben began to stretch his aching arms, the jailer twisted his right arm around and pinned it behind his back. He shoved Ben forward till his face was pressed against the hard bars of the cell.
“I hope you’re enjoying this,” Ben grunted, though he could barely move his mouth. “ ’Cause I’m going to be out of here before the second shift arrives.”
“I don’t think so, creep,” the jailer whispered. “We have special rules for lawyers who help cop killers. The wheels just don’t seem to turn as quickly.”
“All I did was my job,” Ben said. “Why are you doing this?”
The other man’s voice hissed in his ear. “Joe McNaughton was my best friend. He and his wife are my kids’ godparents.”
Ben closed his eyes. So what you’re saying is, this stay isn’t going to be quite as nice as a night at the Ramada Inn.
Without warning, the jailer whirled him around and pounded him in the gut, hard. Ben doubled over. The jailer followed up with another blow, then another. Ben fell to his knees.
“I’m hitting you in the stomach because I don’t want to leave a mark. If you tell anyone about this, I’ll say you had to be restrained while attempting escape. And every man on the force will back me up. No one will speak up for the creep who helped kill Joe McNaughton. But you’ll get some extra time for attempted escape.”
He opened the cell door and kicked Ben inside. Ben crashed against the opposite wall of the tiny cell, banging his head against the concrete.
“Get used to being treated like this,” the jailer growled, as he locked the cell door behind Ben. “It ain’t gonna get any better. And you’re gonna be here a good long time.”
5
K
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