Illusions Complete Series (49 page)

I just needed to get away. I needed to find a way to get back to that extreme euphoria that I experienced before. My cells had memory. They remembered what it felt like to float above the world, as if I were in heaven. I had to stop my physical and emotional pain, otherwise I simply didn’t know what I would do to myself. I knew what I was capable of when I was experiencing extreme emotional pain – I was capable of hurting myself so badly that I was at the point of death. Now I had something to really give me pain, and I didn't want to go down that road again.

I laid at that bus stop until the sun came up and the bus came around to pick me up and take me downtown. I had actually formulated a plan in my head for how it was that I would be able to find some drugs. It was such a simple plan it was genius.

I simply had to find out the names of people who were being charged with drug distribution.

So I decided to sit in on some initial appearances, which were the first appearances that defendants have in court, where the judge reads them their charges.

I needed to find some addresses of drug dealers.

I entered the courtroom. I didn't even think about how I looked. In reality, I was dressed in Hello Kitty pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, and my winter outer-wear, not bothering to change after my...attack. I couldn't bring myself to say the R word, even in my head. It was simply an attack, like what happened to me with Rochelle.

Every time I started to think about how I was sexually violated, a huge swell of panic threatened to engulf me.

I went right up to the prosecutor and asked to see his files.

“Iris,” the prosecutor, Randy Davis, said to me. “You, uh...how've you been?”

“Fine,” I lied. “Listen, I have a client on your drug docket here. You’re doing the initials for the drug docket, right?”

“Yes,” he said, still looking at me strangely. “Did you just get out of bed?”

I wondered why he was asking that. I wasn't thinking about my attire. I was only thinking about how I could score a name from this guy.

Then he said “I didn't think that you were practicing anymore.”

“I'm not. But I got a name from somebody. I didn't want to be completely out of practice.”

“What's the name?”

“Oh, shoot,” I said. Then pulling a first name out of a hat, I said “his name is Shaun. That's his first name. I can't for the life of me remember his last name. I'm so sorry.”

He looked at me skeptically, then reviewed his files. I prayed that there was somebody with the first name of Shaun in there.

He handed me a file. “Here. Shaun Jefferson. Is that the guy?”

“Yes, yes. That's him,” I said. “What's he charged with?”

“Possession with intent to distribute. First offense.”

“Thanks.”

“You gonna represent him in your pajamas?”

“Well, I'm going to represent him. But I'll let the public defender handle the initial appearance.”

“Yeah. Looks like you probably better go back to bed.”

I smiled, not even feeling humiliated. After what happened to me on the kitchen floor, nothing could touch me.

I took the file, making sure that Shaun didn’t already have a private attorney, then borrowed a pen and wrote the address for Shaun Jefferson on my hand. Then gave the file back to Randy. “Thanks, Randy.”

“Yeah. You take care of yourself, Iris. No offense, but you're not looking so good.”

“Filter, much?” I said.

“I call them as I see them. Get in touch with Cindy, she's the prosecutor for this case.”

“Thanks, I will.”

Then I went out the door to catch another bus that would take me to the neighborhood of one Shaun Jefferson.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The bus dropped me off within a few blocks of Shaun Jefferson's home. I knew that it was a first offense for him, so he was probably out on bail, if there even was a bond for him. He probably had a signature bond, which meant that all he had to do was sign his name and an oath that he would appear for his court appearance.

I waited around after having been dropped off. Shaun wouldn’t be at his home just yet. He would be in court, at his initial appearance. Those dockets sometimes take hours, so I hoped that it wouldn’t be the case today.

I walked around the neighborhood in a daze. I only could think about getting ahold of some drugs, some way to ease the pain I was feeling.

