Jackie Brown (8 page)

They got mad, Jackie told her, when she wouldn't talk to them, cooperate. Ramona said, "They ain't your worry. What you need to think about is if you put it on the man, you want to know he don't have friends he can set after you. That's the tricky part. You have to put it on him without him knowing it. The worse thing that can happen, say you don't tell on the man or cop to the deal? You might do, oh, three months county time, something like that. Six at the most and that's nothing."

Jackie said, "Terrific. I'll be starting my life over at forty-five."

She remembered Ramona, who she thought was old enough to be her mother, smiling at her with gold crowns, saying that's how old she was and asking, "When's your birthday, dear?"

She would sleep and wake up and remember looking out Tyler's office window at West Palm fading in the dusk and remember Nicolet's boots on the desk and the sound of his voice, Nicolet telling about the Jamaican found in the trunk of an Oldsmobile.

At noon the next day, Thursday, Jackie was handcuffed to a chain with Ramona and four other women from the holding dorm. They were brought outside and marched past a crew of male prisoners on a cleanup detail to board the Corrections bus. Jackie stared at the pavement, at bare heels in front of her. A prisoner leaning on his push broom said, "The ladies from the slut hut." Jackie looked up as Ramona said, "Watch your mouth, boy." The prisoner with the broom said, "Come over here, I let you sit on it." Ramona said, "Now you talking." They laughed and the women on the chain with Jackie came to life, moving their hips with the shuffle step, turning to grin at the men watching them. One of them cupped his crotch and said, "Check this out." Jackie glanced at him-a white guy, shirt off sweating in the sun, twenty years younger than she was, at least-and looked away. She heard him say, "Gimme that blond-haired one, I'll stay here forever," and Ramona, next to her, say, "Listen to that sweet boy, he's talking about you."

The First Appearance courtroom reminded her of a church with its wide center aisle and benches that were like pews. Male prisoners in dark blue outfits like scrubs, brought over from the county jail, sat in the first few rows. The women were unshackled, directed to sit behind them, and the men turned to look and make remarks until a deputy told them to shut up and face the front. When the judge entered they rose and sat down again. Still nothing happened. Court personnel and police officers would approach the judge and exchange words with him, hand him papers to be signed. Jackie said, "How long do we have to wait?"

Ramona said, "Long as they want us to. It's what you do in jail, dear, you wait."

From the time the bailiff began calling defendants, an hour and a half went by before Jackie was brought up to the public defender's table. He turned to her

looking at a case file and asked how she wanted to plead.

"What are my choices?"

"Guilty, not guilty, or stand mute."

Nicolet and Tyler were here, off to one side. They lounged against the wall watching her.

Jackie said to the public defender, "I'm not sure what I should do."

He was young, in his early thirties, clean-cut, moderately attractive, wearing a pleasant after shave. . . . For some reason it gave her hope, a guy who appeared to have it together.

He said, "I can get it down to simple possession if you're willing to tell FDLE what they want to know."

And hope vanished.

Jackie said, "My cleaning woman can get me a better deal than that," and saw her public defender's startled look. Not a good sign. "Tell those guys they'll have to do a lot better before I'll even say hi to them."

Nicolet and Tyler, over there acting like innocent bystanders.

"Well, that's the state's offer," the public defender said. "If you plead to possession your bond will be set at one thousand dollars. If you don't, FDLE will request one at twenty-five thousand, based on your prior record and risk of flight. If you don't post it or you don't know anyone who can, you'll spend six to eight weeks in the Stockade before your arraignment comes up."

She said, "Whose side are you on?"

He said, "I beg your pardon?"

"What happens if I plead guilty?"

"And cooperate? You might get probation."

"If I don't cooperate."

"With the prior? You could get anywhere from a year to five, depending on the judge." He said, "You want to think about it? You've got about two minutes before we're up."

It was his attitude that hooked her, the bored tone of voice. And the way Nicolet and Tyler posed against the wall with their innocent, deadpan expressions. Jackie said, "I'm standing mute. After that I'm not saying another word."

Her public  defender said,   "If that's what you want."

