3. Ajay
ajay
. . .
T his isn’t how I thought I’d come back to Bailey. Honestly, I never really imagined stepping foot back into town after I left years ago, let alone coming back in handcuffs. Bailey’s as small as small gets, at least from what I remember. A few houses, some farmland, a gas station, grocery store, a few restaurants and bars, a bank or two and that’s about it. We went to school in the next town over which is where the run-down police station is, and it happens to look exactly the same as the day I bailed. As the door slams shut behind us, a familiar face pops up. The old man smiles, and I shake my head. I’m not surprised to find the same deputy behind the desk as Sheriff Foster pushes me through toward the interview room. Unfortunately, I’ve been here many times before. Stupid teenage stuff mostly, but being as he’s Whiskey’s dad, nothing ever happened to me. There were times, though, when the Sheriff read me the riot act, held up his baton and threatened to dismember me and feed my limbs to the wolves if I didn’t get my act together. Something tells me he’s about to make good on his threat.
“Looks like you have a live one there… or many,” Deputy Pate says as he leans to the side. Behind me the door slams shut again and the energy in the small reception area changes. I look over my shoulder at my bandmates. Elle’s still on the phone and has decided to stay in the corner to speak to whomever is on the line with her. Hendrix’s head is bopping to whatever he’s listening to. Quinn looks tired as fuck as he slouches down in an uncomfortable chair, and Dana’s standing in front of me with her hands on my cheeks. She’s our mother hen, always making sure we are okay. I know she does it because not only are we her family, but also because she wants the band to succeed and not become one of the industry’s statistics. The rate of overdoses among our peers is astronomical and something we talk about often, finding other outlets for our energy.
“Only the important one,” Foster barks out as he yanks my arm toward him.
“Don’t worry, Ajay. Elle’s on with our lawyer now. You won’t be here long,” Dana yells, although it’s only for show. We are only a few feet away from her and if I remember correctly, the acoustics in here suck. You can hear everyone talking despite being behind blocks of concrete.
The interview room is nothing like what you see on television. Missing is the two-way mirror and the window letting some natural light in. What there is, though, is a table that looks like it’s been through some sort of struggle with gouges of wood missing, teeth marks and the everlasting symbol of eternal love: Two people’s initials inside of a heart. Mine and Whiskey’s are on the side of Foster’s house — at least they were when I left.
Foster takes me to one of the two chairs and parks my ass down on the hard surface. Finally, he uncuffs me. My wrists hurt. There’s a red gash where my skin has rubbed raw against the metal. I flex and rub them, praying there won’t be any lasting effects from the angle they were in for the past hour or so. It’s bad enough that Elle is going to rip me for this little detour, I don’t want to think what she’s going to do if I can’t play in our next show because my wrists hurt. He pulls the chair out across from me, scraping its aluminum legs against the worn-out linoleum tile. The sound radiates and sends chills down my spine.
We sit across from each other. The smart ass in me wants to smile, ask him how things are going, but I bite my tongue. The last thing I need is for my mouth to write a check my ass can’t cash. I don’t care that I know the law man sitting across from me, the fact is, he’s the law and I need to behave myself. When he came onto the tour bus, I thought he was joking. Even when he put me in the back of his car, I thought he was doing it just to be an asshole. Looking at him now, I know he’s serious. But it makes me wonder why. All we did, Whiskey and I, was teepee a house, and it was really more her than me. I just drove the getaway truck.
The door opens and Pate comes in. In one hand, he has a folder and the other is resting on his gun, as if he’s trying to scare me. As far as I remember the guy can’t shoot worth a lick and is the biggest pushover in the county. Whiskey and I used to joke that if we were to get caught being dumb, we wanted Pate to respond, and when he did, she would just bat her eyelashes and he’d let us walk. Too bad he wasn’t the one to come on board the bus, but I have no doubt that wasn’t ever going to be the plan.
Foster takes the folder and sets it calmly down on the table. “That’s all, Pate,” he says, looking directly at me. No, that’s not all. Don’t leave, Pate ! My silent plea is met with the shutting of the door.
“In case you’re wondering, this folder is full of crimes you’ve committed over the years.”
The brown dossier is thick, much thicker than it should be. I was a punk ass kid, but I wasn’t a criminal. I never stole anything or did any serious damage, except for the one time a bunch of us played baseball with some mailboxes. We fixed those, though, and no charges were pressed. Oh, and there was a little drag racing incident but that was swept under the rug.
Foster folds his hands and rests them on top of the stack papers. “I’ve waited a long time to finally haul you in.”
“I’ve been here before,” I point out. I can’t tell if he appreciates the reminder or not. I probably shouldn’t have reminded him but there are times like this when my mouth works faster than the logical side of my brain.
“This time is different. There isn’t someone in your corner, crying in my ear to let you go. You know, I never understood what she saw in you.”
