Silencing Sam (25 page)

The intake officer confiscated my clothes, even my underwear, trading me for plastic sandals, jailhouse bra and panties, and an orange jumpsuit. Neither the color nor the fit pleased me, but wardrobe is not a priority in the pokey.

“When can I call my attorney?” I asked.

“Later.”

While I waited in a plastic chair, a video played in a wall monitor, outlining the rules of jail. The production quality was only so-so, but I thought it best not to criticize.

“Riley Spartz.” A man called my name. I stood and a couple other inmates stared at me as if trying to recall where we'd met. I was waved into a booth and admonished not to smile.

I'd seen plenty of bad mug shots on the job. Most of those people were drunk or high. Being sober and scared, I knew how
important it was not to look guilty. Or creepy. Because a mug shot follows you the rest of your life. Ask Lindsay Lohan.

At one extreme are the meth addicts with wild hair, bloodshot eyes, open facial sores, and rotting teeth. At the other is bathroom foot-tapper Larry Craig, whose mug shot looked exactly like the photo on his official U.S. Senate ID.

That's the look I was aiming for. A mug shot so neutral it could be used on a press pass. An in-custody image that minimized just how bad a legal jam I was in.

As they prepared to snap my picture, I had to balance on two white shoe outlines spaced fairly far apart on the floor. I wondered how a drunk could be expected to perform such a feat. The reason for the maneuver was to record an inmate's height and weight. So in addition to being accused of murder, everyone would know how much I weighed. Just the kind of obnoxious detail Sam would have relished for his column.

As I braced myself for the camera click, a crazy inmate started singing “Jailhouse Rock.”

I couldn't help it. I started laughing. Along with everybody in the whole cell block.

So instead of an earnest mug shot that reflected how seriously I viewed the whole situation, I looked like I was snickering at the law.

I asked to do a retake but was told, “One mug per mug.” Then I was motioned down the hall, where a couple of goons kept “Hey baby”–ing me while I waited for the deputies to take my fingerprints.

The days of inky fingers are gone. The jail used a biometric computer that allowed them to electronically compare fingerprints with others in the system. The acquisition came after a minor scandal at another jail when an accused rapist was confused with a shoplifter and accidentally turned loose. Now jailers check an inmate's finger upon booking and release to make sure they match.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Another jerk hooted at me and made kissy sounds as he was escorted down the hall.

Finally, a jailer gave me permission to use one of the wall phones. I dialed Benny because Noreen had been so pissy lately. I figured instead of notifying my attorney, she'd just interrupt regular scheduled programming with the breaking news of my arrest. As for Benny, I knew he'd call the station because he likes appearing on television.

“Get me out of here,” I said as soon as I heard his voice on the other end of the line.

When Benny heard where I was calling from, he bellowed so loudly I thought he might rip a vocal cord. He promised me he was on his way and hung up.

I continued to hold the phone by my ear, pretending to listen so I could delay rejoining the jail scene. The guy next to me was ordering someone to bring cash now. The woman on my other side was crying and apologizing. Then I got the signal my time was up.

I was taken to a tiny holding room with a cement bench and a metal sink and toilet. I swore I would rather pee my pants than sit on that throne. No clock was in sight, probably so inmates would lose track of time.

Benny arrived hollering about probable cause and them not having grounds to hold me. Detective Delmonico let him settle down, then mentioned having other questions he'd like to ask me since my attorney was present.

“Absolutely not,” Benny said. “Any questions you have for her can go through me first.”

Then Chief Capacasa stuck his head through the door. The last time we'd talked he was mad about a serial killer, targeting women named Susan, whom I'd tangled with a year before. “Hello, Ms. Spartz, Mr. Walsh. Thanks for joining us downtown today.”

“Back at you, Chief,” I responded, even though it grated on
me to use his title just then. One piece of street strategy I've adopted is to call police chiefs “Chief.” It's like standing up when they enter the room. Or saluting. “You didn't have to send a car, Chief. You could have just called. I'd have come down.”

