The Jewel and the Key (24 page)

“Unless he's in juvie. How old is he? Your age?”

“He just turned eighteen.”

“He'll be at the jail, then. Do you know where it is?”

“On Third, right?”

A woman with long gray hair and lots of beads around her neck emerged from a stall. “No, darlin'. Fifth and Jefferson. Near the courthouse. Your friend'll be in the lockup.”

Addie tried to marshal her thoughts. “So I go there first? Or do I—”

“You go to the courthouse first.” The older woman examined Addie sympathetically. “Is this your first time, sweetheart?”

“Yes.” To her embarrassment, she found herself tearing up. “My eyes still hurt,” she muttered.

“It's okay.” The old lady patted her shoulder.

Somehow, the touch put heart into her. Addie pulled herself together and said, “Thanks. I'll—I'll get down to the courthouse.” She left the bathroom and crossed the shop, ignoring the unfriendly gaze of the guy wearing the little paper hat behind the counter.

Outside, the sky had gone overcast, the air damp and chill; all the promise of the glorious morning was gone. In the distance she could hear sirens and people still shouting slogans. She pulled out her phone and called Dad. It rang a few times and then went to his voice mail. Addie opened her mouth to explain everything, and then thought better of it. “It's Addie,” she said. “I'm all right. Just call me, okay?”

Now she was passing the jail. For a second, she stopped and gazed up at the ugly building with its long black windows like suspicious eyes. In the small courtyard out front, weird sculptures of blocks and cones were strewn about like dismal childrens toys. Reg's voice echoed in her memory:
I bet you're wondering what a gentleman like me was doing at such a sordid scene.
How could he joke about it? It wasn't sordid; it was terrifying. Whaley was locked up in one of those cells. And who knew who was in there with him. Robbers? Sex offenders? Murderers?

She sprinted across the street to the courthouse. A line of anxious people snaked out the door and down the steps. It took ages before she was finally inside.

“Whatcha want?” The woman behind the security desk looked at Addie as if she were some kind of rodent. Addie took in her dyed orange hair and the wad of pink gum she was chewing. Her desk was next to one of those metal-detector machines like they had at the airport, and two security guards stood waiting on the other side of it.

“I ... I think my friend is in jail. But it's all a mistake. He wasn't even demonstrating. He—”

“Wha's his name?” The woman snapped her gum.

“Whaley Price.”

The woman tapped at her computer. “I got a Price here,” she said. “They booked him at four thirty.”

“How ... what do I do? To get him out?”

The woman gave her a bored look. “Unless you're gonna smuggle in a file in a cake, you better find out what bail they posted.”

“Where do I go?” She pulled her cell phone out of her bag. She'd better try Dad again now that she knew something.

“Upstairs. Just follow the crowd. But you're not going anywhere unless you turn that thing off,” the woman said severely. “Can't you read?” She pointed to a sign that said
NO CELL PHONE USE IN COURTHOUSE
.

“Can I—just make a call first?”

“If you wanna hold up the whole line.” Flustered, Addie looked back over her shoulder. There were a lot of people behind her. She turned her phone off, shoved it back in her bag, and put the bag on the machine's conveyor belt before walking through the metal detector.

The elevator was jammed with people. A woman with patchouli wafting out of her hair was yakking away. “I told him to make them read him his Miranda rights. Why'd he go along? How many times did I tell him, George?”

Addie stepped out into the hallway and went from there into a huge waiting room overflowing with people from the demonstration. “How do I find out about my friend's bail?” Addie asked the nearest person, an old man in a knit vest.

“You have to talk to the gentleman at the desk,” he told her. “We're all waiting our turns.”

She sighed and went to the back of the line.

“Price?” the guy at the desk repeated forty minutes later when Addie finally reached him. He didn't even look up from his computer screen. Addie had the feeling he'd gotten fed up with the entire human race ages ago. “What did you say his first name was?”

“Whaley.”

“I got a W. P. Price. That him?”

Addie thought of the initials on Whaley's guitar case:
W.P.P.
“Yeah.”

