I came to in a restraint chair… one of
those numbers on wheels with straps for ankles, wrists, and chest. The room was
painted pale beige on concrete with the typical stainless-steel sink/toilet
combo, a concrete rack with no mattress, and a bird-caged bulb that lit the cell.
The echoes and clanging of doors opening and shutting and the unmistakable
yelping and hollering of inmates, like baboons in a zoo, told me I was in a
regular jail. I was wearing a wine-red jump suit reserved for high-risk rapists
and murderers. It was of a little consolation to know that I wasn’t being held
in rendition, spirited away to a far off Bratva torture chamber.
I nodded… in an out. Keys rattling at
my door woke me. A female corrections officer entered. She was a hefty,
graying, kind looking matron with a comforting voice, “Mr. Kraszhinski. We’re
taking you for your arraignment. If you promise to behave, I can take you out
of the chair.”
“Arraignment? What’re the charges?”
“I don’t know… couldn’t tell you if I
did.”
“Really? I have to make a call,” But I
realized I had no numbers to call as soon as I asked. I asked again anyway,
“Can I call before I go?”
“You can call afterwards. I do know
that you aren’t likely to be able to post bail.”
“Why? What’re the charges?”
Her cheeks strained from revealing a
faint smile, “You must be kidding.”
I was blinded by the flashing strobes
of cameras as soon as we stepped outside. I don’t know why, but I started to
cover my head with my jailhouse jacket for the perp-walk from jail to bus. It’s
a reflex. But I never understood why anyone would do that. The assault of so
many reporters and cameras should be a clue that your goddamned picture has
been spread all over the media by the time that crossing takes place. I was
heavily sedated too, and that was good. I didn’t want to feel any of this
bull-shit slapping my face. I straightened up to walk tall in a stab at a
little dignity. What was the fuss? Several more camera crews and reporters;
ABC, NBC, CBS, and, the staple of the 24-hour news cycle, CNN… National news?
All were there to greet me at the courthouse. Officers held them back to where
they had to shout. I don’t know why they do that. It must be just their day in the spotlight
fueled by the hope to provoke a gesture to add to the commentary on the
six-o’clock news. They have to know I’m not going to confess, “You got me, I
did it! Murdered, raped, and pillaged.”
A pixy blond called out, “Mr. Kraszhinski,
are you ready for the gas chamber?” shoving the phallic mic as close to my face
as she could thrust between the phalanx of officers surrounding me.
I thought, what a dumb question from
such a sweet looking thing. Confused… numb… did I still think it was about
stealing a boat? Felony grand theft at the worst… Oh yeah, Yuri… self-defense. Oh, Casey.
Forgot about Casey. He wasn’t mine. But, what else could there be? Drugged? Why
am I so sluggish? Thorazine? Can’t think. My synapsis had a slug at the switch.
Chapter 30. Delta
Dawn
Arraignment:
Could it be a faded rose from days gone by
And did I hear you say
he was a-meeting you here today
To take you to his mansion in the sky.
The arraignment was short; no more than
an hour with the Yolo County Superior Courthouse sandwiched between the ride on
the Sheriff’s bus to and from the Monroe Detention Center in Woodland. Caged in
a seat behind the driver, I had the whole bus to myself besides a half dozen
guards who rode along with me to keep me company.
Once off the bus and inside the
courthouse, I stood segregated by a mere rail from the gallery packed by so
many reporters and families of the victims that most of the curious public was
left outside. No cameras were allowed so sketch artists were busy at their pads
the moment I entered the courtroom and was called to the bar. My rights were
read about how and what the fuck was going on in courtroom procedure.
The judge never looked up from the dais
as he read. “The State of California vs David Kraszhinski is concerned with
crimes committed in several counties; Yolo County, Solano County, and Santa
Barbara County.”
He droned on as though reading the
charges from a racing form, count by count, and county by county. Yolo County:
for the murder of Yuri Chernayevsky, the murder of Robert Casey, the possession
of stolen vehicles in Yolo County (the boat and motorcycle), and several for
assaults on Yolo County Deputies and resisting arrest.
Solano County. Counts for the murder of
Leonardo Gutierrez and of murder for that of Raymond Gutierrez and for the
murder of Robert Casey.
Santa Barbara County: for the murder of
Raphael Alvarez, of assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder of Donald
Risner.
It was a long list and I almost dozed
off while he read until I heard him say, “Mr. Kraszhinski, the Federal
Government will take over the prosecution for three kidnappings. That of Anadel
Bonnaire resulting in rape. Robert Casey resulting in his murder, and of Dr.