“We thought we ought to do it by the book.” Chief Capacasa smiled. “In case the media's watching.”

“Stop talking to them,” Benny told me. “That's my job. Let me earn my bill.” Then he turned to the chief. “As for you, we both know you're playing politics here. I'd like us to have a word alone.”

They left me in my cell to alternate staring at the metal toilet and concrete walls.

About a half hour later, they moved me to a larger room where Benny was waiting.

“You know how the button works, Mr. Walsh.” The jailer pointed to a large, red button on the wall over the table.

“That won't be necessary,” Benny replied.

Then the two of us were alone.

“What's with the button?” I asked.

“I'm supposed to hit it if you attack me,” he said. “Then they come running with clubs.”

“If you don't get me out of here, that might be necessary,” I joked. But Benny didn't crack a smile. “What aren't you telling me?”

“It's complicated,” he answered. “You're going to face homicide charges.”

“Are you crazy, Benny? Let me talk to them.”

“You'll only make things worse. Tomorrow you're going to appear in front of a judge.”

“Tomorrow? What about today? What about tonight?”

“You're going to spend tonight in jail, Riley.”

“Jail? You're my lawyer. You're supposed to get me out of here. What about bail?”

“Your arrest is a publicity stunt. Normally they'd just have
you turn yourself in, get processed, and show up in court. In this case, they want you to cool your heels in the slammer.”

He'd started to explain how the defense argues for bail, the prosecution argues against it, and the judge makes the final decision before I cut him off.

“I'm a reporter. I know how bail works. And I also know they can't charge me without probable cause. So something's not right.”

That's when he told me we needed to talk. “You first, Riley.”

“Me first? Benny, I've got nothing to say I haven't already said.”

That's when he told me the cops found gunshot residue on my pink jacket, the one I was wearing at the assault hearing just hours before the gossip murder. And even worse, a couple of my hairs were on Sam's dead body.

If true, this was serious. “That's not possible.”

“Along with your drink-in-the-face altercation, the gossip column in the victim's mouth, and you with no alibi … they're liking their case before a jury.”

I had no answer and instead thought hard to come up with a reasonable explanation. The cops couldn't be this stupid. All I could think was that I'd been framed.

The guard banged on our door and told us time was up.

“Give us a minute,” Benny yelled. “They're going to make me leave now. I'll be back tomorrow before court.”

Just then the answer came to me—or part of it anyway. “I fired at the shooting range with Nick Garnett the other night. I wore the pink jacket.”

“You fired bullets?” Benny asked. “With a real gun?”

“He loaned me his. I shot terribly.”

“Let's hope he'll testify to both facts.”

Benny had briefly represented Garnett once in a criminal matter, and knew both his aim and word to be true.

• • •

The Hennepin County jail has one of the tougher law enforcement media policies in the state—no camera interviews, no in-person media visits. Inmates may return a reporter's phone call, collect. Few do. But those who do call back are tape-recorded by the news organization so Their Side of the Story can be heard. Often the cops tape-record those calls, too. Just in case something surprising comes out.

For all those reasons, I was careful about what I said to Noreen, didn't detail the new evidence, and assured her it was all a big misunderstanding.

She tried to cheer me up by assuring me Channel 3 had broken the news of my arrest first.

The Minneapolis newspaper's crime reporter left a message for me with the jailers, but I didn't return it. The other TV stations didn't bother, but I figured their lights and cameras would be waiting for me tomorrow.

Instead of reminding myself I was a prisoner, I tried pretending I was undercover in jail trying to get an exclusive so I could win a major journalism award.

I'd been incarcerated for hours but still hadn't seen any actual bars. Just the same concrete benches. The same metal toilets. This was a modern jail.

I'd been moved to another temporary, but larger, holding area, with ten other women who had recently been arrested. None of us had been convicted of anything. The jailers had no say in who gets in and who gets out. Those decisions are made by the cops and the courts. I wished I had business cards to hand out in case any of my fellow detainees became newsworthy.

One woman was asleep on the cold cement floor, having spread toilet paper for a rug.

