Soul Mates (26 page)

Chapter 8

The judge had seen Tyler’s case before he left the municipal building for the day, and set Tyler’s bail and the next court date. Unfortunately for Tyler, he and Lilith did not figure bail money into their travel fund before they had left for Boston. This translated to a night in county lockup for Tyler. The irony was biting.

He was transferred to Police District 5 where he would spend the night in a holding cell. He urged Lilith to go back to the hotel for the night and get some rest and that he would see her early the next morning after she had moved some things around fiscally and paid Tyler’s bail. Lilith agreed, seeing as how she would be burning up the phone lines, testing the usefulness of her networking skills.

Tyler felt the first seconds of involuntarily having your freedom taken away was an anomalously helpless feeling, which he supposed was no different than how a newborn would feel if they possessed the cognitive ability to have such thoughts. Still, there was a morbid curiosity in him to find out the other side of his business; what his “clients” go through after
their
business is concluded.

The first experience Tyler had as a detainee was being involved in a sorting process with the other inmates who were awaiting arraignment. He was told where to stand, and he did. His main goal was to keep a low profile and get through this process without any further incident, if possible.

Like attracts like and Tyler found himself in a clique of prisoners who were also trying to remain low key and just do as they were told. They were surprised to see prisoners who did not share the same sentiments as them and even saw one prisoner screaming at a guard while the guard screamed back at him nose to nose. The argument was not full of idle or diligent threats of violence, however; instead, the inmate was screaming about how he was going to file a formal complaint with the corrections officer’s superior and the corrections officer had threatened to do the same. It was oddly bureaucratic in nature.

There was also the ritualistic and stereotypical hazing that went on between veteran inmate and new intakes. The chants of “fresh meat” and threats of making new intakes their “bitch” were plentiful; however they were also conspicuously noticeably for effect, thus idle. That said, these clichés did not incite the same boredom that typical clichés did. Long term prisoners were not interested in jeopardizing their release dates and most hardened criminals are not located in county, but in the state penitentiary. Jail and prison are similar but different, and this was jail, not prison.

Sometime later, once Tyler was “settled in,” he was permitted to leave his holding cell and visit the common-area, which had the famed and infamous cable television for prisoners for one hour. Tyler later learned that this is not only uncommon practice for new arrivals, but strictly against “lock-down” regulations, which are in effect during the first 72 hours of a prisoner’s stay at The Hotel: Gray Walls. 

Tyler expected no preferential treatment, especially in a jail setting, but he got it, nonetheless.

Not only was he granted television time when he was not entitled to it, but he also had his own cell, which was a rarity, especially in this busy prison district, but still could have been a lucky coincidence. Going further, guards who passed by Tyler’s cell would nod and wink or share a quick word of support with him. The corrections officers, not to mention the police officers on the street, knew Kenny Baker all too well and knew exactly what a low-life non-contributor he was. A couple of guards actually brought him some oatmeal raisin cookies from the cafeteria. Tyler was grateful for the treatment he received, as he felt he had done nothing wrong either.

Prior to his television time, which changed his life forever, Tyler replayed the incident in his head and consistently came to the conclusion that he had acted appropriately to the attack of his wife. After all, he did not
mean
to kill Kenny Baker, a recidivist in that very jail.

Every cop on every force in every country has a particular crime which appalls them more than the others. The most severe crimes, such as murder, rape, etc. aside, there is a hierarchy of sundry crimes among the blue-blooded unsung heroes…something that could possibly cause them to tentatively pull the phone directory or wood-shampoo out of tentative retirement. The crime that made Tyler’s blood boil was putting your hands on a woman; and if that woman happened to be his wife? No wonder the derelict Kenny Baker would no longer be receiving mail on this astral plain.

Tyler sat down at one of the few bland white tables that was not being used to play Spades, Hearts, or Dominoes. A corrections officer was never more than ten feet away from Tyler at any given time. If word circulated around the jail that blue blood ran threw his veins, well, you can bet your lifesavings that some inmates would like to have a little gander at how blue his blood really was. The television was on, and a handful of inmates were currently enjoying the end of a cleverly uncouth cartoon called KCTV, where a morbidly obese television station owner had just broken wind into one of his employee’s sound booths with him inside and refused to let him out. Tyler chuckled at the ten seconds of the toilet-humor he witnessed; he was a male after all.

            “Yo, Put on fuckin’ MMA! De la Cruz and Ricky “Hammer-Fist” McNeil are fightin’ tonight!” a boisterous inmate called from the rear of the common area.

            It was just in time too. The cartoon had just ended. Tyler did not want to be caught in the middle of the crossfire if the KCTV fan and MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) fan decided to beat each other to death over a television show.

KCTV Fan got up and changed the channel on the cable box until the picture showed two gladiators, dressed only in boxer shorts that were spangled with numerous sponsors, on their way to the fighting ring in the shape of an octagon, hitherto stained with the blood of the gritty undercards.

The Hispanic fighter cleverly chartered the crotch area of his boxer shorts to a condom company called SMOOTH FIT. Both of the fighters had a wide spectrum of sponsors on their person, the juxtaposition of which was quite comical. The fighter who was as white as his name implied even had a baby food company represented on the right leg of his shorts. Now, it should be said that the baby food company also makes other products that are a bit more apropos to what a fighter would endorse, however, the company was known solely for the baby food, as the new energy-packed supplement which promised to get you through your next workout with vitality to spare was new to the market.

