Some Are Sicker Than Others (25 page)

Something unlocked and the doors opened slowly. Dave waited for the guard’s permission then slowly shuffled through. But the room wasn’t a room—it was a small holding area, like the bucking chute a bull stands in before it’s released into the pen. Dave walked to the end of the chute and placed his feet squarely on the black marking, then looked up into the camera and stated his name.

He waited a few seconds, but nothing happened. A few minutes later, still, there was nothing. Exactly five minutes later, the next set of doors opened. Dave moved from the line and walked on through. There was a female guard on the other side, Hispanic or maybe Italian, with those familiar black gloves strapped to each hand. She looked up at Dave then down at her clipboard, checked something off and held out a small, laminated card, “Dave Bell,” she said, “you’re gonna be in stall number twelve today.”

Dave took the card and flipped it over—the number twelve was written on the back. He looked back up at the guard for some kind of guidance. “Go on,” she said. “Right through there. Your stall’s the last one on the left.”

Dave nodded and limped down the hallway into a room that was more dimly lit. It looked like the pod, only smaller, with rows of video booths wedged up against the walls. The booths looked like urinal stalls at the airport, only the partitions that separated them were concrete instead of plastic and had phones instead of flushers.

Dave looked down at his card then back up at the video booths. The numbers were painted in dark black blocks above each stall. He walked to the end and found his number; number twelve, the very last one. But there was nowhere to sit, just a blank video screen and a phone with a metal cord running out of the wall. He picked up the phone and held it to his ear. The video screen flashed blue and slowly came alive. He could see Cheryl. She was sitting on the opposite side of the video screen, a phone trembling in her hand. Her lips were moving but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. Something was wrong. The audio was turned off.

He lifted his hand and tapped on the screen gently. “Cheryl?” he said. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

But there was nothing, just silence. A man’s voice cut through the receiver: “Mrs. Bell,” he said, “you have a bad connection. Please hang up the phone and try again.”

Cheryl nodded her understanding. She hung up the phone and the screen went dead.

“Hello?” Dave said, tapping the screen more forcefully. “Hello? Can you hear me? Cheryl? Cheryl?” A few seconds later, the screen started flashing and Cheryl’s image reappeared. “Cheryl? Cheryl?”

Her voice came on. He could finally hear her. “Hello?” she said. “Dave, can you hear me?”

“Yes, Cheryl, I can hear you. Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

Dave leaned in close. His forehead was nearly touching the monitor. “I can see you, Cheryl. Can you see me?”

She nodded. Her eyes were all red and puffy and she had blots of mascara running down her cheeks.

“Oh Cheryl, it’s so good to hear your voice. Thank God, thank God you came.”

“Of course I came, Dave. What was I supposed to do?”

“Oh Cheryl, I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Oh Dave,” she said, dabbing her tears with a crumpled tissue. “What have you done? What were you thinking?”

“Cheryl, listen to me. I don’t know how much time we have. How’s Larry? Is Larry okay?”

Cheryl nodded, the fat twitching underneath her chin. “Yes Dave. He’s fine. Larry’s fine.”

“Oh thank God.” Dave closed his eyes and leaned his head forward, letting out a sigh of intense relief. Thank God the kid was alright. Thank God nothing happened.

“How could you do this, Dave? What were you thinking? I told you specifically not to take him on that bus.”

“I know Cheryl. I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

“If you’d just listened to me and taken him to my sister’s, none of this would’ve happened.”

“I know.”

“I wouldn’t have had to—” She bit her tongue, abruptly stopping mid-sentence.

“What?” Dave said, peering into the monitor, trying to get a read on Cheryl’s face. “You wouldn’t have had to what?”

She turned away and shook her head in frustration, wiping the mascara that was running down from her eyes. She was hiding something. Dave could tell by the way her lips were twitching. They always did that when there was something she didn’t want to say.

“Cheryl, what is it? If I would’ve dropped off Larry, you wouldn’t have had to what?”

She lifted her head and looked back into the video monitor, her hair like spaghetti falling over her face. “I wouldn’t have had to call the cops, Dave.”

Dave’s skin turned cold. His stomach began to tighten. He could actually feel the knife being plunged into his spine. “What…what are you saying? You did this? You called the police?”

