J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 03 - No Time To Hide (14 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

It was a shock to see him. The crowd raged when Michael Collins had emerged from the side door of the courtroom. It took everything for Brent Krane to sit still. He wanted to scream out. He wanted to run down the aisle. He wanted to attack.

When the hearing finally ended and Michael Collins was led back into custody, Brent remained seated. He sat motionless, staring at the ground.

When Michael Collins had not shown up at the funeral, Brent Krane rode high. Collins’ absence was confirmation that he was dead. He chided the crowd for its lack of faith.

Now the new information swirled, kicking the crowd into a frenzy.

“Let’s go.” Tad Garvin tapped Brent Krane on the shoulder. “I want to catch Brenda Gadd before she leaves.”

Brent Krane looked up. Garvin and his sister stood above him. Brea gave him a look of pity, and then they both turned and walked toward the exit.

Brent Krane waited a second, then followed.

In the hallway, Garvin gestured at the U.S. Attorney.

“Ms. Gadd, a moment?” Garvin’s voice was authoritative. He took a half-dozen quick steps to close the distance.

The United States Attorney lowered her shoulders at the sound of Garvin’s voice. It was bad enough that she had been forced to handle an initial criminal hearing, now she had to help an overpriced attorney pad his legal bill.

“Yes,” Gadd turned, forcing a smile. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Garvin extended his soft, manicured hand. The two shook, and then Garvin gestured to his clients. “As you know, this is Brea Krane and back there is her brother Brent. The victim’s children.”

“Yes,” Gadd nodded. She had a difficult time considering Joshua Krane a victim. Krane was a thief that was killed and then robbed by another thief. Cops often called such situations a “two-fer,” as in getting two crooks for the price of one. 

“Thank you for coming to the hearing today,” Gadd checked her watch, suggesting that she was late for a meeting. “It will be especially important for you to be at the trial,” she said to Brea Krane. “The judge and the jury need to see you and know you.”

“About that,” Garvin interrupted. “I was a little surprised that you didn’t ask for Michael Collins to be held today
without further evaluation. I have to admit that I agreed with the judge. You’ve had plenty of time. In private practice, a client would be furious about the delays.” Arrogance oozed from Garvin. “I didn’t see any reason for a pre-trial investigation. It’s obvious that he should be held. And we’re just wasting resources by having him submit to some questionnaire —”

Gadd held out her hand. She had to be polite, but she didn’t need to be second-guessed by a rich lawyer who had never gone to trial in his life.

“It’s standard procedure.”

“I know,” Garvin said, even though he knew very little about criminal law. His expertise focused more on wealthy people buying and selling things from other wealthy people, and then suing when things went bad. “But it seems like this case is not very standard. It’s a very important case to me and my client.”

Gadd didn’t raise her voice, but she was the United States Attorney for New York and she was done. The conversation was over.

“I agree that this case is important, which is why I handled this hearing myself instead of sending a deputy or an assistant to court.” Gadd paused, but it was clear that she did not want anybody to respond. “The pre-trial assessment will give me some free discovery about Michael Collins, box him into a narrative early in the case, and eliminate issues for appeal. A pre-trial investigation will illustrate to any appellate court that this magistrate judge’s decision to hold Collins was not arbitrary and capricious, which, as you know, Mr. Garvin, is the standard of review.”

The dig sent Garvin a message and he backed down.

“Very well. We’ll see you at the next —”

Brent Krane interrupted. “Where’s he staying?”

Brea shot her brother a look of concern. She stepped forward, between her brother and Brenda Gadd.

“Thank you,” Brea extended her hand to Gadd, ending the hallway conversation and preventing her brother from saying anything further.

“No,” Brent said. “We’re not done.” He tried to
move around his sister. The crowd encouraged him to keep pushing. “Is that true? He’s rented a house in New York. Did you know that? Nobody had said anything about a house. Where is it? Where is he staying? I’m supposed to be kept informed. That’s what you promised us.”

Gadd, somewhat startled by the new interrogation, took Brea’s hand and shook it, and decided to simply ignore Brea’s brother.

“It was a pleasure seeing you again. All of the information about Mr. Collins should be available in the PTI report. I’ll make sure Mr. Garvin receives a copy.”

Gadd turned and walked away.

Brent started to protest, but Brea pulled him aside.

“You need to shut up.”

“Get your hands off me,” Brent pushed away from her.

“I told you to cool it,” Brea looked back down the hallway.

“I just want to know.”

“Why?” Brea lowered her voice and continued in a whisper. “So you can light it on fire?”

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

The chubby prison bureaucrat placed a small white card in front of Michael.

“This is your number.” She pointed at the number printed on the card. “It will be your number for as long as you are in the custody of the Federal Bureau of Prisons. It’s critical that your attorney, family and friends have this number and include this number on all correspondence to you.”

Michael adjusted himself, trying to find a comfortable position.

The chair, however, was not built for comfort. The chair was manufactured to be indestructible.

Michael tried a different position, and noticed that the table as well as all of the other furniture in the Metropolitan Detention Center’s intake room appeared to be designed by Soviet utilitarians.

After two other failed attempts, Michael gave up. He sat as upright as he could without his legs going numb, and continued listening to the orientation speech.

The Metropolitan Detention Center was called the MDC. If somebody called it the Metropolitan Detention Center, that person would receive nothing but blank stares. The government was addicted to acronyms. It was the language of the machine, and being indecipherable to the common man or woman vested the operators of the machine with power, which the chubby bureaucrat with rosy cheeks clearly enjoyed.

