‘You might be the only one he gets, actually,’ she said. ‘You know, while they’re in Admitting they can have all the phone calls they want, and this little crybaby called his mama and every one of his relatives, I think. And one by one they’ve all turned him down. Looks like he’s used up his bonus points with his family.’
‘If I get down there in the next hour, can I talk to him in an interview room?’
‘Sure. You don’t even have to reserve a time today. We’re experiencing a lull in criminal activity.’
‘Well, aren’t we lucky?’
‘Except for the ever-present threat of layoffs, yes.’
Traffic was rolling peacefully along I-10, ten miles over the speed limit with just the occasional crazed speedster bombing through, keeping everybody’s heart rate elevated. With a little time to spare, Sarah called Records and got the name of Joey’s arresting officer. It was Artie Mendoza, whom she knew well. He was on patrol now, she learned, as she watched her exit coming up. She turned right at Silverlake Road and drove toward the tall flagpole that fronted the jail.
The big brick and glass building sprawled across its site – plenty of parking on both sides of the flagpole, neat sets of metal picnic tables and benches set into the pavers in front. It was not a venue anyone would choose for al-fresco dining, but the benches afford some comfort during the soul-sucking waits that families of law-breakers often have to endure.
Inside the lobby she stowed her Glock and taser in a locker, showed her badge to the officer who sat at the desk under the sign for professionals and signed for a visitor’s room.
A family group stood in front of the sign that said, ‘Public Visitation,’ the adults showing photo ID, then waiting, awkward and self-conscious, while the officer there checked for wants and warrants. The process was quiet and discreet, like a large doctor’s office. The visit they’d come for would take place over a TV-and-telephone hookup, the family in one of the booths that rose in tiers behind the desk, the prisoner in a similar booth deep in the interior of the jail. It was cold comfort, Sarah always thought, telephone talk with a TV picture. But having no physical contact removed the need to search the visitors, or monitor the visit, so it speeded everything up and made more visits possible.
In fact, if you had to go to jail, she reflected, looking around at the shining floors and tidy booth space, Pima County was the place to go. A state-of-the-art holding facility with constant podular supervision, Pima kept the peace and maintained the quiet. No trash on the floor, no fights, no shouting. Sarah privately suspected the constant supervision might make her loony in a week, but it probably beat worrying about getting shanked in the shower.
Since Joey’s rap sheet indicated a predilection for non-violent crimes, he would be chained for the trip to the visitation room but could be released inside the room if she so chose. She did, and the officer who unlocked the door said, ‘Yeah, so far all he’s showed us is a smart mouth, but remember where the buzzer is, Detective. These guys can turn on you in a blink.’
I know, I know.
While she waited at the end of the aisle, by the turn where the stairs went up to the booths, she dialed Artie Mendoza. When he answered from his car and said he had time to talk, she asked him for details about the crime.
‘He thought he was breaking into an empty house,’ Artie said. ‘He’s been pulling that trick, you know, of lining up stones on the walk in front of a house where the owner’s going to stumble over them or kick them away when he comes out to get the paper or whatever. If nobody moves the stones for a couple of days our burglar figures he’s good to go in.
‘The homeowner told me later, “I guess I should have noticed those stones out there, but I’m an artist, and when I’m working on a picture I get kind of spacey and vague.” So ol’ Joey García went in and loaded up some goodies, but the homeowner heard him. He used his head, too – he called nine-one-one and stayed in the john with the door locked till me and my backup had the culprit in chains.’
‘So,’ Sarah said, ‘this one’s going to be easy to prove.’
‘Absolutely no problem.’
‘And here he comes now. Good to talk to you, Artie.’
The guard who brought Joey was quiet but careful, his face a mask of no emotion whatever. Joey was looking around, smiling a little, looking bright and relaxed. Been here, done this, seemed to be the message he was trying to send.
It’s hard to look ominous in an orange jumpsuit. But even allowing for that, Sarah didn’t think Joey García looked dangerous. Cocky and arrogant, and a little bit … hyper, maybe? He might be coming down from some habitual drug use. If that was the case he was in trouble: Pima County would offer minimal help with withdrawal symptoms if they got very bad, but essentially it was cold turkey in here.