“Whiskey?” I say her name with a hint of flavor. After I adjust in my seat, I lean toward him a bit. “I could tell ya, but?—”
Foster slams his hand down onto the table. “You think I’m joking around with you? You think I’m going to let you get away with what you did?” He stands, pushing the chair out as he does. “You listen good,” he says with his hands pressed into the table. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about your fancy California lawyers or how much money you have in the bank. Your ass is mine.” He stalks toward the door, shaking his head.
“You can’t keep me here.”
He chuckles. “I can, and I will. Your name means nothing around these parts anymore. Judge Harvey is sitting on Monday, he’s who you’ll see.”
“Isn’t that a conflict of interest being as you’re charging me with decorating his house.”
“Is that what you free loving hippies call putting toilet paper all over someone’s house?”
“I ain’t no hippy,” I tell him. “About time you turn off your old cop shows and step into the real world.”
He laughs again and shakes his head while mumbling my name. “I’ll tell your little girlfriend she can come see you now before I take you to your holding cell for the night.”
I should correct him about Elle being my girlfriend, but that all seems so trivial in the big picture. The more pressing matter is the fact that he is putting me in a holding cell. “Sheriff, you can’t be serious. Surely, I can come back Monday and see Judge Harvey?”
He looks to the ceiling and I follow his gaze, wondering if the answer to my plight is up there even though I know it’s not. “And risk you running? Not a chance, Ballard.” Foster walks out, leaving me to my thoughts. Rumors in small towns travel fast making it only a matter of minutes until Whiskey knows I’m here. I can’t imagine she’ll come and see me, as I probably wouldn’t go see her either. Everything we needed to say to each other, we did years ago. She hates me, and I’m okay with that. I left because I needed to find myself. I needed to get a damn job so I could support a wife and any children we were going to have. Being in a small town really prevents growth and lacks opportunity, and I was never going to make it big by playing in random garages for street parties. Being paid in a six-pack or case of beer doesn’t equate to putting food on the table.
The door opens again and Elle steps through. Her long hair is piled into a messy bun and she’s changed from her sweats into work clothes. She looks pissed. I don’t blame her. This stop really puts a wrench in our tour. She pulls the chair out, much slower, and apparently mindful of the awful sound it could make. She sits down and clasps her hands together.
“I’ve spoken to our attorney; he’ll be here in the morning. I’ve also left a message for my dad. Because this is their tour, it’s their call on what will happen.”
“What does that mean?”
“A few things really. The band could decide to postpone a few stops while we sort this out.”
“Or? I feel like there’s a huge ‘or’ floating in the air.”
She sets her hands down on the table. “Or the band could decide to replace you as their opening act.”
“But your dad—” She shakes her head and I stop talking.
“This is business, and they’ve already done us a solid by having the band open up for them. I won’t ask my dad or uncles for any favors. It’ll be a decision they make with their manager.”
I nod because there isn’t anything I can say right now.
“Ajay, do you have a record?”
Shaking my head, I meet her gaze. “No. I was a rough kid, did some stupid shit, but I’ve never been arrested. The Sheriff…” I pause and think about what I’m going to say. “We have a history and I may have broken his daughter’s heart.”
“It’d probably be better if you had a record. Scorned law enforcement are not our friends.”
“Sorry,” I mumble. Look at that, I can’t even break the law right — or whatever it actually is that I’ve done.
Elle takes a deep breath. “He won’t let you out without seeing a judge and being that it’s the middle of the morning on Sunday, you’ll have to stay here until Monday. We’re going to find a place to sleep or at least park the bus. I’ll see about bringing you some food or something after we all get some sleep.” She reaches across the table and sets her hand on mine. Her grip is reaffirming, but I’m still scared shitless. Not about spending the night in a cell, but of losing my job. I worked my ass off for it and if something happens, it’ll destroy me.
Foster doesn’t return. Instead, it’s some kid I went to high school with by the name of Eddie Mahon. He squares his shoulders when we make eye contact. “Stand up,” he says gruffly. I do as he says, which it seems isn’t good enough for him. He kicks my chair away from me and it goes flying into the wall. “Let’s go.”
I’m surprised he doesn’t put me back into cuffs, not that I’d be able to break away from the death grip he has on my arm even if I tried. Out in the hall, things are quiet with the exception of the dispatch radio going off. I’m hoping that Foster wasn’t too nasty to Elle, but knowing him, he probably tried to charm her. The old man can’t even charm a snake.
The Prineville County jail is nothing more than three holding cells which consists of two cots each and no urinals. Lovely, I get to raise my hand like an elementary student and ask to use the facilities.
Mahon puts me in the middle cell, directly across from an open-spaced office. He pulls the door shut as soon as I’m over the threshold. “Lucky for you, I’ll be right over there if you need me.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t even acknowledge him. Sitting down on the cot, I sigh and cover my face with my hands. I can only hope and pray that once all this blows over, Elle doesn’t kick me in the nuts and send me packing.