Bondsman

11/17/2009.  Oh-dark-hundred.  Smalltown jail.

It’s early morning.  The half dozen other inmates in the holding cell with me are fast asleep.  To a man, they are old pros at this.  They’re used to being in and out of county.  The stupid white boy locked up with them is not.  I’m pacing the cell, wondering when I’m gonna be able to make a phone call.

Officer Buffalo Bill, a good-natured jailer about my age, comes to the cell and cuffs me, for the short trip to a stainless steel counter across the way.  I stand and fill out more paperwork, occasionally muttering about how my wife is definitely going to leave me.  Bill, God bless him, tries to reassure me.

“Nah.  I’m sure your wife wouldn’t be with you if she didn’t love you.”

“You don’t understand.  I’ve really fucked up this time.  I was already in the doghouse.  When she hears about this, she’s going to divorce me.  Period.”

“What kind of bike do you ride?” Bill asks, trying to change the subject.

“1998 Suzuki Marauder 800,” I say, automatically and without enthusiasm.

“Nice.  I have a Valkyrie.  I love it.”

The jailers in NM are about ten times cooler than the jailers in TX.  They will occasionally talk to you as if you’re a human being, who has yet to be convicted of anything.

Buffalo Bill cuffs me to a chair and allows me to make phone calls.  The first person I try to call is Johnson Sendi, the man I trust most on Earth. We served together onboard the USS Kauffman for 4 years.  We’ve been shipmates/roommates/wingmen/confidantes for most of my adult life—Johnson was the Best Man at my wedding last year.

I dial the number, hear a couple rings, and then hear someone pick up the phone to listen to an automated female voice…

“You have a collect call from an inmate at Curry County Detention Center.  If you’d like to accept the charges, press 1.  If you’d like to deny them, press 2.”

I hear a tone as Johnson (or his wife) chooses the latter.

“Your call has been denied.  Goodbye.”

Dialtone.

Johnson has about 5 jobs.  He works his ass off.  Besides managing rental properties, plowing snow, cleaning septic tanks, and who-knows-what-else, he’s a first-rate operator.  In his case, the word operator means Missouri general bail bondsman.  Even though I’m not in MO, I figure he will have a plan for getting my skinny ass outta jail.  The only problem is, he thinks the automated call he’s getting in the middle of the night—the one that’s probably woken up his two small children—is from one of his methhead clients.

I try again.

“…you’d like to accept the charges, press 1.  If you’d like to deny…”

Someone in the Sendi household presses a key before the message is even over.

“Your call has been denied.  Goodbye.”

Dialtone.  You motherfucker, my inner voice says to my best friend.  Answer the phone, you piece of shit.  I’m not one of your brokedown skips.  The voice in my head curses him, but it’s out of love.  When you have a best mate that you met while serving in the Navy, you tend to talk to one another in vulgar terms.  The more appalling the names, the more fierce your loyalty to the other guy.  ‘Motherfucker’ and ‘piece of shit’ are nowhere near as bad as what we generally call each other.  I’m just trying to keep this post readable.

I decide twice is enough for now.  Who else can I call at this hour?

Patrolman

STATEMENT OF PROBABLE CAUSE

On November 16, 2009 at approximately 1927 hours, I over heard on my department issued patrol units radio of a public affray taking place at the Town and Country located at 2200 West 7 Street, in Clovis.  Clovis Police Department units were busy at this time and were unable to send a unit.  I was patrolling on 21^st Street in Clovis and started in route to the location.  When I arrived I observed individuals at the door to the business calling and motioning for me to hurry up and enter the business.  When I entered the business I observed an individual on his knees on the floor wearing a black leather jacket, black leather pants and a red motorcycle helmet.

The individual was extremely agitated and was yelling about his 2^nd amendment rights and that he wanted to bring a weapon along on this trip but didn’t and other intangible statements.  I observed that several display cases were on the floor along with food stuffs that were opened and smashed.  I also observed an ice chest on its side with the wheels broken.

I drew my department issued taser and ordered the individual to lay flat on the floor with his arms out stretched.  The individual remained on his knees as if he did not hear my commands.  I stepped forward and took hold of the individual’s jacket collar and placed him face down on the floor with out resistance.  At this time a Clovis Police Officer arrived and assisted in handcuffing the individual behind his back.  I patted down the individual for weapons.  I located the individual’s wallet in his right rear pocket where I located his Texas drivers’ license.  I identified the individual as Jake Geiger with a date of birth 05/20/1979.

