Smart, But Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 3) Page 13

  “Mundeen,” a man barked. “You want to make a call?”

  I stood so fast I got dizzy and had to lean against the wall. I hadn’t eaten for hours.

  “Yes. Yes.” I stumbled toward the officer before he changed his mind.

  He put up a finger. “You get one call.” He led me to a room with a chair, desk and phone. “Sit here.” He crossed his arms and watched.

  I dialed Meredith’s number, knowing I’d wake her up.

  “Meredith, I’m about to go to jail! I’m in the magistrate’s building, but they let me out of the cell to call you. The judge is going to read charges against me—the police said ‘burglary.’ I didn’t take anything, but they’re going to take me to jail anyway. One said I might be a murder suspect. I’m probably waking you up. Does Sam know? You have to get me out of here.”

  “Aggie, I know, I know. I couldn’t sleep. And Sam knows. He knows about the police reports and the charges and where you are. Everybody is taken to the magistrate from the police station. Sam told me to start finding you a lawyer as soon as the sun comes up. Once the magistrate sets your bond, Sam says the lawyer or I can bail you out. You won’t have to stay in jail long.”

  “I don’t want to stay in jail at all. How can you find a lawyer on Sunday? How much will bond be? I have some money, but it’s tied up. You shouldn’t have to pay to bail me out.”

  “I don’t know how much it is. If it’s a lot, I’ll try to get it as soon as I can. When I find the lawyer, he’ll know the charges and the amount of bond set by the judge. He’ll advise us.”

  I started crying again. I didn’t want to be advised. I wanted out of this miserable place. I wanted food and a bath at home with clean sheets and my friends to commiserate with me. I hoped Sam was still my friend.

  I sniffed. “What did Sam say?”

  “He said you should try to be brave. That he’s getting the facts and figuring out the best way to help you. As your friend, he won’t be officially assigned to the case, and he can’t come see you in jail. But he said SAPD would find out who killed Eric Lager and Dr. Carmody.”

  My feelings were mixed. At least Sam knew I didn’t kill Lager. I’d move heaven and earth to help him. Shouldn’t he do it for me? If he got too involved, he might lose his job. I understood that. I just didn’t want it to be true because I needed him.

  “Sam didn’t comment on what I did?”

  “No.”

  “Time’s up, miss.” The officer reached for my arm.

  Meredith overheard. “I’ll find a lawyer, Aggie…”

  When I asked to use the bathroom, a female officer had to take me there. I scrubbed my face and hands with soap as best I could. If I didn’t look so grubby, maybe the magistrate would take pity on me.

  Thirty-Six

  The officer took me back to the cell. I crumpled to my spot on the floor and waited, feeling somewhat better. My friends hadn’t abandoned me; they knew where I was and they were trying to help.

  Across the cell, four people sat together on the floor. They talked among themselves and seemed pretty casual about being there. Two men and a woman with bloodshot eyes looked hungover. Periodically, they’d hold their foreheads. When the third man said something they found amusing, they’d chuckle. Their clothes and hands were dirty, and their hair was matted and unwashed. Yet they seemed strangely comfortable in their surroundings.

  My curiosity percolated, so I looked to either side for someone I could ask about the foursome. The buxom woman to my right seemed bored by the whole event. Her makeup was smeared and residue caked her face. She had her legs stretched out from a short skirt and dirty bare feet crossed at the ankles. A pair of four-inch stiletto heels rested in her lap.

  I turned to her. “Excuse me?”

  She looked at me like I’d landed from outer space.

  “I was wondering about something.”

  “Yeah?” She seemed to be trying to figure out who or what I was.

  “Those four people over there—the ones talking. They seem to know each other.”

  “So?”

  “They don’t seem unhappy to be here.”

  She shrugged. “Free meals.”

  “Do they come here a lot?”

  “I’ve seen ’em a few times. Here. On the streets. Near the SAMM shelter.”

  “The homeless shelter? They’re homeless, but they can go to SAMM and get free meals, help with detox and finding work, right?”

  “Yeah. But they have to follow a bunch of rules. Follow a work schedule. Agree to detox. Go to counseling. All that crap.”

  “They’d have a place to sleep, food and people trying to help them.”

  “Some people don’t want help. You have to want help before that stuff works.” She gestured with her chin. “They’d rather sleep outside and take their chances on the street where they can get drugs and alcohol.”

  “Why would anybody sleep on cold pavement when they could sleep inside?”

  “No drugs or alcohol are allowed inside SAMM. Outside, they can get whatever they want. They’re frequent flyers.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what we call ’em. Frequent flyers. They run out of drug money and decide to get arrested a few days for free food and a shower. Or they pass out in front of somebody’s business, the owner calls the cops to haul them away and they land here. They go before the judge, and he slaps them in jail. Sometimes they get so miserable, they’re desperate to change their life and go to SAMM for help. But they have to want it.” She shrugged. “I’ve been a flyer myself. A girl’s got to make a living, but sometimes you need a break.” She looked away.

