two box breakfasts consisting of cardboard coffee cups, packets of creamer and sugar, a cold, uncooked English muffin, a small tin of Philadelphia cream cheese, an apple, an individual tub of applesauce, and a napkin. No utensils.
It was Sunday.
Beadles mutilated his cream cheese tin to spread it on the cold English muffin. He ate the applesauce directly from the tub. He poured all the packets of creamer and sugar into the coffee which still tasted like cardboard. He rinsed out the cup and used it to drink water from the faucet above the toilet.
Ninja awoke with a jolt, looked at Beadles as if seeing him for the first time, saw Beadles' empty breakfast box, looked down and saw his own beneath his bunk. He picked it up and looked inside.
"Why you not eat my breakfast?" he said, honestly bewildered.
"It's your breakfast," Beadles replied.
"Shit. I woke up first, I would have eaten yours."
Beadles crossed his arms, sat back and stared at the wall.
"Okay," Ninja said. "Okay." He ate his breakfast.
There was a blessed five minutes of silence filled with the echoes and shouts from other inmates.
"My man Feldstein gonna get me outta here," Ninja said. "You got a mouthpiece?"
"We had this conversation last night, don't you remember?"
"I don't remember nothing, man. Whatchoo in here for anyway?"
Beadles felt as if he were trapped in a bizarro version of Groundhog Day . "Theft. A pot."
Ninja' face lit with recognition. He pointed. "That's right! You stole the fuckin' pot from the university! You a gangsta!"
Twenty-four hours later the door opened. "Let's go, Mr. Beadles," said the refrigerator.
***
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Initial Appearance"
Mel Berenson waited in the jail foyer to accompany his client across the street to the courtroom. Berenson was a tall, dignified man with glasses and a Roman nose. He'd handled the closing on Beadles' house and other matters that had come up over the years. He watched as a jailer returned Beadles' belt, watch, and wallet.
Beadles remained uncuffed accompanied by a policeman as they took the elevator to the second floor and from there an enclosed pedestrian bridge over 10th St. to the courthouse, a Georgian revival with fluted columns. The streets were alive with vehicular and pedestrian traffic, people going about their Monday morning business.
"Vaughan," Berenson said. "I read the warrant. I assume you had nothing to do with this."
"Absolutely not. It's a frame-up."
"Well let's just let that slide until we get you out of here. Considering your lack of record and standing in the community I don't think we'll have to wait too long."
"How's Betty?" Beadles said.
"She's coping. She called her parents who are driving down from Elgin to be with her."
Great. Betty's parents had never really warmed to Beadles, although they put up a good front. They were hide-bound conservatives who were not shy about expressing their opinions and turned every family get-together into a harsh debate.
They joined a half dozen supplicants, their lawyers and police in the corridor outside the courtroom and sat on marble benches beneath a painting of Lincoln.
"You need anything? Coffee? There's a vending machine downstairs."
"No thanks, Mel. Let's just get this over with."
Shortly the bailliff called them into the court. Judge Shirley F. Black was a wizened crone with pince nez peering down at them like a hawk at a mouse. The bailliff called their case.
"Creighton University versus Vaughan Beadles."
"This is grand larceny, Mr. Beadles. How do you plead?"
"My client pleads not guilty, your honor," Mel said.
"I'd prefer to hear that from the client if you don't mind."
"Not guilty, your honor."
Black pored over papers four inches from her nose. "Very well, Mr. Beadles. I'm not going to set a trial date because judging from your history I expect you and the university to come to some kind of agreement before then. Bail is hereby set at five thousand dollars."
"Five thousand dollars, your honor?"
It was Sunday.
Beadles mutilated his cream cheese tin to spread it on the cold English muffin. He ate the applesauce directly from the tub. He poured all the packets of creamer and sugar into the coffee which still tasted like cardboard. He rinsed out the cup and used it to drink water from the faucet above the toilet.
Ninja awoke with a jolt, looked at Beadles as if seeing him for the first time, saw Beadles' empty breakfast box, looked down and saw his own beneath his bunk. He picked it up and looked inside.
"Why you not eat my breakfast?" he said, honestly bewildered.
"It's your breakfast," Beadles replied.
"Shit. I woke up first, I would have eaten yours."
Beadles crossed his arms, sat back and stared at the wall.
"Okay," Ninja said. "Okay." He ate his breakfast.
There was a blessed five minutes of silence filled with the echoes and shouts from other inmates.
"My man Feldstein gonna get me outta here," Ninja said. "You got a mouthpiece?"
"We had this conversation last night, don't you remember?"
"I don't remember nothing, man. Whatchoo in here for anyway?"
Beadles felt as if he were trapped in a bizarro version of Groundhog Day . "Theft. A pot."
Ninja' face lit with recognition. He pointed. "That's right! You stole the fuckin' pot from the university! You a gangsta!"
Twenty-four hours later the door opened. "Let's go, Mr. Beadles," said the refrigerator.
***
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Initial Appearance"
Mel Berenson waited in the jail foyer to accompany his client across the street to the courtroom. Berenson was a tall, dignified man with glasses and a Roman nose. He'd handled the closing on Beadles' house and other matters that had come up over the years. He watched as a jailer returned Beadles' belt, watch, and wallet.
Beadles remained uncuffed accompanied by a policeman as they took the elevator to the second floor and from there an enclosed pedestrian bridge over 10th St. to the courthouse, a Georgian revival with fluted columns. The streets were alive with vehicular and pedestrian traffic, people going about their Monday morning business.
"Vaughan," Berenson said. "I read the warrant. I assume you had nothing to do with this."
"Absolutely not. It's a frame-up."
"Well let's just let that slide until we get you out of here. Considering your lack of record and standing in the community I don't think we'll have to wait too long."
"How's Betty?" Beadles said.
"She's coping. She called her parents who are driving down from Elgin to be with her."
Great. Betty's parents had never really warmed to Beadles, although they put up a good front. They were hide-bound conservatives who were not shy about expressing their opinions and turned every family get-together into a harsh debate.
They joined a half dozen supplicants, their lawyers and police in the corridor outside the courtroom and sat on marble benches beneath a painting of Lincoln.
"You need anything? Coffee? There's a vending machine downstairs."
"No thanks, Mel. Let's just get this over with."
Shortly the bailliff called them into the court. Judge Shirley F. Black was a wizened crone with pince nez peering down at them like a hawk at a mouse. The bailliff called their case.
"Creighton University versus Vaughan Beadles."
"This is grand larceny, Mr. Beadles. How do you plead?"
"My client pleads not guilty, your honor," Mel said.
"I'd prefer to hear that from the client if you don't mind."
"Not guilty, your honor."
Black pored over papers four inches from her nose. "Very well, Mr. Beadles. I'm not going to set a trial date because judging from your history I expect you and the university to come to some kind of agreement before then. Bail is hereby set at five thousand dollars."
"Five thousand dollars, your honor?"
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