“What was I supposed to do, Dave? You wouldn’t pick up your phone, I couldn’t find Larry. I didn’t know if he was hurt or in trouble or lying somewhere dead on the side of the road.”

Dave clenched his jaw and pressed his forehead against the video monitor trying to push back the rage that was boiling inside his blood. That’s how the cops knew his name. That’s why they pulled him over. Not because he was speeding or driving erratically, but because Cheryl called them and told them to. But was that even legal? Could they just pull him over? Didn’t they need probable cause?

He shut his eyes and tightened his hand around the receiver, squeezing it until his knuckles turned bloodless white. He wanted to take the phone and smash it through the video screen and drive it right in between Cheryl’s blubbering eyes. He wanted to slam it against her face until she turned bloody, until she screamed and cried for him to stop.

“Dave,” she said, her voice slightly cracking in that same pathetic sounding cry. “Don’t just stand there. Say something. Talk to me.”

Dave opened his eyes, lifted his head slowly, and spoke with an almost inaudible growl: “How could you? How could you do this to me? Do you realize the shit you’ve gotten me in?”

“Don’t you dare blame this on me. This wasn’t my fault. I didn’t cause this. You did, not me. You’re the one who was out there driving around intoxicated. You’re the one who was out there high on crack with our son.”

“I was not high, Cheryl. I had everything under control. Besides, the only reason I was smoking was because my fucking knee was throbbing, which, by the way, we all know is your fault.”

“Don’t you dare try and use your leg as an excuse.”

“Why not? I can’t hold down a clutch if my fucking knee is throbbing. How do you expect me to watch Larry
and
drive a bus full of screaming high school girls? Larry wasn’t even supposed to be with me in the first place and you know it. If you hadn’t fucked up the schedule and picked him up like you were supposed to, none of this would’ve happened. I would’ve gotten to the game and everything would’ve been fine.”

“Fine? Are you kidding me? You would not have been fine. What if you flipped that bus? What if you got into an accident? You could’ve killed those kids. You could’ve killed your own son. You’re lucky I called the cops when I did before something worse happened out there. You could be sitting here facing a dozen manslaughter charges. But instead, because of me, because I happen to have a relationship with the judge, you’re going to be getting out of here with nothing more than a slap on the wrist—a five thousand dollar fine, a suspended license, and three months probation at a rehabilitation facility of our choice.”

“What? What are you talking about? What facility?”

Cheryl bent down away from the monitor but reappeared a few seconds later holding a manila file folder. “It’s called Sanctuary,” she said, as she opened the folder and fixed her reading glasses to the tip of her nose. “It’s a dual diagnosis facility, up in the mountains, down I-70 up around Breckenridge. It’s a top-notch facility with a staff of psychologists and counselors who can help people with both addiction and mental illness.”

“You mean an insane asylum?”

“No, Dave, not an insane asylum. It’s a clinic for people with addictions to alcohol and drugs.”

Dave shook his head adamantly. “I don’t care what it is. I’m not doing it. I’m not going to some fucking nut house.”

“Well, you don’t really have a choice, do you? You can either get help and go to this
rehab
, or…” Cheryl paused and looked down at the table, clenching her jaw like she was about to explode.

“Or what?”

She looked back up—her eyes were solemn, her expression unnervingly cold. “Or you’re on your own. I’ll leave you, Dave. I’ll divorce you. I’ll take the kids and leave you here to fend for yourself. And good luck finding a judge to take pity. Without me, you’re just another criminal in the system…another crack head to be tossed out like the garbage you are. That judge in there will have no problem sending you up to Lincoln County with all the other low-life degenerates. All it takes is the flick of his pen and you’ll be up there serving ten to twenty, living with a bunch of rapists and murderers.”

“Bullshit. I know you, Cheryl. You wouldn’t do that. You’d never let that happen.”

“Oh no?”

“No. You’re too proud, too damn conceited, too damn worried about what other people would think.”

Cheryl cocked her head and leaned in towards the monitor and met Dave’s eyes with a cold, glazed over stare. “Try me, Dave. Just try me.”

