“Not funny Mike,” I growled as we were being led across the street.
Our interrogations were over and we were reunited for the walk to the county jail for processing.
The city jail was on the third floor of the police station. The county jail was across the street, and it occupied the north wing of the courthouse building.
The two facilities shared space for stripping you down, performing the body search, outfitting you in jail garb, taking your mug shots, fingerprinting, and completing the associated paperwork. County sheriffs were performing these tasks, and I was hoping that when they were done they’d take us back to the city jail. I’d heard some pretty viscous tales about county lockup.
As we were being escorted, Mike had slipped his right hand out of his handcuffs, laughing and boasting about how clever he was.
The jailer wasn’t impressed either.
As he rearranged his cuffs, switching his hands from being held behind him to being in front of him, he very softly said, “Next time, I’ll just shoot you. Say you were trying to escape. And your friend here won’t contradict me, will you now?”
His steely eyes bore into me as he repositioned me in front of Mike, produced a third set of handcuffs and linked Mike’s and my cuffs together. Me now marching in front, Mike attached behind and the jailer in step next to Mike.
Satisfied with this new arrangement, he sort of smiled. “Just take one bullet now to take you both out.”
After processing, they threw us in the same holding cell while they figured out where we’d be going next.
I was staring at Mike, thinking about what I wanted to say . . .