  Thirty-Seven

  A voice boomed out, “Agatha Mundeen.”

  I stood. “Yes, sir?”

  “The magistrate will see you.” He unlocked the cell door, took me by the arm and led me down a corridor.

  The courtroom wasn’t large, but it was impressive. The round “State of Texas, Bexar County” seal loomed in front of the tall enclosure and stately chair where the judge would sit. The officer led me to a pew and sat me down. I looked around. There were four other arrestees, disheveled and handcuffed. Nobody else occupied the pews. No attorneys. No friends. No family members. Armed officers guarded doors to the courtroom.

  The magistrate entered through drapes from behind the chair. He didn’t look happy. The bailiff motioned us to stand. We clunked up, attempting to stand straight with our wrists bound.

  “Bexar County Court, State of Texas, is now in session. The Honorable Magistrate Michael Ramirez presiding. You may be seated.”

  Robed, with steel-gray hair framing chiseled features, Ramirez looked daunting. He pulled a file in front of him, opened it and adjusted his glasses.

  “State of Texas, Bexar County versus Agatha Emory Mundeen,” the bailiff called.

  An officer approached, lifted me by one arm and walked me toward the judge. I’d never felt so humiliated. The magistrate watched me approach without blinking.

  “Agatha Emory Mundeen?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He proceeded to read me my rights. “Do you want a court-appointed lawyer to represent you?”

  “No, sir. I hope to hire my own attorney.”

  “I see. You are charged with burglary.” He paused. “Science laboratory at University of the Holy Trinity.” He shook his head as though wondering why anybody would pull such a stunt. He flipped through the papers and scowled. He must have read I was found with a dead body. “How do you plead?”

  “It was actually breaking and entering. I was searching for something, and I tripped on…”

  He stared at me over his glasses. “You are charged with burglary. How do you plead?”

  “Not guilty.” If he wasn’t going to let me explain, I was not going to plead guilty t
o being a thief.

  “In view of the charge of burglary, which is a felony, I’m setting bond at ten thousand dollars. I order that you be remanded to the Bexar County Adult Detention Center.”

  “But, sir, I didn’t…”

  His gavel came down. Crack. “Next case.”

  Ten thousand dollars? I didn’t have ten thousand dollars. Well, I did…in a CD at the bank. For emergencies. That I couldn’t take out for a year. Meredith wouldn’t have that much money. Or Sam either. I was going to a detention center? Was that jail?

  I pictured myself behind bars. It was the last vision I remembered before I slumped to the floor.

  The female officer waved smelling salts under my nose.

  I turned away. “Stop. Stop…”

  “Okay. Then take a deep breath.”

  I complied so she’d take the odor away. Blinking, I looked at her and looked around. I was sitting on the floor in an office outside the cell, still handcuffed.

  She waited until I quit blinking and focused on her.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Lightheaded.”

  “Do you think you can stand?”

  “I think so.”

  She helped me to my feet. “Are you ill?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t have any illness you know of?”

  “No.”

  “All right. Looks like you just fainted. The magistrate said if you don’t have a medical emergency, we can take you to jail. You’ll get a medical evaluation there.”

  She escorted me back through the clerical area and stood with me by an exit door.

  An officer by the door took my arm, led me through the door and stuffed me into a van with five other women. The seats had been removed to install metal benches that lined the sides of the vehicle. The officer behind me stepped into the van long enough to remove my handcuffs. I was rubbing both wrists when he grabbed my hand and handcuffed me to the woman beside me who smelled like she hadn’t bathed in a month. He plopped me on the bench, backed out of the van and slid the door closed.

  I looked around. We were caged like animals and linked like sausages. The females looked at me suspiciously. Nobody said anything. Only one looked halfway friendly. Another looked dazed from drugs. One tried to push away a snoring drunk woman leaning against her shoulder.

  A see-though metal partition separated us from the driver. He probably wouldn’t talk to us anyway.

  Looking through barred windows on the other side of the van, I could see streaks in the sky but no daylight. The van’s headlights lit the Frio Street sign and a street that mounded up to our left. Lights skittered across street signs: Buena Vista, W. Commerce, W. Travis; my first trip to San Antonio’s west side.

  The women started talking in low tones.

  “What are you in for?”

  “I had a bunch of outstanding parking tickets. You?”

  “Assault. He had it coming.”

  “You back again, honey?” one said to the woman seated by her, who was slathered with makeup and wore fishnet stockings.

  “Yeah. At least I’ll get a good night’s sleep.” She yawned.

  A tough-looking woman with crocodile eyes, handcuffed to a woman in a stupor, lifted her lids enough to stare at me with a dull expression. “You.” She flipped her chin toward me. “What’re you in for?”

  “Murder.” I hoped that would end the conversation. I had enough to worry about.

  I turned my face away from the smelly creature attached to me and pondered how much more horrible my condition could become.

  The woman who looked halfway friendly put a finger to her lips, then pointed around the ceiling of the van. The vehicle must be wired for sound in case we confessed to something on the way to jail.

