Monday, July 17, 2017

Chapters 32. Betrayal & Chapter 33, Delta Dawn

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:


 Delta Dawn, what's that flower you have on
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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