An hour later, a jailer fetches me with the news that I have a visitor. I follow him through a maze of narrow hallways and find myself in a cramped room with a Breathalyzer. This is where they bring the drunk drivers. The Bishop stands and we shake hands. We’ve spoken on the phone but never met. I thank him for coming but caution him about doing so. He says screw it—he’s not afraid of the locals. Plus, he knows how to lie low and stay under the radar. He also knows the police chief, the cops, the judge—the usual small-town crap. He says he’s tried to call Huver and Kaufman to tell them they’ve made a big mistake, but he can’t get through. He’s leaning on the police chief to put me in a better cell. The more we talk, the more I like the guy. He’s a street fighter, a worn-out, frazzled old goat who’s been knocking heads with the cops for decades. He hasn’t made a dime and doesn’t care. I wonder if I’ll be him in twenty years.
“How about the DNA tests?” he asks.
“The lab will get the samples tomorrow and they’ve promised a quick turnaround.”
“And if it’s Peeley?”
“All hell breaks loose.” This guy is on my side, but I don’t know him. We chat for ten minutes and he says good-bye.
When I return to my cell, my two new friends have spread the word that there’s a criminal lawyer in here with them. Before long, I’m yelling advice up and down the block.
Common sense is not always my strong suit, but I decide not to start a fight with Fonzo and Frog, my two new partners in crime. Instead I sit in my chair all night and try to nap. It doesn’t work. I said no to the Spam for dinner and no to the putrid eggs and cold toast for breakfast. Thankfully, no one mentions a shower. They bring me my suit, shirt, tie, shoes, and socks, and I dress quickly. I say good-bye to my cellies, both of whom will be behind bars for several years, regardless of the brilliant advice I dispensed for hours.
Gardy and I are given separate rides back to the courthouse. A larger crowd of enemies jeer at me as I’m sort of dragged out of the car, still in handcuffs. Once I’m inside and away from any photographers, they remove the handcuffs. Partner is waiting in the hallway. I made the morning edition of the
As instructed, I follow a bailiff back into the chambers of Judge Kaufman, who’s waiting with Huver. Both wear smirks and are curious to see how I survived the night. I do not mention the jail, do not acknowledge the fact that I’ve not slept, eaten, or showered in a long time. I’m in one piece, raring to go, and this seems to irritate them. It’s all fun and games, with Gardy’s life on the line.
Seconds after I step into chambers, another bailiff rushes in and says, “Sorry, Judge, but there’s a U.S. marshal out here says you gotta be in federal court in the City at eleven this morning. You too, Mr. Huver.”
“What the hell?” Kaufman says.
Oh so helpfully, I explain, “It’s a habeas corpus hearing, Judge. My lawyers filed it yesterday afternoon. An emergency hearing to get me out of jail. You guys started this crap, now I have to finish it.”
“Does he have a subpoena?” Huver asks. The bailiff hands over some paperwork and Huver and Kaufman scan it quickly.
“It’s not a subpoena,” Kaufman says. “It’s sort of a notice from Judge Samson. Thought he was dead. He has no right to notify me to be present for a hearing of any kind.”
“He’s been off his rocker for twenty years,” Huver says, somewhat relieved. “I ain’t going. We’re in the middle of a trial here.”
He’s not wrong about Judge Samson. If the lawyers could vote for the craziest federal judge in the land, Arnie Samson would win in a landslide. But he’s my crazy friend, and he’s freed me from jail before.
Kaufman says to the bailiff, “Tell the marshal to get lost. If he starts trouble, tell the sheriff to arrest him. That’ll really piss him off, won’t it? The sheriff arresting a marshal. Ha. Bet that’s never happened before. Anyway, we’re not leaving. We have a trial to resume here.”
“Why’d you run to federal court?” Huver asks me in all seriousness.
“Because I don’t like being in jail. What kinda stupid question is that?”
The bailiff leaves and Kaufman says, “I’m vacating the contempt order, okay, Mr. Rudd? I figure one night in the slammer is enough for your behavior.”
I say, “Well, it’s certainly enough for a mistrial or a reversal.”
“Let’s not argue that,” Kaufman says. “Can we proceed?”
“You’re the judge.”
“What about the hearing in federal court?”
“Are you asking me for legal advice?” I fire back.
“Hell no.”
“Ignore the notice at your own risk. Hell, Judge Samson might throw the both of you in jail for a night or two. Wouldn’t that be funny?”
We eventually make it back to the courtroom, and it takes some time to get everyone settled. When the jury is brought in, I refuse to look at them. By now they all know I spent the night in jail, and I’m sure they’re curious about how I survived. So I give them nothing.