Another, more animated cell mate walked up to the window, unsnapped her jumpsuit, and flashed her breasts at a male prisoner standing in the hall. He hooted with appreciation.

I recognized a pretty blond woman accused of sneaking into
schools, stealing teachers' purses, and using their credit cards. Her picture had been publicized the past two days, and the cops must have picked her up earlier in the day. Already she seemed popular with our peers.

I was trying to decide if it was better to just lay low and hope no one noticed me, or whether it might be nice if someone recognized me and wanted to be my friend. Then I heard my name.

“Hey, you that TV chick?” A chubby woman with wavy black hair looked me over from top to bottom.

I pretended I didn't hear her. Yet she insisted I was Riley Spartz from Channel 3.

“Really, you're on TV?” Another inmate seemed suspicious. “What are you in for?”

“Parking tickets, I bet,” said a third woman, piping up.

“Maybe it's one of them First Amendment things like not revealing a source,” another prisoner suggested.

“What if she's here to spy on us?” asked a scowling woman with lots of tattoos. “Maybe she's wearing a wire.”

Several of them formed a circle and started to move toward me, like a wall of orange.

“Murder,” I blurted out. “That's what I'm in for. Homicide.”

They all pulled back, steering clear of me, and returned to their jailhouse business. I felt like I was in high school again, rejected by the popular girls.

All except the chubby one, who shook her head and laughed. “I don't believe you're a killer. I think you just messing with us to sound important.”

“Then I hope you're on my jury,” I said.

“Felons don't get jury duty,” she said. “Courts don't trust us to be impartial.”

“So what are you in for?” I asked. It seemed only polite to show an interest in her life.

“Hooking.” She smiled, like a night in jail was all in a day's work, then flashed a shimmery set of fingernails in front of her
face. “My customers call me Sparkles but you can call me Maureen.”

She told me to stick by her 'til morning and I'd be fine. I wondered if she had a Facebook page. Maybe we could be cyber friends as well as jailhouse buddies.

“This your first night inside?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Don't worry, it goes fast.”

Over the next few hours, some of our band were moved out and new ones were added. I was tempted to encourage them to call me collect from jail if they ran across any good story ideas, but I realized they might get out first. The tattoo woman snarled at me a few times, but Maureen snarled back.

I dozed once, but a loud noise outside our cell woke me. My new best-friend-forever told me to go back to sleep, that it was only a couple of guys across the hall slugging each other.

“Gang issues,” Maureen explained. “Routine.”

By then, I had to go to the bathroom so bad I abandoned dignity and headed for the metal toilet. And that's when I knew my life had hit bottom.

TV news is a business in which success is often measured by seconds. Even tenths of a second. The highs are high and the lows are low, and while the lows are long and slow, the highs are brief and fleeting. Sometimes a minute of professional jubilation has to carry you for what seems like an entire career.

I turned toward a corner in the holding cell, dabbing my eyes with toilet paper because I didn't want the other girls to see me cry.

In fiction, jail tunnels represent the hope of escape. I'd always known there was a winding tunnel under the street from the jail to the courthouse, but for security reasons, the area is restricted.

For some inmates, perhaps, the tunnel does symbolize a chance at freedom should a judge pound a gavel and order them released. Me? I'd given up on hope, so the tunnel simply led to a more public humiliation: open court.

Before our march to the halls of justice, jailers handed out combs and toothbrushes. The jailhouse green room was a holding cell with a shiny piece of unbreakable metal fastened to the wall, supposedly to function as a mirror. Those of us with first appearances primped as best we could. If my mug shot had been taken then, I'm not sure my mother would have recognized me.

This time, they handcuffed our wrists in front of us, a concession to the lengthy walk ahead. This was the first time during my incarceration that women and men were mingled together. Maybe because they'd had time to sober up, heckling was minimal. About thirty of us made up the perp parade. The guards leading the way were unarmed; the ones following the inmates had holstered weapons. I remembered Garnett telling me once
that cops use this technique because it's easier for a prisoner to steal a gun from an officer if they don't have to turn around.