With the assistance of a Curry County Sheriffs Deputy Dimitri Scott, I escorted Mr. Geiger outside to my patrol unit.  I placed Mr. Geiger under arrest.  While searching him for weapons before placing him in my patrol unit I located a black plastic bag in his left front pocket of his jacket.  Within the plastic bag I observed a glass pipe which contained the smell and residue of burnt marijuana along with a green leafy substance in a separate plastic bag, I believed to be marijuana.  I placed Mr. Geiger in the right rear seat of my patrol unit.  I then released Mr. Geiger to Curry County Deputy Dimitri Scott in order to transported Mr. Geiger to the Curry County Adult Detention Center while I continued my investigation and took statements from the victims.

I spoke to Johann Barley with a date of birth 09/18/1983 who stated he was in the business when a male in a motorcycle helmet came in and attacked him.  Mr. Barley said Mr. Geiger pushed him back against the counter and up against a display case and struck him several times.  Mr. Barley stated Mr. Geiger stopped and said he was sorry and started talking gibberish.  I observed several bruised areas on Mr. Barleys back and side which I photographed.

I also spoke with Fred Carr with a date of birth who stated he saw Mr. Geiger hit and attack Mr. Barley.  Mr. Carr stated he obtained a broom and started to hit Mr. Geiger as he started around the counter to possibly attack one of the clerks, Selena Cash with a date of birth 08/29/1978.  Mr. Carr said Mr. Geiger attack another male in the store.  This individual pushed Mr. Geiger to the floor and left the area.

Mr. Geiger was released to the Curry County Adult Detention Center without further incident.  Mr. Geiger was charged with POSSESSION OF DRUG PAPAPHERNALIA, POSSESSION OF MARIJUANA UNDER ONCE OUNCE, AGGRAVATED BATTERY and CRIMINAL DAMAGE TO PROPERTY.  While at the jail I read Mr. Geiger his Miranda rights.  After asking if he understood his rights Mr. Geiger refused to answer any further questions.

(Signature) Brennan O. Cary, Patrolman New Mexico State Police

Scholar

Monday evening.  6:30 p.m.  Air temp:  about 37 degrees.

Sitting in the dark, my thoughts turn to my father and brother, and my hopes for healing our divided family.

I have not seen my father in 6 years.  In 2003, after I had just left the service, he showed up on my doorstep in Austin, an old broken man in a VW bus, just trying to patch things up with his eldest son.  I rebuffed him, telling him to get out of town.  The last time I had seen him before that was 1996, when a fistfight left us with no real relationship.  In effect, I am going to Albuquerque to bury the hatchet after 13 years, not wanting to lose any more time.

I have not seen my brother in something like 8 years.  The last time I saw Kingston, we were both visiting my mother in Houston for Christmas.  I was on leave from the service, and he (and my sister) had taken a Greyhound in from NM.  Despite being an adult (yeah, right, I’m still not sure I’ve reached adulthood) I had for the most part spent the visit treating him no differently from the way I did when we were coming up:  lousily.  I had always been a shitty big brother, and I wanted that to change now.

A vision comes into my head suddenly, brighter and more perfect than even the bike’s chrome, gleaming in the moonlight behind me.  Or at least in my state, I think it is.

I don’t remember what the vision/idea was, but it was something that excited me quite a bit.

“Holy shit,” I say.

I jump up from the ground, trying to zip closed my leather jacket and put on my gloves at the same time.  Reaching around the gas tank, I turn the key, still sticking out of the ignition.  The engine purrs, but that isn’t good enough, so I give the old girl a healthy piece of throttle, just because I can.  She roars beautifully.  I leap onto the bike, and get her moving, making a dangerously tight about-face in the grass.  I manage to keep her in first gear for the 50 or so yards through the grass, but once I reach the VFW’s gravel lot I enter second.

Motorcycling through a gravel parking lot in second gear is stupid, but folks, we have entered the stupid part of this trip.  Jake, the operator (my 2009 Dr. Jekyll), isn’t in control anymore.  The man on the bike now, at 6’3” & 200 lbs, does not physically resemble the short Mr. Hyde, but evidently he has some of the same lust for hell-raising and dumbfuckery.

As the front tire meets the pavement of the two-lane blacktop, I lean to the right, and my rear wheel fishtails violently to the left.  I almost lose it right there, and truth be told, a wreck at this point would have saved me a LOT of trouble.  If I could go back in time and be a less skilled motorcyclist, instead of one with 11 years experience, I would.

I speed into the night, vigorously shifting gears and cursing out loud, bound for disaster.