“Two thousand dollars.”

Addie's mouth fell open.

“They take cards, cash, or a check.”

It wasn't even worth looking in her wallet.
Two thousand dollars?
If she had twenty, that would be a lot.

“What if I don't have enough money?”

“There's a bail bond agency around the corner. You pay ten percent, they put up the rest. Next!”

Addie stared.
Bail bond agency?
Images of muscled bounty hunters sprang into her mind. Didn't they come and beat you up if you couldn't pay? No. She wasn't going there. She needed Dad, that was all there was to it.

Nervously, she glanced at the clock on the wall. Geez, look how long it had been already. She needed to let Whaley know she was here.

She hurried back downstairs, left the building, and turned her phone on. There was a message. Thank goodness! But when she listened, it turned out to be from Almaz, just saying she was home and was Addie okay? It was tempting to call her right back, but Dad was the one she had to get ahold of. She punched in the speed dial number. But once more, his phone was off. “Dad, its me again. Call as soon as you can.” She tried home, but no one was there, either.

The clock on the building across the street read 6:49. What if there was a cutoff time? Maybe they didn't let people out of jail after seven or something. She thought for a minute. She could head to the nearest Wells Fargo. She had a bank account but there wasn't anything remotely like two thousand bucks in it. Not since she'd paid for drama camp. Forget it. She just had to find Dad. He was probably on his way home. It would take half an hour by bus if she caught one right away.

All right,
she thought.
But I have to get word to Whaley before I go.

With a sudden decisiveness, she turned and headed back toward the jail.

As she reached the steps, her phone rang. “Addie! Thank goodness.” Mrs. T. was on the other end. “Your phone was off.”

“Mrs. T.! Why didn't you leave a message? I can't get ahold of anyone!”

There was a pause. “Now Addie, just promise me you won't panic.”

“Why? Don't panic about what?”

“We're at Swedish. We can't have cell phones on. A doctor just finally looked at me, so I wheeled myself outside to call you.”

“Wheeled yourself! You're in a wheelchair?”

“Don't worry. I just put too much strain on my ankle. It'sn ot life-threatening.”

“So Dad and Zack are there because they took you to the hospital?”

There was another pause. “No. They came because of Zack.”

“Zack?” Her breathing tightened. “Is he okay?” Frida's unconscious face with the huge gash across her forehead flashed into her mind.

“He had a reaction to the tear gas. They're still in with the ER doctors.”

“But is he okay?”

“The nurse said he'll be fine once they've treated him, but that's all I know. Listen, Addie, where are you?”

It was all she could do not to start laughing hysterically; everything was such an incredible mess. “I'm at the King County jail, Mrs. T. I need to bail Whaley out. He came to rescue me, and now I need to bail him out and I don't have any money. I mean, I have thirteen dollars. Could you tell my dad to come?”

“He can't leave Zack right now, Addie.”

“Can you come? Dad could give you the money and—”

“Oh, sweetheart! I can't drive! But, listen—I'll think of something, I promise. Where are you?”

“Outside the jail. I'm going in to see about Whaley. I'll be in the waiting room, if they have one.”

“Okay. Just sit tight. I promise, one way or another, someone will come.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Addie ran up the stairs and pushed her way through the doors. It was crowded here, too, and there was another wait to go through security. She recognized some of the people from the courthouse. One or two of them nodded at her or shook their heads sympathetically.

Once through the metal detectors, she entered a large room. Reflections of the buzzing ceiling lights skidded greasily on the yellow linoleum floors. People paced nervously, and cops kept bringing in handcuffed prisoners. To the left was a crowded waiting area with rows of plastic seats. Cashier's desks were spaced along the far wall, with more lines of people stretching up to them.

How could she contact Whaley? Addie drifted over toward the cashiers, but something in her balked at standing for ages in another line, especially when it was just to pay—which she couldn't do—and they probably wouldn't help her get a message to Whaley anyhow. There had to be a quicker way. She looked around for someone to ask, but everyone, from the security guards to the people selling snacks at a kiosk, looked incredibly busy. Down the hall, she saw ranks of elevators, and just past them, another corridor. She wandered over in that direction.