Dave held her stare. This was bullshit. She had to be bluffing. There was no way in hell she’d just leave him here like this. “Well, what about the kids?” he said, straightening his posture. “Are you just gonna let them visit their dad in prison, behind a plate of bulletproof glass? I don’t believe it. You wouldn’t do that. You’d never let something like that happen.”

Cheryl smiled and nodded slowly, as if she knew something that Dave didn’t. “You know what? You’re absolutely right. I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t bring those kids within a hundred miles of this place. Why do you think I didn’t bring them here today? Huh? You think I’m going to let them see you like this, in prison, through a video screen?” Cheryl let out an insane sounding giggle then tossed her hair back away from her face. “No Dave. No way in hell I’m going to put them through something like that. They deserve better and you know it. They deserve a father who’s not a lowlife crack head.”

“Are you threatening me, Cheryl?”

“You’re damn right I am. I swear to God Dave, if you don’t go to this rehab and take this opportunity, you will never get to see those kids again. I promise you that. It’s either the crack or your family. You can’t have both. You have to choose.”

Dave lowered his eyes away from the video monitor feeling as the jaws of fifteen years of marriage clamped down like a vice on his groin. Was she bluffing? Was she serious? Would she really leave him here to rot in this hellhole?

He exhaled deeply and looked over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the entrails of the visiting room. There were dozens of inmates dressed in blue polyester, standing like defiant, blue statues in their concrete viewing stalls. Some of them were shouting, others were crying, while some just stood hardened and rigid, saying nothing at all. Look at them—animals, every single one of them. Platinum capped teeth, huge, veiny forearms, and tattoos like hellacious graffiti scrawled all over their dark, sweaty skin. Christ, he couldn’t stay here. He didn’t belong here. He wasn’t a criminal or some fucking junkie. He was a father, a coach, an Olympic athlete.

He lowered his head and sighed deeply while squeezing the bridge of his nose. Maybe Cheryl was bluffing and maybe she wasn’t…there was really no way he could know for sure. But what he did know, was that he wouldn’t last five more seconds in this facility, cooped up with all these gorillas, just waiting to get their paws around his throat. No. No fucking way. Any place had to be better than this shithole. Three months up in the mountains? Hell, that was nothing. Plus, it would give him enough time to hire his own lawyer. What Cheryl and those cops did had to be illegal. They couldn’t just pull someone over without probable cause. He could fight this. He could prove his innocence. Then Cheryl would be the one in this fucking pod.

He smiled to himself and peered into the video screen then brought the phone against his ear. “Alright Cheryl, you win. I’ll do it. I’ll go to this rehab, but only because I have to get out of here. I can’t stand one more minute in this fucking pod.”

Chapter 20

Intake

IT felt like they’d been on this road forever—a dangerously skinny, two-lane artery that switched back and forth along the edge of a flinty, snow-laced facade. Monty scooted forward and peered out the window, his forehead pressed against the icy glass. It was quite a drop—two hundred feet, maybe three hundred, to a jagged, icicle-spiked forest below. “You sure this is safe?” he said, as he scooted back from the window, trying to get as close he could towards the center of the van.

The driver snorted and glanced over at Monty, wearing what seemed to be a permanently amused grin. He reminded Monty of a billy goat. He was an older gentleman, African American, with a silky white beard, like coconut cotton candy, sprouting from the center of a strong, protruding jaw. “Oh yeah man, it’s safe,” the old man said then flipped on the wipers and adjusted the volume button on the radio.

“You sure?” Monty said, peering out over the edge of the summit, staring at the miles and miles of snow-covered Douglas firs. “It looks kind of dangerous.”

“Aw nah man. It ain’t no thing but a chicken wing.” The old man laughed as he reached for his coffee, took a long slurp then set it back down. “I do this all the time, sometimes twice in one day. You just sit tight and try to get some sleep. We’ll be up at the house before you know it.”

Sleep? Yeah right. How was he supposed to sleep after what he’d just gone through? Just a few hours earlier, he was strapped to a hospital bed by his wrists and ankles, with an IV in his arm and a catheter in his dick. Then his own parents, his own flesh and blood, had the nerve to arrange an ambush and hire some interventionist who had him committed. How could they get away with this? It had to be illegal. There had to be a way out of this. There must be some kind of loophole.