He was informed that the MDC held men and women awaiting trial in the federal court system in New York. Therefore, theoretically, everybody who resided at the MDC was “innocent until proven guilty.” She stressed the words, “in theory.”

For Michael’s safety, however, she informed him that the MDC was operated as if all detainees were guilty.

“For your safety,” she smiled to emphasize the point. “Everything is done for your safety and to ensure you get to your court appearances in a timely manner.” She winked, and Michael half expected a bell to ring and one of her teeth to sparkle like a toothpaste commercial.

“You should further note that all newspapers, magazines and books must come directly from the publisher, a book store, or a book club. You can have no more than five books or ten magazines at one time.”

Michael nodded his head, hoping the orientation would soon end.

“All incoming mail is opened and inspected for contraband. Contraband includes items that are deemed a nuisance by the Federal Bureau of Prisons including: postage stamps, unsigned greeting cards, musical greeting cards, nude personal photographs, and plastic novelty items of a sexual nature.” The woman blushed at the mention of the last item. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things that we’ve confiscated.”

“I understand.” Michael nodded, thinking that Kermit had about an eighty percent chance of sending him something that violated the plastic novelty rule.

“Visiting hours are from 8:00 a.m. to 4:45 p.m., and you are allowed one brief hug and kiss at the beginning of the visit and one at the end. By brief, I mean very brief. The guards do not allow make-out sessions in here, and, if you violate that rule, the visit will be ended and you may lose visitation privileges. Further, all phone calls are monitored and recorded except phone
calls to and from your attorney. If you wish to speak to your attorney, you must make those arrangements with the MDC administration.” She paused. “Do you understand that?”

“I do,” Michael closed his eyes. A weight pressed down on him. Michael felt himself falling into a depression that he figured would only get worse.   

“Now, as for personal information,” The bureaucrat removed a piece of paper from a folder. “I’ll just fill out this section on race and gender.” She checked the boxes for Caucasian and male, and then looked back up at Michael. “Now, how about your age?”

Michael told her his age, and then told her his
birth date and place of birth.

“Last level of education completed? High school diploma, GED …”

“Juris Doctorate from Columbia School of Law.”

The woman started to write, but then paused before continuing. “Seriously?”

“With highest honors,” Michael said. “Seriously.”

###

The guard walked a few steps behind Michael down a hallway. The hallway was gray polished concrete. One side of the hallway was solid cinderblock with no windows. The other side of the hallway had four doors, spaced thirty yards apart. There was one door for each “pod.” 

When Michael was halfway down the hall, the guard told him that they were getting close.

“Pod 3. It’ll be the next door. When we get there, press the button and look up at the camera. Then, when the buzzer sounds, you can proceed inside.”

Michael followed the instructions. He pressed the intercom button, and after a moment, the large magnetic locks within the door buzzed and released.

Michael opened the door. He had expected to walk into another hallway or a large room. Instead, he walked into a small space. It was six feet by six feet.

One wall had a door marked with a large “3”.  The other wall was half cinderblock and half bulletproof glass. A guard sat at a desk on the other side of the glass. He was surrounded by security monitors, watching as the screens flashed from one camera view to another. The monitors showed what was happening in the hallway, various parts of the pod, including the individual cells, and, the monitors also showed a picture of Michael standing in the small room looking at the monitors. Everything was being recorded.

“This is the on-duty guard for Pod 3.” Michael was told
by his escort. “There are another two inside. This pod holds approximately twenty men. The door to the pod will not open until the door to the hallway is closed and secure or vice versa. Nobody, including the guards within Pod 3, have the ability to open these doors. Only the on-duty guard in the control room has that authority.” 

The guard stopped and thought for a moment
.

“I’m telling you this, because I tell everybody this. In a few hours you’ll start thinking about escaping from here, and I figure it’s better if you have the facts and don’t try anything stupid.”

Michael nodded, although he believed that the guard’s estimate as to when an individual starts thinking about escape was wrong. Michael had started thinking about escaping the moment he stepped foot in the MDC.

The guard continued. “If, however, the control room for Pod 3 is breached, which has never happened, there is a master control room located elsewhere. From the master control room, everything can be shut down.”

With that final piece of information and the hallway door locked, the on-duty guard in the bulletproof room pressed a button. The Pod 3 door clicked and buzzed.

His escort pulled it open and they walked inside.

###

Pod 3 was a “U” shape. In the middle, there was an open area with metal tables and built-in benches bolted to the rubber floor.

“This is where you eat. This is where you play.” The guard pointed at the tables. Men were
sitting at the tables dealing cards and reading.

“Every time we move people, it’s a risk for fights, escape or misbehavior. So there is no cafeteria in the MDC. The food is made and brought to the pod, and then everything is taken away. Once a day, smaller groups are allowed to go outside for recreation, but it is through that door to the yard.” The guard pointed at a single metal door on the other side of the room.

Then he led Michael to a desk where one of the two internal guards sat. Michael presumed the other internal guard was up and patrolling the pod.

“We’ve got a new one.”

The man at the desk looked Michael over, nodded, and then handed Michael a stack of bedding.

“This is for you. You’re in 9-A. Welcome to the fish bowl.”

Michael put the bedding under his arm, and he was led over to his cell. As he walked, Michael felt the eyes on him. Everybody was evaluating him. Was he weak or strong? They needed to know whether he was smart or dumb, scared or cocky, sane or insane.

It was a closed environment. Although there was calm, it was false. They were twenty men in a locked room. If a fight or riot broke out, people needed to know where they were in the pecking order. They needed to pick their friends wisely.

Michael thought about this, and then he decided that he should start figuring out the same thing.