The two fighters were in the ring longing for the referee to give the command to do battle so they could pounce on each other and finally let loose the atomic bomb of testosterone, odium, and aggression the two combatants were forced to hold dormant while they trained for this night. The ambience of the audience, feeling that the fight was about to commence, rose to a fever-pitch, so much so that the announcers who were calling the fight were nearly yelling to be heard.

Tyler, who had never seen a mixed martial arts match, felt his heart rate increase noticeably. He was never one to watch boxing or anything similar, but this was different.  He could feel something primal awakening in him somewhere that could not be seen by the advanced eyes of contemporary medical technology. “Hammer-Fist” McNeil unleashed a flurry of punches to De la Cruz’s midsection which crippled him to one knee. The crowd collectively rose to their feet yelling and carrying on, having a “taste” of blood and absolutely loving it. De la Cruz began to fight back; down, but by no means out. As Hammer-Fist closed in to deliver one more haymaker, sent first class with extra postage to De la Cruz, the gammy fighter waited until Hammer-Fist got close enough and then sprung like a jack-in-a-box, delivering an uppercut right under the chin of McNeil, who was unconscious before he collapsed to the blood-stained canvas. The sickening clickity-clack his teeth made as his head bounced once off of the canvas before coming to rest made the entire first row of spectators cringe.

Immediately, the fight was called by the referee holding back De la Cruz, who was advancing on his opponent just in case McNeil decided to
think
about getting up, with an outstretched arm. The referee waved his arms demarking the end of the fight.

Victory by knockout.

The banshee shrieks of the spectators on the television (both men and women) were drowned out by the pounding on the tables and yells of the inmates who were just as excited. Even the corrections officers seemed to be interested.

After the fight, two commentators, one who looked like he could jump in the octagon himself at a moment’s notice and one who looked like he would be more comfortable doing your taxes, began to interview the combatants and the excitement was over. One of the corrections officers changed the channel and stopped on
Seinfeld
 reruns. For the rest of the hour that Tyler was allowed in the common area he watched 
Seinfeld
 with the other inmates, but he could not for the life of him tell anyone which episode it was. Was it the episode in which George claims to be a marine biologist, or the episode in which Kramer pretends to be the famed dermatologist “from the clinic,” Dr. Van Nostrand? Tyler could not say; he was too busy thinking about the televised (and legal) brawl he had just witnessed, the thousands of screaming fans, and the money that was undoubtedly made at such an event.

*   *   *

That night, Tyler hardly slept. The culprit was not only the rigid mattress he was resting on which felt like he was resting on a park bench, but the excess excitement of the mixed martial arts event he had witnessed hours earlier.  

Everything happened quickly after that night in jail. Lilith arrived promptly in the morning with bail and then they retreated back to their hotel to discuss legal strategies. Well, Lilith spoke and Tyler listened. This was
her
game now, and she played it well...
too
well.

Lilith’s network of magistrates proved to be the most powerful in not only Massachusetts, but in the entire New England region. She reached out to lawyers, friends of lawyers, nephews and nieces of lawyers and judges. She called in every favor, legal (and questionably legal), pulled out all of the stops, and used every trick in the proverbial book. She needed her husband for this next phase of their lives. Lilith knew that it would work out, that she could probably have accomplished achieving her husband’s freedom without help, by the snap of her fingers in reality, but she enjoyed the game. She enjoyed the process of sullying the otherwise good name of every legal professional who was unfortunate enough to pick up the phone when she called. Plus, humans could be unpredictable and have that
disease
, that
cancer
called free-will. Leaving the decision up to a jury was risky. It was like leaving the call of a close full-count pitch up to the umpire if instead of striking out or walking the batter, he would instead be jailed or dismissed of formal charges.

While Lilith told him not to worry about the trial, as she “had it covered,” some bad news did reach Tyler when he returned home. He still had his job; that was not the problem: the department stood behind one of their best officers,
the
best plain clothes officer, and took the locution, innocent until proven guilty, to heart. No, the problem was just as he feared: another decorated officer, Matt Tippley, was given the firearms instructor position in Ty’s absence, which was not more than a day later than his anticipated return. The problem was that when Tyler informed his command of the incident, they anticipated a lengthy trial. Of course, they could not wait until the end of the trial to fill the position, what with 500 academy cadets currently in the program and another 300 anticipated only six months later. Tyler took it as a sign. He had explained that he was not sure about his current position as a plain-clothes officer anymore. But it was not just the plain clothes assignment he fell out of love with, it was being a street cop in general. He could not think of a more thankless job. People want you to help them, and when you try and do your job and help, there are dozens of cameras just waiting for you to do something that was not concurrent with police procedure, in hopes of ruining your career. Little entitled bastards who felt like playing lawyer, toeing the line of what was within their rights and what was not, and giving police officers a hard time for the sport of it, was what police work had now become. But that was alright.

Tyler had come up with something. He came up with it while he lay awake in his cell as he spent the night in jail, still buzzing from the MMA fight earlier in the common area. Tyler’s new idea was called
The Super Chasm
and it was an arena in which combatants would battle each other. The caveat which set Tyler’s idea apart from boxing, mixed martial arts and the like? Tyler was turning back the clocks to 80 AD (Anno Domin
i–
or the “year of our lord” if your Latin is rusty.) The combatants would once again battle to the death. Tyler, with the help of his barrister wife, was going to give the Roman Colosseum a rebirth, Vegas style. What better location for such an arena and event than Sin City, Las Vegas, Nevada?