A cop was leading a handcuffed prisoner down the hallway. A young guy, eyes puffy from tear gas. Addie overheard him ask, “Are these the holding cells?” The cop nodded before opening the heavy door at the end of the corridor. Raucous voices spilled out and were swallowed up again as the door shut behind them.

Holding cells. That must be the lockup,
Addie thought.
That's where Whaley is.

An idea began to form in her head. Probably no one would notice if she slipped down there, just for a moment.
As long as she was quick. Addie shrugged aside her uneasiness. Checking to see if any of the guards were watching, she darted swiftly down the hall.

She pressed her ear to the door, straining to listen as hard as she could. There was no way to tell for sure, because the door distorted the sound, and so many people were talking....

But then she heard a muffled yet unmistakable scratchy tenor singing something. Singing! She almost laughed. That maniac. Singing in a jail cell.

“Whaley!” She thumped her palms against the door.

The singing stopped. Could he hear her?

“Whaley! It's Addie! I'm going to get you out!”

“Hey! What do you think you're doing?” Someone yanked her arm and twisted it behind her back. She jerked her head around and saw an enormous police officer with a gun strapped to his belt. He swung her around and marched her back up the corridor. “You think just anyone can go up there and interfere with the prisoners?”

At first she was so shocked she just let herself be pulled along, but once she got control of her feet, she tried to set her own pace. It didn't work. The guy was so humongous, it was like fighting gravity.

“I ... was trying to let my friend know I was here—”

“Oh, yeah?” He dumped her into one of the plastic chairs that lined the wall. “I can just throw you outta here, you know that, don't you?”

Every muscle in her body clenched. She tried to speak, but no words came out.

“No more trouble from you or you're out on the street, you understand?”

Addie just stared up at the mountain of blue uniform.

“Do ... you ... understand?” he bent down, emphasizing each word.

She nodded, her head bouncing on her neck like a bobble-head toy's. “I understand,” she whispered.

“Good.” He turned away, and her heart thumped. She watched his broad back and the fold of flab on his neck as he receded toward the holding cells.

For a long time, she hardly dared move. She just sat in the chair where he'd left her, seething with anger at the cop. But also at herself. He was right. Of course it had been a stupid thing to do. This was a jail, for Pete's sake. You didn't run up and pound on locked doors. What had she been thinking?

The clock on the wall ticked loudly, and she could have sworn that there was progressively more time between each tick, until the minute hand was practically not moving at all.

Seven thirty. Seven forty-five.

The wait stretched on like saltwater taffy. Her anger seeped away and became a dull shame and then an even duller resignation. Finally, her head started to droop. She rested it awkwardly on her shoulder and closed her eyes.

Then she heard a door creak on its hinges—it sounded like it was near the elevators. Vaguely, in the velvety blackness into which she'd sunk, this disturbed her.

A voice said, “You sure you want to see these fellas? Rough bunch, I gotta warn you. No manners.”

Addie forced herself to lift her heavy eyelids. It was darker now. Much darker. They'd turned off those ugly fluorescent lights, she thought.

But then she saw Reg emerging from an alcove at the end of the hall, a police officer at his side, and she knew there were no fluorescent lights to turn off.
Reg,
she thought drowsily, and felt a stab of happiness. What's he doing here?

“That's all right,” he was saying to the cop. “I suppose a lot of other fellows have interviewed them already?”

“Not many,” the policeman answered. He had light brown hair and a droopy mustache.

Addie jerked herself upright. “Reg!”

But he didn't react to her voice. She saw him pull a notepad from the breast pocket of his jacket and then look around, frowning, as if he could feel someone watching. Addie knew he must be going to interview Peterson's friends in jail. Her heart expanded in her chest as she watched him wait for the warden to turn an enormous iron key in the lock of the door. If only he could see or hear her.