Lawrence Spawnn.
The charges swam in and out of my
consciousness. I’d heard courtroom proceedings a hundred times before but
hadn’t expected all this. The barrage of charges caromed between my ears…
confused… disoriented… I spun out with nowhere to run and hide! Still standing,
I buried my face in my hands and cried out, “Shit, I’m fucked!”
A gavel’s bang-bang--- bang-bang-bang,
cracked staccato like an AK’s hammer. I hit the floor… ambushed… in a moment I
wasn’t there and was under fire! The stress piling-up ‘til then had me. Not
even the drugged food could take the edge off it. Crawling under a counsel’s
table for cover and reaching for the browning that was no longer where it
belonged, I stopped. The red mist lifted. I found myself face down on the
floor. Embarrassed that I near shit my pants over the sound of a gavel, I
looked around to see if anyone was watching as though I just slipped on an icy
sidewalk. The bailiff and two guards pulled me out from under the table by the
feet and lifted me by the chains back to standing. One snorted a grunt that
might pass as a laugh.
The judge looked puzzled a minute and
then continued, “Bailiff, make sure the defendant understands I will not
tolerate any further disruptions in my courtroom or we will proceed without
him.”
“Yes, your honor.” The bailiff put his
lips kissing distance from my ear and whispered, “Kraszhinski, cool your jets.
You’re home.”
“Thanks, Earhart.”
“Earhart?”
“Never mind. But thanks anyway.” He
didn’t know what I meant and I wasn’t at home… least of all in a court
room. The final part of the judge’s
spiel had him enunciating each word, as though to a child, “Before you plea,
Mr. Kraszhinski, listen carefully to me. If you do not have an attorney, the
court will appoint one to represent you. Do you have an attorney?”
“No, your honor. I’d have liked to have
one before your boys beat the crap out of me! Do I need one to say I’m not
guilty? I’m Not Guilty to any of these charges. Hell yeah, maybe I’ll defend myself!”
“Mr. Kraszhinski, your comments are out
of order. Guilty or not guilty is a decision best made with counsel. An
attorney will be assigned to you if you can’t afford one. Do you have one?”
“No. Do I have a choice?”
Three days and nights in the cell. I
sat… I paced… I exercised… I made like I was eating the food but flushed it… If
they were dosing it, I would’ve rather starve.
The kind lady unlocked my door, “You
have a visitor.”
My hopes lifted ever so slightly,
“Ryan?”
“I don’t know.” She and two other
burley male officers proceeded to cuff me in the usual restraints. About a half
dozen others in Kevlar and helmets escorted me to the visitor’s room. A glass
partition separated me from an empty seat on the other side. It wasn’t Ryan. It
was a whitehaired man in braids wearing a deerskin-sans-beadwork-fringe jacket.
He lifted his phone off the hook and waited for me to do the same. I didn’t
pick mine up. He set a thick file down on the table between us and thumbed
through it exuding an aura of what looked to me like indifference.
His indifference intrigued me. I wanted
to see if I could ruffle his feathers so, with attitude, I snatched the receiver
off the hook, and asked, “Who sent you, Cochise?”
He didn’t have any feathers.
“Mr. Kraszhinski, I can be your
attorney if you want. I’m part of the package Gabe ordered.”
Package? Paranoia struck me about words
like package. After all, was Anna the package in Saigon? I sneered, “Well
Pocahontas, just because you dress Wild West doesn’t mean anything to me.”
He was unmoved, “I’m not looking for a
job. You understand? You can drop the attitude.”
I glared at his stoic face until he
smiled. Well, it wasn’t exactly a smile. It was an upward twitch of the lips.
“Pardon me if I don’t trust you.”
“I agree. If I was you I wouldn’t trust
anyone except Gabe. Maybe Ryan… what the hell, he’s a cop. But especially not
Ms. Bonnaire. If it wasn’t for Gabe, I wouldn’t represent your sorry-ass. Now,
how about showing us some gratitude.”
I had to be strong and changed the subject
to the only charge in that long list of charges that I cared about, “Who says I
raped Anna?”
“She does. Says you took her on Santa
Cruz Island… on the beach. You need to let me know. Did you have sex with her.
You know, consensual or not?”
“No way. We had a spiritual connection
there. Sure, I might’ve wanted to but, no. She could be my daughter for
chrissakes.”
“Well, the charge of rape is serious
but it’s the least of your worries.”
