thrumming of an overhead helicopter, that I knew that live camera shots of this little procession were being beamed out to the insatiable cable news networks. Some people dream all their lives to achieve such fame.
I've never been one of those people.
At the county jail --- an old brick edifice, stuck out in the middle of a field in the small town of Brennan --- another group of journalists were waiting as we pulled in. Getting in was a challenge, as Wentworth County deputy sheriffs did their best to push aside the reporters in a manner that allowed an opening, but didn't allow the trusty guardians of press freedom to charge police brutality. Still, some got close enough that I could see their cold faces, almost pressed up to the tinted glass, as they tried for more photos and shouted more questions in my general direction.
I said, "What are they thinking? That you're going to open up the door and hold a press conference?"
An agent sitting next to the van driver laughed. "The nature of the beast. It demands to be fed. Doesn't mean it's logical. It just means it's a beast."
And from there we went into a garage, and then through the booking area, and it was pleasurable to be standing up, handcuffs off, right up to the point where I was in my cell, alone, staring at the stainless steel toilet, just after making that always promised one phone call to someone far away.
I got up from the bunk, walked around, and then sat down again. My belt was off and my footwear had been confiscated, leaving me with prison-issued paper slippers. My feet were cold. I stretched out on the plastic-covered mattress and waited, feeling okay, except that damn cold or whatever seemed to be coming back. Stress and lack of food, no doubt, but all in all, I had this serene sense of confidence while being held there. I guess I didn't expect to be in jail for long, for even if Agent Reynolds didn't believe me, I had been telling the truth. I hadn't tried to kill the senator. End of story.
I put my hands behind my head. All right. End of one story.
There was another story, about Spenser Harris, or the man who claimed to be Spenser Harris. Who in hell was he, and what had been his purpose in questioning me?
So I stared up at the cement ceiling-almost as attractive a view as the stainless steel toilet-when a uniformed corrections officer came by.
"Cole?" he asked.
"That's right," I said, sitting up and swinging my legs over to the side.
"Your lawyer's here," he said. "Want to go see him?"
"Since I called him, yes, I would."
I knew that the tide had turned when I was let out of the cell, for handcuffs weren't placed on me, and the walk was a short one. I was led into an office area and then a meeting room --- much better than the one at the Tyler police station- --- and I was pleased to see Attorney Raymond Drake was there, from Boston, a friend of Felix's and a mentor to Annie Wynn, and I was less pleased to see someone else in the room: Agent Reynolds.
But Agent Reynolds didn't look so happy, so that improved my mood.
I shook hands with Raymond and sat down. Raymond was smiling widely, I guess, at the thought and challenge of actually having an innocent client to represent, and a gold bracelet on his tanned wrist jangled a bit as he leaned forward. He was in his mid-fifties and owed a lot to Felix, back when he had ticked off one of Felix's relatives and was going on the usual and customary one-way trip out to Boston Harbor, before Felix had interceded. The conference room was warm, had no windows, but the chairs and table were almost brand-new, and there was a television with a VCR unit on a stand in the corner.
Raymond said, "Just to bring everyone up to speed, I'd like to show this news footage again."
Reynolds said, "There's no need for that. We can already stipulate that ---"
It was like being in a courtroom, for Raymond had that demeanor, a man in his role and enjoying it fully. From the tabletop he picked up a remote for the television
I've never been one of those people.
At the county jail --- an old brick edifice, stuck out in the middle of a field in the small town of Brennan --- another group of journalists were waiting as we pulled in. Getting in was a challenge, as Wentworth County deputy sheriffs did their best to push aside the reporters in a manner that allowed an opening, but didn't allow the trusty guardians of press freedom to charge police brutality. Still, some got close enough that I could see their cold faces, almost pressed up to the tinted glass, as they tried for more photos and shouted more questions in my general direction.
I said, "What are they thinking? That you're going to open up the door and hold a press conference?"
An agent sitting next to the van driver laughed. "The nature of the beast. It demands to be fed. Doesn't mean it's logical. It just means it's a beast."
And from there we went into a garage, and then through the booking area, and it was pleasurable to be standing up, handcuffs off, right up to the point where I was in my cell, alone, staring at the stainless steel toilet, just after making that always promised one phone call to someone far away.
I got up from the bunk, walked around, and then sat down again. My belt was off and my footwear had been confiscated, leaving me with prison-issued paper slippers. My feet were cold. I stretched out on the plastic-covered mattress and waited, feeling okay, except that damn cold or whatever seemed to be coming back. Stress and lack of food, no doubt, but all in all, I had this serene sense of confidence while being held there. I guess I didn't expect to be in jail for long, for even if Agent Reynolds didn't believe me, I had been telling the truth. I hadn't tried to kill the senator. End of story.
I put my hands behind my head. All right. End of one story.
There was another story, about Spenser Harris, or the man who claimed to be Spenser Harris. Who in hell was he, and what had been his purpose in questioning me?
So I stared up at the cement ceiling-almost as attractive a view as the stainless steel toilet-when a uniformed corrections officer came by.
"Cole?" he asked.
"That's right," I said, sitting up and swinging my legs over to the side.
"Your lawyer's here," he said. "Want to go see him?"
"Since I called him, yes, I would."
I knew that the tide had turned when I was let out of the cell, for handcuffs weren't placed on me, and the walk was a short one. I was led into an office area and then a meeting room --- much better than the one at the Tyler police station- --- and I was pleased to see Attorney Raymond Drake was there, from Boston, a friend of Felix's and a mentor to Annie Wynn, and I was less pleased to see someone else in the room: Agent Reynolds.
But Agent Reynolds didn't look so happy, so that improved my mood.
I shook hands with Raymond and sat down. Raymond was smiling widely, I guess, at the thought and challenge of actually having an innocent client to represent, and a gold bracelet on his tanned wrist jangled a bit as he leaned forward. He was in his mid-fifties and owed a lot to Felix, back when he had ticked off one of Felix's relatives and was going on the usual and customary one-way trip out to Boston Harbor, before Felix had interceded. The conference room was warm, had no windows, but the chairs and table were almost brand-new, and there was a television with a VCR unit on a stand in the corner.
Raymond said, "Just to bring everyone up to speed, I'd like to show this news footage again."
Reynolds said, "There's no need for that. We can already stipulate that ---"
It was like being in a courtroom, for Raymond had that demeanor, a man in his role and enjoying it fully. From the tabletop he picked up a remote for the television
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