Jackie said, "What I want is a fucking lawyer."

That got his startled expression again.

"I didn't mean that," Jackie said. She paused to glance around before saying to him, "You wouldn't happen to have a pack of cigarettes you could let me have."

He said, "I don't smoke."

She said, "I didn't think so."

8

Thursday night, Max waited at the admitting desk while deputies went to get Jackie Burke. He had read her Booking Card and Rough Arrest report and produced the forms required for her release, Appearance Bond and Power of Attorney. Now he was making small talk with the sergeant, a young guy named Terry Boland. Max had worked under his dad, Harry Boland, when Harry ran the Detective Bureau at the Sheriff's office. He was a colonel now, head of the Tactical Unit, Max's buddy and his source of information.

"I see they've finally started on the new dorms."

Terry said yeah, and by the time they were finished they'd need a few more.

"It's too bad," Max said, "you can't invest money in jails, like land development. It's the one business that keeps growing." Terry didn't seem to know if he should agree with that or not, and Max said, "How'd Ms. Burke do? She get along okay?" "She wasn't any trouble." "You didn't expect her to cause any, did you?" "I  mean  she  didn't break  down,"  Terry  said. "Some of them, you know, it's a shock coming in here from the civilized world."

"She's done it before," Max said. "That helps." What surprised him, reading the Booking Card, was Jackie Burke's age. He had been picturing a fairly young airline stewardess. Now, the revised image was a forty-four-year-old woman who showed some wear and tear. But then, when the two deputies brought her in the front entrance, from outside dark into fluorescent light. Max saw he was still way off. This was a good-looking woman. If he didn't know her age he'd say she was somewhere in her mid-thirties. Nice figure in the uniform skirt, five five, one fifteen-he liked her type, the way she moved, scuffing the slides on the vinyl floor, the way she raised her hand to brush her hair from her face. . . . Max said, "Ms. Burke?" and handed her his business card as he introduced himself. She nodded, glancing at the card. There were women who sobbed with relief. Some men too. There were women who came up and kissed him. This one nodded. They brought out her personal property and inventoried it back to her. As she was signing for it Max said, "I can give you a lift home if you'd like."

She looked up and nodded again saying, "Okay," and then, "No, wait. My car's at the airport."

"I can drop you off there."

She said, "Would you?" and seemed to look at him for the first time.

Right at him, not the least self-conscious, smiling a little with her eyes, a warm green that showed glints of light. He watched her step out of the slides and turn to press her hip against the wall, one and then the other, to slip her heels on. When she straightened, brushing her hair aside with the tips of her fingers, she smiled for the first time, a tired one, and seemed to shrug. Neither of them spoke again until they were outside and he asked if she was okay. Jackie Burke said, "I'm not sure," in no hurry walking to the car. Usually they were anxious to get out of here.

Now they were in the car ready to go and he felt her staring at him.

She said, "Are you really a bail bondsman?"

He looked at her. "What do you think I am?"

She didn't answer.

"I gave you my card in there."

She said, "Can I see your ID?"

"You serious?"

She waited.

Max dug the case out of his pocket, handed it to her, and opened the door so the inside light would go on. He watched her read every word from SURETY

AGENT LICENSED BY STATE OF FLORIDA down to his date of birth and the color of his eyes.

She handed it back to him saying, "Who put up my bond, Ordell?"

"In cash," Max said, "the whole ten thousand." She turned to look straight ahead. Now they were both silent until the car reached the front gate and Max lowered his window. A deputy came out of the gatehouse with Max's .38 revolver, the cylinder open. Max handed the deputy his pass in exchange for the gun, thanked him, and snapped the cylinder closed before reaching over to put the revolver in the glove box. The gate opened. He said, "Ordinarily you have to go inside, but they know me. I'm out here a lot." Leaving the Stockade he turned on his brights and headed in the direction of Southern Boulevard, telling Ms. Burke for something to say that no one entered with a weapon, not even the deputies; telling her the office trailer next to the gatehouse was full of guns. He looked over as she flicked her lighter on and saw her face, cheeks drawn to inhale a thin cigarillo in the glow of the flame.