The whole business… the betrayal and
all… had my head spinning. Hopelessness wormed its way out as I bemoaned, “My
case is so fucking tangled up with truth and lies… Even if you wanted to, it
would be near impossible to undo all the knots from this bird’s nest.”
“Like it or not, I’m a lawyer. That’s
what I do… I am the only blade you have to take to this Gordian knot.”
Good answer. A deep churning gnawing
cried from my belly, “You mean to cut through all this bullshit? This isn’t a
fishing line. It’s my life… a fucking tragedy. That’s what it is.”
“No, Mr. Kraszhinski. Let’s not confuse
terms. Tragedies are about the rise and fall of the greats.” Then he leaned
forward to the glass, and said, “You know, chess games always come with extra
pieces. You’re but an extra pawn that’s off the board. Concrete and steel
through wired glass is as close to nature as you are ever going to get the rest
of your days if I don’t help you.”
“See what I mean? You haven’t said one
goddamned thing about me being innocent. I didn’t murder anyone. I didn’t
kidnap anyone. I most certainly did not rape Anna.”
“Oh boo-hoo, welcome to our world,
white boy. You want me to represent you or do you want me to weep with you.”
“Well, Geronimo, you might as well pack
your pony-tail and all, and head out. I have the Bratva on my ass and they
don’t fuck around.”
“Bratva? What’s that.”
“If you don’t know about it, we don’t
have time to tell you.”
“We? I am the only ‘we’ you have. And
by the way, in case you haven’t noticed, time is all you got. Drop the angry
act. It isn’t helping you. I’ll be there all the way. I promise.”
Surrender isn’t in my DNA. I could play
along but, at all times, I was on lookout for an opening or tool. Not all
escape tools are for breaking through concrete and steel. There are soft tools
and some are as good as any key. While doped-up, or in pain from the beating, I
wasn’t disposed to think about escape. I wasn’t sure whether there’d be an
extraction team. Probably not. So, once the idea of escape squeezed itself
between thoughts of despair and betrayal, it occupied the whole of my thinking.
Maybe going to trial, delaying the inevitable long enough, would open the door
to that opportunity.
My second visitor came directly after
Gibbons left. It was Gabe. His face was etched with an extra ten years of age
since I last saw him.
“Who the fuck is this Tobacco Shop
Injun you sent?”
“Walter Gibbons, we call him White
Bear. Almost famous around these parts.”
“No shit? Never heard of him.”
“Yeah, he teaches Civil Law at Davis.
You’re lucky to have him.”
“Lucky? So, he teaches horse
doctor-shit-kickers how to beat malpractice. How’s that lucky?” I didn’t mean
what I was saying. I just liked the sound of saying that because the perception
was that UC Davis was primarily an Ag-Business school.
“He only takes criminal cases for the
tribes; Mainly Miwoks, pro bono, when one of us gets in a jam. He was given the
honorable title, White Bear.”
“I don’t need a professor with a
bleeding heart. I’m gonna need a real asshole in the courtroom if I’m going to
stand a chance.”
“He knows how to work a jury better
than anyone. If I was you I’d take him or you’ll be stuck with a half-assed and
incompetent public defender.”
“Okay. You’re right. I don’t have a choice.”
“Crash. I know you didn’t do this shit…
at least not the way they say.” He looked me over… pointed to my wrist holding
the phone, “You must take care of yourself. You aren’t eating. Eat dammit. Stay
strong.”
“But the food’s drugged…”
“So, what if it is? You have to stay
fit for what you’re gonna go through.”
I never saw Gabe again. I’d have no
company except for Gibbons. My food was delivered three times a day on a tray
through a slot in my steel cell door. Drugged or not, I ate it but I was
getting more paranoid. Even the roaches talked. I think because of La
Cucaracha… they always speak Mexican. I coaxed them to go elsewhere but I heard
them scheming. talking shit at night like, “When the lights come on, the
monster kills our mothers, our fathers, our sisters and brothers.”
The next time I saw Gibbons, I demanded,
“I need to get some yard time before we go any further, and contact Detective Ryan. Do you know of a place called the Island
Mansion near Walnut Grove? Last I heard he was supposed to be there. He can
tell you all about the Bratva and what we’re up against.”
Gibbons got up to leave but still held
on to the receiver, and before hanging up, said, “Reminds me of a song.”
“What song.”
“Delta Dawn. You know, the one about
the mansion in the sky and all. I hate to be the one to tell you, Mr. Kraszhinski,
there is no Island Mansion.”
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