The neighborhood was not one that I had ever really been in, although I had hung out in similar neighborhoods when I was a kid. My aunt used to live around here somewhere. We used to visit her back in the day. Some evenings we held séances, trying to contact the spirit of the dead guy who used to live in that house. Other times, I would wander around the neighborhood with my cousin Lynn. One time, we were gone the entire day, but never told anybody where we were going. We walked all the way to the Hyatt Regency, riding the glass elevators up and down, and generally making trouble. When we arrived back home after several hours of being “missing,” my mother was frantic and had almost called the police. She was like that, anyhow, but, to be fair, two young girls alone in this rough neighborhood, just wandering around – I didn’t blame her for being panicky. I would’ve been as well.

This was the sort of neighborhood where many of the houses were boarded up, and the ones that weren’t had overgrown weeds in front of them, and cars that were on blocks. There were very few vehicles that didn’t have some type of major dent, and also very few cars that were newer than 1990.

Most of the houses were bounded by a front fence, and behind many of these fences were ferocious-looking dogs. A house in this neighborhood could be bought for under $15,000, and these homes were pretty large, considering their price. Most of them were shirtwaist, which is a particular style of Kansas City home. Popular around the turn of the century, the shirtwaist was characterized by a first floor that was made of brick or stone, and the second floor was made of siding, wood shingles or stucco. These homes had two and a half stories, which means that the first and second floor were typical box-style, and the third level is more of an A-frame style, with slanted ceilings and picture windows. A shirtwaist could be a beautiful old home, with bay windows, a well-constructed stone porch, and lots of room. That is, if the home is well-kept. These homes were not. Most of them had stripped siding, roofs with holes, and crumbling foundations.

I wandered around this neighborhood for a couple of hours, looking at all the houses, saying hello to the barking dogs that abounded, and encountering more than a few friendly people who were sitting on their porch and drinking.

I stayed around in that neighborhood because I was determined to find some drugs. I found that, while I was concentrating so hard on finding some drugs, I was able to put the incident behind me. Still, it was bubbling just below the surface, along with the Rochelle attack not nine months ago. It was threatening to overwhelm me, but I fought it down as I finally, after several hours of walking around, approached the house where Shaun lived.

I knocked on the door.

I thin blonde kid answered the door.

“Hello,” I said, not really sure how to approach this perfect stranger to ask him if he had any drugs available.

“Yeah,” he said. “What's up?”

I suddenly realized that my appearance would help me in talking to Shaun. I probably looked the part of a druggie looking for a fix.

“You're Shaun Jefferson?”

“Who's asking?”

“My name is Iris,” I said, then decided that I would just be honest and let the chips fall where they may. “I need drugs.”

“Who sent you here?”

“Actually, I'm an attorney, believe it or not.”

He stood there looking at me with a very puzzled expression, apparently trying to decide if I was there to trap him, or if I really was an attorney who just randomly showed up at his house, asking for drugs.

Finally he said “come on in.”

I went into the house. The furniture was second-hand and run down, and the house had a musty smell to it. There was a Barcalounger with several holes in the seat cushion, and the sofa was not on legs, but was resting on the floor. Nothing matched – the Barcalounger, which was probably left out on the curb by somebody else, was a dark red, and the couch on the floor was an old-lady gold with old-lady patterns. There were not any curtains up – instead, there were bed sheets held up with thumb tacks. There were several cats running around, and two of them were friendly and greeted me. The rest scurried like roaches away from  light. There was a rickety card table that apparently served as a dining room set, with four folding lawn chairs around it. On the table was a roach and a pipe, and a baggie that evidently contained pot. The hardwood floors had seen better days, and were probably original, which meant that the floor was more than 100 years old, which was about the age of the house.

There was also a 72” plasma screen on one of the walls, which was probably worth more than the entire house and all the contents in it.

Shaun motioned for me to sit down, and I did so, on the couch.

“What you looking for?” he asked.

“Horse,” I said.

He nodded.

“How much?” I asked, then realized that I didn't have a single penny on me, after using all my money on the bus fare. I had my debit card for one of the bank accounts in my wallet, which was in my pajama pocket, along with my red diamond engagement ring, and my simple gold wedding band. But no way would I take money out of the bank. That wasn't my money, as far as I was concerned, and I certainly wasn't going to use Ryan's money for this.

