Eight Months Ago (Can You Believe It’s Been Eight Months?!)

(Continued from here)

Special Agent Jason Trent escorted me out of Potentate Magistrate’s office and into the next room of the correctional institution. Naturally, because of my clear distress, the roughshod man couldn’t resist gloating about his role in my sudden loss of freedom. But so overwrought was I, my mind just made Slushie out of most of what he was saying. It’s like his words went in, and my brain whirred them into an incoherency-flavored Margarita. I put up with roughly twenty seconds of his complacency.

I accused the thrasonical State Policeman of intentionally exaggerating to the magistrate, and he informed me I should be grateful to him since he could’ve made it worse. I lamented, semi-teary-eyed and more to myself than anyone else, the $7500.00 bond. Even if it had been set at $75.00 dollars, I wouldn’t be able to pay it! Mr. Trent said, for, I think, the third time that morning, I could use my car as collateral for bail. I would find out later that wouldn’t be true, and I suspect he knew that would be the case when he offered it as a solution.

As I tried to pull my thoughts, and self, together, Mr. Trent stated “I know you’re angry” to which I responded “I’m not ‘angry’. I am hurt. And confused. And I am sad. But I am not ‘angry’.” I don’t think I’ll ever forget that part because unfortunately the mixture of emotions at that moment was toxic, enough to scar my already mangled heart.

I impetuously spouted off something about a certain Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement investigator, then bit my tongue, hard, to stop myself from revealing more. The Task Force Detective may have covered most of his tracks but he hadn’t concealed them all; it wouldn’t do to tip my hand to Jason Trent in a fit of anguish and have him go squealing to the JADE member.

A short, rotund, lady with dark hair appeared. While Mr. Trent continued his attempts to provoke me -- I supposed to get me to say or do things that could be used against me in court -- she pulled on gloves and spun me around to the wall for a search. Really? Another one? What -- Smurfette’s wasn’t good enough?

I was apparently just expected to know where to place my hands and feet but since I did not, in fact, know what was required, the woman got annoyed with me. She forcefully shoved my legs apart and smacked my arms to get them where she wanted them. Do you have any idea how ridiculous it is to apologize to someone who’s doing that to you? ‘Cause that’s what I did. “I’m sorry. I… I’ve never done this before -- I’m sorry.” To be fair, I don’t think the chubby female was being abusive inasmuch as thoughtless. Among other elements, it simply doesn’t occur to these people that not everyone they encounter is an experienced gangster intimate with jailhouse procedures.

It was about then that Agent Trent suggested he and his sidekick Trooper Smurfette take off. He made some remark about how their presence was only “agitating” me. Pssh. Like you weren’t trying to rile me up?

As the pair moved to leave, Mr. Trent asked if I wanted him to give a message to someone. I told him yeah, and what it was. I ended it specifically with “Ha. Ha. Ha.” and pleaded that he include that. He shook his head and declared he could not. Well then why the hell did you offer? The guy acted like I’d requested he smear peanut butter across his double chin. “But if you don’t laugh three times, the person isn’t going to know it’s really from me.” Sardonic vocalization is something only I would do, given the situation. Please, please, please, don’t refuse me this one, small, favor. I looked forlornly at the officer lingering in the exit. His eyes froze to mine and, for an instant, I felt he understood that the wry giggles I’d articulated were an innocent communication, and how important it was they be passed along. I waited for him to give some sort of confirmation of my impression but he merely shut the door, leaving me in the custody of the Blue Ridge Regional Jail.