"You smoke cigars?"

"If I have to. Can we stop for cigarettes?"

He tried to picture a store out this way on Southern.

"The closest place I can think of,"  Max said, "would be the Polo Lounge. You ever been there?"

"I don't think so."

"It's okay, it's a cop hangout."

"I'd just as soon wait."

"I thought you might want a drink."

"I'd love one, but not there."

"We could stop at the Hilton."

"Is it dark?"

"Yeah, it's nice." "We need a lounge that's dark." He glanced at her, surprised. She said, "I look like I just got out of jail," and blew a stream of cigar smoke at the windshield.

Dinner with a burglar, drinks with a flight attendant who did coke and delivered large sums of money. Cocktail piano in the background.

She looked different now, her eyes seemed more alive. Green eyes that moved and gleamed, reflecting the room's rose-colored light. Max watched her open a pack of cigarettes and light one before taking a sip of Scotch and glancing toward the cocktail piano.

"He shouldn't be allowed to do 'Light My Fire.''

"Not here," Max said, "in a tux."

"Not anywhere." She pushed the pack toward him.

Max shook his head. "I quit three years ago."

"You gain weight?"

"Ten pounds. I lose it and put it back on."

"That's why I don't quit. One of the reasons. I was locked up yesterday with two cigarettes. And spent half the night getting advice from a cleaning woman named Ramona, who doesn't smoke."

Not sounding too upset.

"Ramona Williams," Max said, "she dips snuff. I've written her a few times. She has a tendency, she gets mad when she's drinking, to hit people with hammers, baseball bats. . . . You get along okay?"

"She offered to clean my apartment for forty dollars and do the windows on the inside."

Sounding serious now.

Max shifted around in his chair. "She was advising you, huh? ... To do what?"

"I don't know-I guess what I need is a lawyer. Find out what my options are. So far, I can cooperate and get probation, maybe. Or I can stand mute and get as much as five years. Does that sound right?"

"You mean just, or accurate? I'd say if you're tried and found guilty you won't get more than a year and a day. That's state time, prison."

"Great."

"But they won't want to take you to trial. They'll offer you simple possession, a few months county time, and a year or two probation." Max took a sip of his drink, bourbon over crushed ice. "You were brought up once before. Didn't that tell you anything? You ever get hooked on that stuff ... I wrote a woman last year, a crack addict. I saw her again the other day in court. She looked like she'd had a face transplant."

"I don't do drugs," Jackie said. "I haven't even smoked grass in years."

"You were carrying the forty-two grams for somebody else."

"Apparently. I knew I had the money, but not the coke."

"Who packs your suitcase, the maid?"

She said, "You're as much fun as the cops."

In her quiet tone, looking right at him in cocktail lounge half-light with those sparkly green eyes, and he said, "Okay, you don't know how it got in your bag."

It wasn't good enough. She sipped her drink, not seeming to care if he believed her or not.

So he started over. He said, "I figured out the other day I've written something like fifteen thousand bonds since I've been in business. About eighty percent of them for drug offenses or you could say were drug-related. I know how the system works. If you want, I can help you look at your options."

She surprised him.

"You're not tired of it?"

"I am, as a matter of fact." Max let it go at that; he didn't need to hear himself talk. "What about you? You spend half your life up in the air?"

"Even when I'm not flying," Jackie said. "I think I'm having trouble mid-lifing. At this point, with no idea where I'm going." She looked up at him, stubbing her cigarette out. "I know where I don't want to go."

Able to say things like that because he was older than she was by a dozen years. That was the feeling he got. He said, "Let's see if we can figure out what you should do. You want another drink?"

Jackie nodded, lighting a cigarette. One after another. Max gestured to the waitress to do it again. Jackie was looking at the piano player now, a middle-aged guy in a tux and an obvious rug working over the theme from Rocky.

She said, "The poor guy."

Max looked over. "He uses every one of those keys, doesn't he?" And looked at Jackie again. "You know who put the dope in your bag?"

She looked at him for a moment before nodding. "But that's not what this is about. They were waiting for me."