“$1,500 for a gram.” Then he looked at me. “That'll last you awhile.”

“I don't have any money,” I said. “Can we do a trade?”

“No offense, but I'm gay,” he said. “You can work off some with my roommate, though. He'll be home around 7 tonight.”

“No, no, no,” I said, shaking my head. “Not that kind of trade.”

“Sorry. What were you talking about?”

“You need an attorney, right?”

“Sure. But you don't look like an attorney.”

At that, I brought out my wallet from my coat pocket, and showed him my driver's license and Missouri Bar ID.

“Ok,” he said. “What kind of a deal can you get me?”

“First offense...drug court maybe.”

“No drug court. I'm not going to bother with shit.”

“Ok, then, an SIS.” “SIS” meant suspended imposition of sentence, which basically meant probation without a record if the probation is completed without incident.

“SIS? Really?”

“Yeah. I'm good friends with the prosecutor.” This wasn't entirely a lie, as Cindy was a friend. A good friend she really wasn't, but we had been known to hang out some before I met Ryan.

He looked skeptical. “How much you charge for that?”

“$3,000,” I said. “So, you can give me a gram and another $1,500 in cash, and we can call it even.”

He nodded his head. “That sounds like the best deal I've heard all day. I was calling around, and everybody was quoting me $5,000 on up.” He looked at me skeptically one more time then said “wait right here.”

I continued to sit on the couch, and a black and white cat leaped on my lap and started purring. There was something buried in the back of mind that was setting off alarm bells upon seeing the cat, but I quickly hushed that voice and waited for Shaun to reappear.

He came back with a bag of white powder with him and a roll of cash.

I looked at the white powder in the bag, not really knowing what to do with it. I seemed to remember something about a melting it on a spoon. At least I that was how I seen them do it in the movies.

“Thanks, Shaun,” I said. “I'll give Cindy a call and I'll let you know.” At that, I asked to borrow his phone, and I went ahead and called Cindy right there for him.

Cindy answered the phone. “Cindy Johnson,” she said.

“Hi, this is Iris Snowe, uh Gallagher,” I said.

“Iris? This is a surprise. I didn't know you were still practicing.”

“Well, I have a drug client,” I said. “Could you work a plea over the phone?”

“What's his name?”

“Shaun Jefferson. First offense.”

“Hang on. He had his initial this morning.”

“I know.”

“The file's right here.” She was quiet for a few minutes. “No priors. Go 3 year SIS.”

“Let me call you back,” I said and hung up.

“What did she say?”

“3 year SIS.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re on probation for 3 years. You walk down your probation, you have a clean record. You mess up, and get revoked, you can face up to 10 years in prison. However, what probably would happen is that the first time you get revoked, you probably would get what’s called an SES. That’s probation, still, but it carries with it a felony record.”

“SIS means no record, right?”

“Sure. If you walk it down.”

“In other words...”

“Watch your ass,” I said. “I can't put it any plainer than that, because I know that you're going to go on dealing. Just get better at it.”

“Ok,” he said. “When do I plead?”

“I can schedule one on the next docket,” I said.

Crap! I had no clothes to wear. This entire scenario was becoming more and more complicated. I also didn't have good transportation.

Then I remembered an attorney who owed me a “cover,” which is when one attorney shows up for another one. I called him, after calling Cindy back to schedule the plea, and he agreed to cover for me on the plea docket for Shaun.

Then I took a deep breath and looked again at the package of white powder. I saw salvation in that package. I saw euphoria and a way to forget all that had happened to me in the last year between Rochelle and...that man. That bad man. Who attacked me. Not raped me. Attacked me.

“Do you know how to do this?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Here,” he said, taking out a spoon, then putting a dab of the white powder on the utensil. Then he put a lighter under the spoon, and the powder liquefied. Then he showed me a syringe, and showed me how to put the liquefied substance into the syringe.

I nodded my head. “That's what I thought. Thanks for the demonstration. And thanks for everything.”