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17 THE ROOMMATE
From the end of Chapter 16
"Of course Master Frank. When you are done, I will have your clothes set out and ready for you to go down to dinner." Jeremy said as he disappeared.
I finished, dried myself off...noting that this was almost the first time here that I had performed this task myself, and went into the bedroom to see Jeremy waiting for me, smiling, and ready to help me into the appropriate dinner clothes which he had laid and would help me into.
"Yes," I thought to myself, "this much service could become addictive."
With this thought I let Jeremy practically dress me and went down for dinner.
CHAPTER 17 THE ROOMMATE Sleep, and Surprises "SIR, wake up, SIR!"
I was started. The voice was not Jeremy's and the tone of a command certainly would never have come from him.
"SIR. WAKE UP, SIR.!!"
I opened my eyes, and I was absolutely shocked, and confused.
I was not in my bedroom at Beau's home. I was in the front seat of an old beat up Triumph TR-6. I looked at the seat beside me. It was leather, but with several tears in it, and on the torn and warn seat was a duffle bag which also looked as if it had been used for years, The handles were cracked, the stitching was loose and I could see some of the white inner core of the handles. The bag was bulging as if it were stuffed with more items, or bulkier items than the bag was designed to contain.
SIR, do you have any ID on you, SIR? SIR do you have any recollection of driving into the fence here on the land leading to the Wilkinson home at Pleasant Acre, SIR? I looked beyond the several police officers who surrounded me and the car in which I was sitting.
I could see that the front of the TR-6 was smashed in, and that two sections of that beautiful white fence which lined the lane to the mansion had apparently been smashed by the TR-6 in which I sat. The front of the TR-6 was crunched against a fence post, and there was probably ten feet of broken riles from the fence lying on the ground. It was apparent that the TR-6 in which I was seated had taken out at least one section of fence, and had come to rest against a fence post, which had smashed in the right front side of the sports car.
I fished out my billfold, but before I could open it the police officer grabbed it and opened it himself. He held up the billfold and looked inside it. Then he looked at me. I could only assume that he was comparing the picture of me on my driver's license with the confused, far- from- selfconfident version of me, sitting in the seat.
"Well, Mr. Miller, your driver's license is valid. I also see your release ID from the Massachusetts DOC, and that your DOC number was M231686. SIR."
Here he paused and looked intently at me. I must have looked really stupid, as well as confused. I did remember the name Robert G. Miller. The name was etched permanently into my memory from my time on the punishment horse of the SHU at Enfield where my butt was punished for talking to Beau in the exercise cages.
"Officer, I do know the name of Thomas Miller, SIR. Thomas Miller was an inmate at Enfield Correctional Center, SIR. But SIR, I don't..."
That is as far as I got, when the officer interrupted me.
"I see, Mr. Miller, that you also have your ID as a released inmate in the Massachusetts DOC, dated just last month. Is this information correct, SIR?"
"Officer, I don't know what has happened . . . " That was true. I didn't know what had happened. I only knew that right then, the officer was bobbing and weaving and jumping up and down in front of me, and I felt like I was going to vomit. I was hopelessly confused. The most I could do was try to control my esophagus.
I had gotten only that far when the officer opened another envelope that was in the little packet of documents he had in his hand.
"I understand from this letter that you received permission to come to Tennessee to seek employment by Mr. Beauregard Masterson in fulfillment of the conditions of your parole that you find employment, and you had some correspondence that you had submitted to the DOC that such an offer had been extended to you." At this point the officer stopped looking at the envelope of documents that had been in that envelope because there was a man on a big white horse coming down the lane.
I immediately thought of the cliché ending of stories when—no need for vomiting-- the hero is rescued by a knight coming in riding a white horse. As he approached, I saw that this was not just any rider, but George Davis, who was the supervisor of the new servant coffle who had ridden over to thank Beau for the birthday gift to his children. I knew that whatever else was going on, Mr. Davis would definitely remember me. I thought back to how he had examined me on that day. I had felt that he almost x- rayed me to not only see my outward appearance, but all my internal organs also.
When he arrived at the scene, I started to move to get out of the car. A look from the officer told me clearly not to move.
"Hello officers. My name is George Davis, and I am a supervisor here at Pleasant Acres. Mr. Masterson was informed of this situation here on the lane, and he has asked me to meet you gentlemen as his representative."
The policeman who was by my side straightened himself a bit more.
"Mr. Davis, I am Sergeant Nathan Whittington, and I have just been interviewing Mr. Miller here about what happened, Sir."
George Davis, not dismounting, but leaning down, shook Officer Whittington's hand.
"Mr. Masterson asked that I convey his appreciation for your rapid response when he asked me to call you to let you know about this accident."
I could not contain myself any longer. "What . . . What's going on here? You..." That was as far as I got in my speech. Officer Whittington, who was still right beside me, took his hand and gave me a good slap across my mouth, which caused my head to also spin as far as ... as far as I could turn my head around.