  Great. I’d just said I was arrested for murder. Everybody stopped talking.

  When we turned left on W. Martin and onto Comal, the van slowed. We passed a multistory building on the right with a sign out front that read “Annex.”

  The building looming in front of us, five or six stories high, read: “Bexar County Sheriff’s Office Adult Detention Center Facility.” Our driver pulled around the side of the building and slowed.

  Thirty-Eight

  The van pulled into a garage that looked like a vault. There was no exit; only the entrance we came through. The van rolled to a stop, and a door behind it slid shut. The driver squawked into his radio. “Six females from magistrate in Sally Port.”

  In front of the van, a metal door glided open. A male and female officer emerged, approached our van and extracted us, one by one, while the driver watched. Their uniforms read “Bexar County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “Is this jail?” I asked the woman.

  She looked at me curiously. “Adult Detention. Booking,” she said. “Yeah. Jail.”

  After checking to make sure we were handcuffed to each other, they herded us toward the cubicle they’d come from, a vestibule about six feet square. Officers nudged us inside and followed us into the enclosure. A door slid shut behind us.

  I started sweating, feeling claustrophobic in the cramped space. The female officer started to pat down one of the women. She found a knife on her, confiscated it and handed it to another officer. Finished with her pat-down, she told the officer to apply leg iron restraints and remove her handcuffs.

  Leg irons? Handcuffs were bad enough. Must be because the woman had a knife. Certainly they wouldn’t…

  She repeated her routine with the others. One had a bottle of pills and half a sandwich. Another had makeup in her pocket and a few dollars. She came toward the woman attached to my wrist and had to get close to frisk her. She wrinkled her nose, but her revulsion didn’t make her search any less thorough. She clamped leg irons on her and removed the cuff from her wrist.

  She came toward me. I was glad SAPD had taken my gloves, flashlight, dental pick and rope at UHT. It wouldn’t look good to these officers, dressed in black like I was.

  When she finished patting me down, I looked her square in the eyes. We were, after all, reasonable adults. “Surely you’re not going to put me in leg irons. I was just in the wrong place looking for something and stumbled on…” Without a word, she snapped leg irons on my ankles and removed the handcuff from my wrist.

  I had a horrible realization: everybody arrested—whether for unpaid parking tickets or murder—was treated exactly the same.

  Mortified, I was close to hyperventilating. I was frantically rubbing my wrists so I wouldn’t start crying. A door in front of us slid open.

  The room before us was expansive and full of officers and arrestees. Officers behind a square configuration of counters walked from station to station inside the barricaded space, and talked to suspects in leg irons lined up outside the perimeter. More officers strolled through the room, surveying the proceedings.

  The calendar on a counter showed Saturday, August 30, 1997. They hadn’t changed it to Sunday. I was supposed to be enjoying the Labor Day holiday on Monday, Sept. 1st. and returning to class Tuesday. Instead, I might be booked into jail.

  An officer stepped in front of us. “Incoming inmates form a line in front of desk number one.”

  Inmates? I was an inmate? I hadn’t committed a crime—I’d simply tried to get information. They didn’t even know my name or that I was a student or that I had been a bank executive. Or that I was terrified.

  I shuffled with my van mates toward desk number one where two men were already lined up. Third in line, I took deep breaths to calm myself. I heard chains clanking. Down the hall to the left of the big room, an inmate in a short-sleeved red scrub suit, hands cuffed in front of him, dragged his feet attempting to walk. Metal chains secured his leg irons and handcuffs. An officer paced beside him. Would I have to share space with that m
an? My heart pounded. Door signs on cubicles to their right read “Attorney.” Thank goodness Meredith was trying to find me a lawyer. My breathing slowed.

  The interrogator finished with the first man. “Medical and banking,” he called. Another officer led him away. I tried to overhear what the desk officer asked the next man. No such luck. When the questioner finished, he called, “Take him to clothing.” Would I have to wear one of those jumpsuits?

  He looked up at me. “Next.”

  I shuffled to the desk.

  He took down my name, address, phone number, occupation, date of birth. Then he fingerprinted me.

  “We’ll send these to the state’s AFIS database. Says here you collapsed at the magistrate’s office.”

  “Yes, sir. I fainted.”

  “Do you feel normal now?”

  Nothing about this was normal. “I feel all right, sir. I haven’t eaten, which is probably why I fainted.”

  He studied me. “Your color looks okay. You’ll get a sandwich and cookies in the holding cell. Have you ever been arrested?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Do you have any medical or mental health needs?”

  A splitting headache and being on the verge of hyperventilating probably didn’t count. “No.”

  “You’ve never received mental health services?”

  This might be my first time. “No.”

  “Do you have an emergency contact?”

  I dared not give Sam’s name. “Meredith Laughlin.” I gave her address and phone number.

  “Okay. Stand here for your photograph and ID card.”

  “I have an ID card with a photograph on my driver’s license. The police took it.”