American Outlaw - Jesse James [137]
“Are you that Jesse James guy everybody’s talking about in the news?” he said. “You are, aren’t you?”
“Yep,” I said, forcing a tight, small smile. “Hey.”
“Well, whatcha going so fast for, Jesse James?” The police officer looked pleased with his catch.
“Heading to Tucson.”
“Well, what the heck’s in Tucson?” the officer asked. He waved to his partner, who was sitting in the front passenger seat of the cop car, motioning him to come up to my car. “I thought you were a Hollywood guy.”
“I’m . . .” I shrugged, too exhausted to lie. “Look, I’m going to rehab.”
The cop frowned. “You got a drug problem? Let’s see your eyes.”
“I’m not high,” I muttered. I widened my eyes for him to inspect. “I’m just . . . trying to get better.”
The second cop joined us. “Hey, shit. Hey, you know who this is? It’s Jesse James!”
“I’ve already ascertained that information,” the arresting officer said. “Okay, listen up, Jesse. Here’s a deal for you. You were going over a hundred twenty miles an hour, so we can write you a big fat ticket. Or, you can take a picture with us.”
“You won’t give me a ticket?” I asked. “All I have to do is take a picture with you, that’s it?”
“No ticket.”
“Well, all right,” I said, almost cracking up at the absurdity of the situation. I climbed gingerly out of the car. “Just don’t sell it to TMZ or something.”
“Would we do that?” the second cop said. “Come on.”
The first police officer pulled an iPhone out of his pocket. He shoved it toward his partner, then threw his uniformed arm around me, grinning widely.
“Go ahead. Take a picture of me and Jesse.”
We stood on the edge of the blacktop, our arms around each other, as the other cop fumbled with the phone. The morning traffic whizzed by me. Sweating, I tried to swallow.
——
At around eight o’clock in the morning, I arrived in the visitor parking lot at Sierra Tucson. I’d covered over 450 miles in little more than four hours. My hands were shaking.
From the backseat, I grabbed the small bag of clothes I’d hastily thrown together the previous evening, and slammed the door closed behind me.
The air around me was crisp and cool. I looked at the main building: it appeared to have been constructed out of some sort of adobelike material. The whole thing had this Southwestern feel about it, with cacti and brush trees all around. We were in the foothills of a mountain range.
Hesitantly, clutching my bag and my keys tightly in my hands, I walked up the path to the building.
Fuck, I thought. Maybe I should turn around and head back. There’s still time. Back into the car. Maybe drive to Mexico . . .
“Hey, there,” came a rasping voice. I turned to look toward a silver-haired woman, about fifty years of age who was smiling at me with a twinkle in her eye. “I’m Fay.”
“Hey,” I said. “Jesse.”
“Jesse?” Fay said warmly, putting her arm around me. “You came to the right place.”
I said nothing, just felt the way her arm hung on me.
“Come on,” she said, taking in the scared look on my face. “Let’s get you inside.”
Suddenly I realized that in my haste to leave home, I hadn’t bothered to let anyone at Sierra Tucson know that I was coming. I had made calls making sure my kids would be cared for, but I’d neglected to phone this center and ask if there was room for me.
“I don’t have a reservation,” I told her. “No one’s expecting me.”
“Shouldn’t be any problem,” Fay said. “I’ll take you to reception and we’ll figure it out.”
We walked down the quiet hallways, passing only a few people, who gave us interested looks then returned to their own business. “Do you work here?” I asked.
“Sure do,” Fay said. “I’m on the kitchen crew.”
“Oh,” I said. “I thought you might be . . . well . . .”
“One of you?” Fay laughed heartily, the skin around her eyes coming together in friendly crow’s-feet. “I have been, you can believe that. Come on, Jesse, I’m going to take you to the folks in charge. We’ll get everything all squared away for you.”
Fay handed me off to the woman at the reception desk, who took me in pleasantly. If either of them had recognized who I was, they didn’t let