"MILLER!" he said. "You will be quiet unless asked a question. If you make another comment without being asked I will show you how we help offenders mind their manners here in Tennessee."
He stared at me with obvious disgust. He then looked over at another officer who had come over to watch the show.
"Harry, you got a servant muzzle in you utility?" The officer searched in a saddlebag that was on his motorcycle.
"Sure, Sarge."
"Bring it over, and stick it in his mouth. I'm sick of his babble."
"Sure, Sarge." I saw him take out a round tube with leather straps attached and a buckle in the back. He came over to me.
"Open your mouth, offender."
I of course refused, and kept my mouth tightly shut.
Before I could even voice my anger at being treated this way, two things happened. First a deputy that I had not seen coming from behind me grabbed my arms and held them behind. When I opened my mouth to protest, the other one thrust this round tube into my mouth and tightened the straps behind my head. My wrists were not released once the tube was in place, but instead each wrist was held, and I was put in handcuffs. My hands were in front of me, but cuffed nevertheless.
"Mr. Davis, please inform Mr. Masterson that we have taken this subject into custody, and he will be in court for the 1 p.m. session. If Mr. Masterson would like to estimate of the cost of rectifying the damage done to the fence here, the Court can use it to assess the length of sentence."
"I will inform Mr. Masterson, and I'll tell him how efficiently and expeditiously you have handled this incident. If you two officers have cards, I'll be happy to deliver them to Mr. Masterson. As you may well be aware, the Masterson family always expressed its gratitude to everyone who shows an extraordinary level of consideration and effectiveness."
As I was held there literally speechless, I saw cards being delivered to him, which he pocketed. He then turned his horse back toward the mansion, and I was lifted by my cuffed arms and moved quickly to the back of a police car.
One officer opened the door, as I had seen on "COPS" and many other TV shows, I was placed on the seat, my seatbelt was locked me in place, and the door was closed. I noted that there was no latch to open the door, its windows were barred, and in front of my face was a set of bars separating me from the officers in the front seat.
I began my trip away from Pleasant Acres.
As I watched the scenery pass the bars on the window of my mobile cell, I wondered how all those documents about my release and my identification and my records could exist. My mind wondered, since I could not speak. I wondered how my picture could be on all those identification cards and documents that showed my face to be that of a former inmate at Enfield Correctional Center. Meanwhile, we left the country roads, and the scenery moved faster. It was a fast trip downtown, to be incarcerated.
Soon we reached downtown Nashville. My brain was still reeling. How long ago was it when I was being lapped in luxury, in a beautiful country house? How long ago was it when I found myself in that car, out in the middle of nowhere? When we turned in to a large garage area I saw that I was entering the CJC (Criminal Justice Center). There was an officer directing traffic. The driver opened his window.
"Intake or Return?" the officer asked.
"Intake," the driver replied in a bored, perfunctory way.
I realized that I was no longer a center of attention. I was just another perpetrator being delivered to be processed into the system.
Processed . . . . I hated that term. I remembered the first time I went to a summer job in one of the companies our family owned. The person who met me was only aware that I was a college student who was there for a summer job. He had no idea that I was from a family that actually owned the business, but through a series of holding companies, so my name meant nothing to him. He used "processed"
about a thousand times as he led me through the offices and the endless, repetitive steps of "orienting"
me into the stupid summer job.
I looked down at the car's dirty floor. This time, I was sure I was going to vomit.
"Slot 16 is open," the officer said.
"Thanks" the driver said automatically, and turned to the left, down a dim line of parked police cars to a place that was open. There was a large number "16" painted on the concrete wall behind the space.
Both officers got out of the car. I expected that they would open the door, but first, other officers were brought over to look at me. I guess my destroying property at Pleasant Acres already gave me a certain notoriety with the hard young faces peering at me through the bulletproof window, in the fluorescent gloom of the garage. After they'd seen whatever they wanted to see, I was hauled out and stood by the car so I could be stared at by the officers without any intervening bars.
"Yah, this bastard is some sort of ex-con from Massachusetts where Beau Masterson went to college. Beau visited some prison there and happened to talk to this perp, and he offered to help him when he got out."
At this I heard general comments about how the Mastersons were an outstanding family... always helping others... but yeah, typical rich kid who doesn't know how to deal with offenders.
"Anyway, this guy repaid Beau by running into the fence on their lane and fucking up a couple of whole sections."
Again, I was disapprovingly stared at by the group. I just stood there, looking at the stains on the concrete floor. I was trying to think of something to say, but this clearly wasn't the time. And anyway, I was muzzled! "Well, I guess we need to get this asshole in for processing." Another one nodded, and I was grabbed by my cuffed hands and led down a walk toward a door that proclaimed in large letters "INTAKE."
