Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [139]
I went to the main office and asked our two secretaries if they’d been notified that Nola was heading up. Oh, sure. And just why hadn’t they notified Dispatch? Well, they weren’t in that particular loop, that’s why.
I’d forgotten. On the early day shift, Bud would have handled that. We didn’t even have a woman jailer on premises, let alone a matron. Great.
I had them call Sally, for matron, and got the ball rolling to get women jailers lined up at least through the weekend.
I sighed. I hate administrative crap.
At 0750, the U.S. Marshals called, asking for directions to the jail. Maitland is a town of about 2,000. Shows you how often the USMS came to call.
The rain, which had let up, started in again in earnest. The first unanticipated event of the day. The marshals and Nola sat outside the jail for seven minutes, waiting for the rain to let up. The perfect opportunity for a hit. I stood out on the covered porch, sweating blood, until the rain subsided. Damn. I hate tension. I wanted a cigarette, and it was just the start of a long day.
I was at the door to greet Nola. She was wearing jail orange, with a U.S. Marshal’s jacket thrown over her shoulders. She was handcuffed and had shackles on her ankles. They were hard to see, as she was wearing a pair of GI jungle boots without laces. Brought by her family. She had a little gym bag with her court clothes folded up inside. Her hair was pulled back tightly, revealing a streak of nearly white hair about an inch wide, beginning at her right temple. She was not in a good mood.
The first thing she said to me was ‘‘I don’t know why I have to come back here. I didn’t ask to come back here . . .’’
‘‘You have a hearing, Nola,’’ I said, logging her in to the facility.
‘‘Not in a court that has jurisdiction over me.’’
‘‘And,’’ I continued, ‘‘you have an appointment with your attorney in a few minutes.’’
‘‘Not an attorney I chose,’’ she said. ‘‘I wish to make my appearance in the People’s Court.’’
I put down my pen. I smiled pleasantly at her. ‘‘Tell you what, Nola, I’ll make a note.’’ I got out a pad. ‘‘When you’re released in fifty or so years, I’ll have ’em call the People’s Court for you, and make an appointment . . .’’
‘‘We can put a lien on your property,’’ she said. ‘‘We’ll see how you feel then.’’
‘‘Not on what I don’t have,’’ I said. ‘‘You gotta give me a raise, first. Now, let’s get you squared away here . . .’’
I was placing Nola in the interview area, which had two thick windows, when the sunlight suddenly came streaming through the window. We both looked up, just in time to see her attorney, brightly lit, walking across the reflecting wet surface of the asphalt parking lot.
‘‘It’s true, Nola,’’ I said. ‘‘They can walk on water.’’
She laughed for the first time since I’d known her. Pleasant-sounding.
I locked her and her attorney in the interview room, and went to Dispatch, where I could watch them on closed-circuit TV. No sound, and the camera far enough away to prevent lip reading. We knew the rules. But a good enough picture to enable me to see if she tore his head off.
I signed the release forms for the marshals, and they left. ‘‘Take good care of her,’’ said the taller of the two. ‘‘She’ll have you in People’s Court if you don’t.’’
Much to my surprise, twenty minutes had gone by and Nola and her mouthpiece were still talking. No blows or anything. My stomach was churning, as neither Volont nor Nichols had showed, and they were the ones in communication with the ‘‘hidden assets.’’ Every noise, I looked. Every creak in the old building. I hate that too.
At about 1045, Nola and her attorney finished up, and I placed her in a holding cell. She seemed pretty content.
Sally arrived, and I told her that Nola would be going to court at 1130 or so and that she’d be going along as matron. I hated to say that.