Read Online 2 Grand Delusion by Matt Witten - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Matt Witten
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realized at last who he reminded me of, with his thin mustache and distinguished silver hair. It was my father. No wonder I'd been so desperate for the chief to believe me. God knows I'd spent large portions of my life desperate for my father's approval.
As I sat there, horrified, I suddenly also realized why I had overreacted so fiercely to Pop's pinch. It wasn't just the pain. My big brother used to pinch me when I was a kid, and my parents never believed me. Drove me nuts.
I felt all of about four years old. First Pop's pinches, and now the chief's smiles, had snuck past my adult defenses.
"I want to make a phone call," I said through clenched teeth.
"By all means. Would you like to use my phone?" the chief asked pleasantly.
The bastard could afford to be pleasant.
He had everything he needed.
7
Andrea answered in the middle of the first ring. "Hello?" she said breathlessly. She'd been crying.
"Honey, I'm okay, but I need a lawyer."
"Where are you? I called the police but they wouldn't tell me!"
"They're a bunch of peabrains. Right now I'm in the office of the chief peabrain of them all." The chief gave me a fake hurt look. How had I ever let this jerk sucker me into liking him?
"Jacob, what in God's name happened tonight?"
"I can't talk right now. I need a lawyer."
Andrea gave a sharp intake of breath, and there was a moment's silence before she asked, "Who should we get?"
"I have no idea. Do we know any lawyers?"
"How about my Uncle Harold?"
"Your Uncle Harold? In Buffalo? Come on, his specialty is parking garage law."
"Yes, but he might know what to do."
"Only if Pop was killed in a parking garage!" I yelled.
"You don't have to be sarcastic!" she yelled back, then started to cry. "I'm sorry, I'm just so—"
I was in no mood to be a sensitive modern guy. I interrupted her. "Come on, we must know a good lawyer. We're Jewish, for God's sake."
"How about the fat guy who runs that chess club?"
Malcolm Dove. What kind of law did he practice? And was he any good?
I didn't have a clue.
On the other hand, anyone who played chess as well as Malcolm had to be at least a half-decent lawyer. I'd been trying to beat his Muzio Gambit for over a year now. "Okay," I said, "give Malcolm a call."
"Where will you be tonight?"
I turned to Chief Walsh. "Where will I be tonight?"
"City jail," he replied. "Right down the hall. You'll love it."
And then he smirked at me.
I found out the reason for that smirk several minutes later, when I was escorted to the jail. The maximum security prisons I'd taught in were veritable Club Meds compared to this hellhole. I couldn't believe a jail this barbaric existed in the same building as that venerable meeting room where I'd been earlier tonight—though it now felt like eons ago.
The jail consisted of six identical cages, jammed together against one wall. They were built back when people were shorter, so I couldn't stand up straight in my cage; I had to stoop. The cage was four by six feet, barely big enough to do pushups in. My bed was nothing but a narrow wooden shelf, without blankets or sheets.
Not that I could have slept anyway. The bright fluorescent lights stayed on all night, and the other five cages were full of loud, angry men who'd been busted for "drunk and disorderly" and other lifestyle crimes.
My toilet had no seat, and no flush handle either, so there was nothing that even the most dedicated inmate might be able to break. Instead there was a flush button that you had to kick real hard before it would work, and then it flushed so loud that any drunks who had thankfully fallen asleep would wake up again, yelling about bugs or dental work or whatever else was on their minds. One of them howled incoherently all night long about the Dalai Lama.
A couple of sad sack derelicts were brought in after me, and since the six cages were already full, they spent the night handcuffed to the outside of the cages and crapping in their pants. For entertainment I
As I sat there, horrified, I suddenly also realized why I had overreacted so fiercely to Pop's pinch. It wasn't just the pain. My big brother used to pinch me when I was a kid, and my parents never believed me. Drove me nuts.
I felt all of about four years old. First Pop's pinches, and now the chief's smiles, had snuck past my adult defenses.
"I want to make a phone call," I said through clenched teeth.
"By all means. Would you like to use my phone?" the chief asked pleasantly.
The bastard could afford to be pleasant.
He had everything he needed.
7
Andrea answered in the middle of the first ring. "Hello?" she said breathlessly. She'd been crying.
"Honey, I'm okay, but I need a lawyer."
"Where are you? I called the police but they wouldn't tell me!"
"They're a bunch of peabrains. Right now I'm in the office of the chief peabrain of them all." The chief gave me a fake hurt look. How had I ever let this jerk sucker me into liking him?
"Jacob, what in God's name happened tonight?"
"I can't talk right now. I need a lawyer."
Andrea gave a sharp intake of breath, and there was a moment's silence before she asked, "Who should we get?"
"I have no idea. Do we know any lawyers?"
"How about my Uncle Harold?"
"Your Uncle Harold? In Buffalo? Come on, his specialty is parking garage law."
"Yes, but he might know what to do."
"Only if Pop was killed in a parking garage!" I yelled.
"You don't have to be sarcastic!" she yelled back, then started to cry. "I'm sorry, I'm just so—"
I was in no mood to be a sensitive modern guy. I interrupted her. "Come on, we must know a good lawyer. We're Jewish, for God's sake."
"How about the fat guy who runs that chess club?"
Malcolm Dove. What kind of law did he practice? And was he any good?
I didn't have a clue.
On the other hand, anyone who played chess as well as Malcolm had to be at least a half-decent lawyer. I'd been trying to beat his Muzio Gambit for over a year now. "Okay," I said, "give Malcolm a call."
"Where will you be tonight?"
I turned to Chief Walsh. "Where will I be tonight?"
"City jail," he replied. "Right down the hall. You'll love it."
And then he smirked at me.
I found out the reason for that smirk several minutes later, when I was escorted to the jail. The maximum security prisons I'd taught in were veritable Club Meds compared to this hellhole. I couldn't believe a jail this barbaric existed in the same building as that venerable meeting room where I'd been earlier tonight—though it now felt like eons ago.
The jail consisted of six identical cages, jammed together against one wall. They were built back when people were shorter, so I couldn't stand up straight in my cage; I had to stoop. The cage was four by six feet, barely big enough to do pushups in. My bed was nothing but a narrow wooden shelf, without blankets or sheets.
Not that I could have slept anyway. The bright fluorescent lights stayed on all night, and the other five cages were full of loud, angry men who'd been busted for "drunk and disorderly" and other lifestyle crimes.
My toilet had no seat, and no flush handle either, so there was nothing that even the most dedicated inmate might be able to break. Instead there was a flush button that you had to kick real hard before it would work, and then it flushed so loud that any drunks who had thankfully fallen asleep would wake up again, yelling about bugs or dental work or whatever else was on their minds. One of them howled incoherently all night long about the Dalai Lama.
A couple of sad sack derelicts were brought in after me, and since the six cages were already full, they spent the night handcuffed to the outside of the cages and crapping in their pants. For entertainment I
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