Who am I kidding? No, it doesn’t.
Don’t ask me why I let her do my hair in this way, but I did, and I have to say the effect is rather interesting. In an odd sort of way.
So now I’m wide awake, and I’ve finished with my pity party, decided not to roll over and play dead after all—there is too much at stake here. I’m on a mission, as I stand here defiantly, one hand on my hip, staring at that hick policeman who had the gall to arrest Jesus Christ and put him in the pokey, and nothing and no one is going to stand in my way.
Of course, Kaplan doesn’t know the truth about what he’s done, but do I give a shit? Hell, no.
“What the fuck do you mean by holding him here without bail?” I repeat, focusing my attention on Kaplan, although I dart a glance at Jesus, just to make sure he’s all right. He appears to be, but appearances can be deceiving. It hasn’t been all that long since he got here. Not really. It just feels like it, to me.
Kaplan’s risen from his chair and is eyeing me a bit skeptically, as if I’ve either sprouted an extra head or begun to speak an alien language. “What are you, his attorney, too?” he asks. His very sarcastic tone of voice indicates he believes me to be jesting. I can imagine what he thinks my other function is. Not that I give a fuck what he thinks. What have I got to lose by lying? Not a damn thing. And everything to gain.
“Yes, I am,” I reply smoothly, tossing my head for effect (don’t ask me why, I just do, it makes the braids breeze about my face momentarily. I do believe I’ve made Jesus smile at my affectation. Score one for me). “Tell me what his bail is, and I’ll post it, and we’ll be on our way…” From one pocket, I pull out a wad of bills thick enough to choke the proverbial horse and begin to count them out, keeping an eye on the good ol’ boy in the jail cell, who seems amazed I possess such a huge sum. He probably wonders if I stole it, but it’s none of his damn business. Just give me a receipt and let us go, Jethro Bodine, I intend to send him where you can’t reach him, where he can be happy, and we can end this pointlessness once and for all. Despite the script. Fuck the script, I say, I’ve just added an alternate ending, one much more to my liking. Call it the director’s cut, if you will. If only I were really the director, which I’m not.
He looks skeptically at me, and then at Jesus, then back at me, before replying,
“I’m afraid it’s not up to me to set bail, Mr. Jarvis, so I can’t oblige you with an amount.”
I stop counting, frowning at him as I pause, my thumb poised over the face of some bearded President. Grant, I believe. “Don’t be ridiculous, Kaplan, this is your town, you’re the law. Set the amount and I’ll pay it, here and now, no questions asked. Hell, take it for yourself, I don’t care, just let my client out, and we’ll be on our way.” I risk a glance at Jesus, just for a second. He’s quietly shaking his head at me. I ignore that. I expected no less from him, as this isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. Well, that was before, and this is now. New story.
“It’s still not up to me.” Kaplan shrugs. “I’m just the sheriff here. You need to talk to the judge about bail for Mr. Stone.”
“Fine!” I snap, shoving the bills back into my pocket ill-naturedly, approaching the bars, still very much on my high horse. “Where can I find him or her then?
Courthouse, I presume?”
“If we had a courthouse, then yes,” Kaplan answers in a manner that makes me itch to knock him on his ass. “But we don’t.”
I pause, mentally counting to ten, only reaching to five before interrupting myself. “Then where can I find this judge? At home? At the barber shop? Give me some kind of clue, unless you intend to have me go on some sort of a scavenger hunt, just to give my client his rights?”
“You’ll be able to find him right here,” Kaplan continues, and I hate the look of amusement on his Howdy Doody face. I glance around the penny ante building scornfully.
“Here where?”
“Here here. When Judge Reynolds comes to town, he’ll be sitting here. He’s the circuit court judge for this area, and this is where he’ll be.” I roll my eyes in exasperation. “And just when do you expect that to happen, Sheriff?” If I don’t get an answer and get it now, I swear I’ll reach through those bars and pound his face against them until he tells me something concrete.
“In about two days’ time,” he answers, “and that’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.
You’re lucky that just happens to be his regular sitting time, otherwise you might be waiting nearer a month.”