An Old Country/Western Song

Mickey was there again, in County jail. His life was looking like an old country/western song to him, “I’m in the Jailhouse Now.” His thoughts were running wild… “Pardon me, Hank Williams, but I don’t want to be in one of your songs at this moment, eh? I thought I’d broken that cycle when I got sober but here I am… Surely, I ought to be able to get out on O.R. first thing in the morning… no outstanding warrants or fines… living pretty clean too…what does all this have to do with a cosmic plan?”

A now familiar calm came over him as he sat on his bunk after all the noise of the concrete and steel settled down. He was at peace and it felt as though a hand was on his shoulder. He had a private cell, in isolation they call it, and waited while his mind leafed through old catechism stories, “Would an angel appear before me and unlock my cage?" The gentle hand on his shoulder assured him and he laid down to fall into a deep sleep.

It was about a week later that he was awakened at three in the morning, “McKee, roll it up, you’re goin’ home.”

“What… Someone bailed me out?”

“I don’t know… just roll it up!”

Three in the morning: What the hell? He didn’t like the feel of it. Was he out? He could get a ride home from another cab driver but shit. He noticed that Richards was parked at the far end of the parking lot. Just for the hell of it he walked over to his squad car. When Richards opened his window, he asked, “Don’t suppose you could give me a ride into town… eh?”

“I don’t think so, punk.” Richards rolled up his window and pulled away.

 The cab finally arrived; his sponsor and friend, Jim, behind the wheel. They drove for a good five minutes before Jim asked, “So, what did that cunt do to get you in jail this time, Mick?”

“You haven’t heard?” at that moment Mickey discovered he had a newfound distate for the "C" word... especially when applied to Adriane, "Drop the 'C' word, Jim."

“Yeh, yeh, okay," Jim grinned, pleased at this change in attitude, "it was on the front page of the News Suppress… but I wanted to hear your side.”

"I can't believe it Jim, but back there in my cell, a calm came over me and I felt a hand..." Mickey gave Jim all the details.

"The Hand of Gawd, eh?"

"Something like that."

“We didn’t think you did it and you still have your shift on the roster at the cab company.”

Jim assured him.

“I have to check and see if the city hasn’t pulled my license,” he would have been surprised if they hadn’t.

“I’m sure you can still dispatch if they did… you got everyone in the office behind you.” Jim had one eye on his rearview mirror, “That cop is tailing us.”

Sure enough, Richards was following the cab, making no attempt to make his presence unknown all the way back into town. He even parked at the end of the cul-de-sac just past Mickey’s place. Mickey tried to sleep but couldn’t nod out while thinking of Richards out there and wondering what that damned S.O.B. was up to.

It wasn't Adriane who bailed Mickey out, though he didn't know all charges against him were dropped. When she was finally able to communicate through her own lawyer the DA saw no chance for a conviction. She’d also had the restraining order on him lifted. It was very unusual for charges of spousal abuse or assault against any woman to be dismissed so easily. Mickey was curious about this lapse at what he suspected to be a covert corruption of the justice system. He seriously wanted to know, or do, something about it but what? It was his powerlessness over it all that bugged him the most. He was damned if he was going to do nothing. Had he spent a week in jail without an apology from the law? But he already knew that the justice system rarely, if ever, apologizes for its mistakes. Once they sink their teeth into you, no matter whether you are guilty as charged or as innocent as a new born baby, an ambitious prosecutor will comb the books to hit you with anything to get a conviction… unless you have connections.