Next to the door there was a sort of bump out with a thick plastic window. An officer inside pressed a button, and there was an electronic squawk.
"Masterson destruction of private property perp," said the officer on my right.
Once again I received a disapproving glare, and the officer behind the plastic pushed a button. A buzzer sounded, and the lock on the door clicked, and one of my two escorts grabbed the handle and opened the door. I was pushed inside, the officers followed, and I heard the door close and click behind me. I suddenly had a flashback: I was standing inside the door of that cell in the SHU, hearing it click shut and locking me inside. This was not a single cell, but I was just as much now locked inside the large "cell" of the jail reception area.
I was guided by my handcuffed hands down a short hallway, and then to a large room that might look at first glance like the waiting room of an airport, There were several rows of red plastic chairs, like those chairs you see in a middle school, facing a set of TV screens. Some of the screens showed a TV show— some kind of sports commentary--which the level of noise in the room made it impossible to hear. On some of the other screens were names of individuals whom I assumed were fellow offenders sitting in the red chairs. I started looking around but was roughly manhandled on my way to my destination. I was sat down on a chair.
A voice came from above. "Stay in this chair. When your name arrears on the screen you will be instructed to go to a window in the wall behind you." I started to turn around, but my head was taken and pointed at the ground. "When you are instructed by the screens to report to a window you will immediately get up and turn around. You will see a line of windows, each with a large number painted above it. You will move quickly toward the window you were directed to." With that I was pushed down on the chair more firmly, and I felt two big hands grasping my head and removing my muzzle.
"Sit down," the voice said. "And shut up. They'll deal with you in due time." I heard boots marching off behind me. I was alone on the red plastic chair.
So I sat, with my hands cuffed behind my back. I did notice that almost all the others arrestees had had their handcuffs removed, and so were a bit more comfortable. I could tell I was not going to be given any breaks, since I had damaged property of the Mastersons and the Mastersons were admired and respected by almost everyone. As a person who had done damage in any way to a Masterson or Masterson property deserved no favors, and actually just the opposite, I deserved any extra restraint and discomfort possible.
I settled myself in the jail as comfortable as possible, and amazingly (perhaps with the help of whatever knockout drug I had been given to allow me to be dressed and placed in the vehicle for my arrest) I fell asleep—just when I thought I'd explained the whole thing to myself . . . .
SLAP!!!! I was awakened by a hand slapping my head. The first slap was on the top of my head. As I was groggily awakening I got another one, snapping my head from right to let.
"ASSHOLE, you have missed five minutes of your name being on-screen. Window 6! Get your ass up and report to the window NOW!!!"
I suspect that whatever had knocked me out so that I could be staged for my appearance as Thomas Miller still was having residual effects on me.
I got up, and with an assisting shove was propelled toward a row of windows, a bit like a series of ticket windows at a stadium, but above these particular windows it didn't say SECTION 8 or anything like that. What was painted on the concrete block wall was "INTAKE PROCSSSING."
As I was being shoved toward the windows I picked out Window 6 which was not that difficult, as it had a two foot high "6" painted above it.
I arrived with a final swat at the back of my head.
"Thomas G. Miller," I said to the plump lady on the other side of the thick glass. "Uh, reporting."
"Ma'am," she said.
"Uh . . . Ma'am," I echoed.
"I have your identification cards from Massachusetts." The bleached blond woman said in a bored, DMV tone. "You will be kept in custody until your court date. You have been charged with destruction of private property causing approximately $3,000 in damage. A court date has been established for today at 1:00 in Superior Court 7. Do you wish to defend yourself, or do you want the court to provide counsel for you?"
I was overwhelmed by the barrage of information, and groggy from the knock out drug which was still in my system, and from just being jarred out of sleep, and slapped and swatted. My reply was not impressive.
"I, ah, I want to hire a lawyer."
She looked at me, "Sir you were found with only $57.27 on your person. How do you propose to pay an attorney?"
I stared at her. I had so easily forgotten that I was now Tom Miller, and ex-con. And, as I now was learning, with only $57.27 to my name. I was not Frank Wilkinson who had access to considerable financial resources, perhaps not as much as Beau, but certainly enough to afford one of the best lawyers in the state.
"I am sorry ma'am, yes please have counsel appointed for me." I paused, and then remembered my manners and added. "Thank you ma'am for your help."
My polite reply made no difference to her.
"I'm not the one that appoints any lawyers, sir." The "sir" was definitely sarcastic.
"I have all the information," she added. "Stand there."
I stood. She pressed a button, and an officer came over and again grasped me and controlled me from my cuffed hands.
"This paperwork is complete," she said, separating some copies of forms from the originals. She handed them over to the officer, and he guided me away from the window and down a hallway from what in society would be a waiting room, but I had heard it referred to by officers as the "holding-processing" room.