jailers came out and headed for the car. He remained calm. Cops were always telling the jailers how crazy he was, but unless they saw it for the m selves, they treated him mellow enough.
The first jailer, a fat one with a receding hairline, opened the door. “Are you going to cooperate tonight, Morris? Or do you want to go with the holding cell for a few hours?”
“I’m chillin’.” Morris tried to keep his voice calm. “Just don’t beat me like that last cop did. That man is a racist.”
The door opened and pudgy hands helped him from the car. He walked i n to the officers booking area and straight through to the prisoner’s recei v ing area. The fat jailer began booking him into jail, a process familiar enough to Morris. He cooperated completely, anticipating the jailer’s que s tions and orders. He knew hard time and he knew easy time. There was a lot less leeway in here than out in the street. And fewer wi t nesses.
The hotshot cop who arrested him came in and read him his warrant. He knew it was required by law and made no effort to interrupt.
“This is your warrant,” the punk bitch intoned. “It’s in Superior Court for failure to appear on an original charge of possession of crack cocaine. Bail is set at $25,000. Signed on August 24th of this year by Judge Antonio Calabrese.” The cop looked up. “Any questions?”
“Fuck you,” whispered Morris.
“Same to you,” the cop replied in a low, even voice and turned to walk away.
“I’ll get you,” Morris gritted, anger seething inside him. “One-eight-seven, motherfucker.”
The California penal code for homicide, ‘one-eighty seven’ was a co m mon way among gang members to threaten to kill someone. The cop must have known what it meant because he snarled something under his breath and took a step toward Morris. Two jailers intervened, holding the young hothead back. Morris wished the jailers hadn’t been there so the cop could have hit him. How sweet would it be to press charges against him with all these witnesses who were too stupid to lie?
The jailers walked the cop out of the receiving area. Morris smiled and blew him a kiss. “One-eighty-seven,” he repeated as the cop reached the door.
“Shut up, Isaiah,” the fat jailer told him, “or we will do this the hard way.”
Morris remained quiet. He answered all questions and signed that his property had been removed. Then he signed his booking notification on the warrant with $25,000 bail and for assaulting an officer with $5000 bail. He cooperated patiently as the jailer meticulously snapped his picture and fingerprinted him. Finally, they allowed him to use the phone.
It took one phone call to his cuz, $4500 out of his stash and a second call, this to a bail bondsman, before he was booked back out. The process going out seemed even quicker than going in, an irony that was not lost on Morris. He hit the street and got into T-Dog’s car exactly one hour and forty-eight minutes after being brought to jail.
Sunday, August 21st
0021 hours
Stefan Kopriva left the property room where he’d just written his report and placed the magazine and ammunition on the property book. He heard a screech of tires from the corner. A Cadillac approached, the silhouette of a head sticking out the rear window.
Kopriva drew his pistol and held it at his side. He moved quickly to the patrol car for cover.
The car rolled closer and he saw Morris in the window.
“One-eighty-seven, motherfucker-r-r-r-r-r!” the gangster yelled.
Kopriva raised his gun in case Morris fired, but the tires squealed and the Cadillac pulled away. At the i n te r section, they took a right and disappeared.
What is he doing out of jail already? Kopriva shook his head. What a screwed up system.
When he holstered his gun, he suddenly realized he was breathing rapidly. Damned adrenaline . Kopriva took several deep breaths, taking his time and forcing himself calm before he got into the patrol car and started
The first jailer, a fat one with a receding hairline, opened the door. “Are you going to cooperate tonight, Morris? Or do you want to go with the holding cell for a few hours?”
“I’m chillin’.” Morris tried to keep his voice calm. “Just don’t beat me like that last cop did. That man is a racist.”
The door opened and pudgy hands helped him from the car. He walked i n to the officers booking area and straight through to the prisoner’s recei v ing area. The fat jailer began booking him into jail, a process familiar enough to Morris. He cooperated completely, anticipating the jailer’s que s tions and orders. He knew hard time and he knew easy time. There was a lot less leeway in here than out in the street. And fewer wi t nesses.
The hotshot cop who arrested him came in and read him his warrant. He knew it was required by law and made no effort to interrupt.
“This is your warrant,” the punk bitch intoned. “It’s in Superior Court for failure to appear on an original charge of possession of crack cocaine. Bail is set at $25,000. Signed on August 24th of this year by Judge Antonio Calabrese.” The cop looked up. “Any questions?”
“Fuck you,” whispered Morris.
“Same to you,” the cop replied in a low, even voice and turned to walk away.
“I’ll get you,” Morris gritted, anger seething inside him. “One-eight-seven, motherfucker.”
The California penal code for homicide, ‘one-eighty seven’ was a co m mon way among gang members to threaten to kill someone. The cop must have known what it meant because he snarled something under his breath and took a step toward Morris. Two jailers intervened, holding the young hothead back. Morris wished the jailers hadn’t been there so the cop could have hit him. How sweet would it be to press charges against him with all these witnesses who were too stupid to lie?
The jailers walked the cop out of the receiving area. Morris smiled and blew him a kiss. “One-eighty-seven,” he repeated as the cop reached the door.
“Shut up, Isaiah,” the fat jailer told him, “or we will do this the hard way.”
Morris remained quiet. He answered all questions and signed that his property had been removed. Then he signed his booking notification on the warrant with $25,000 bail and for assaulting an officer with $5000 bail. He cooperated patiently as the jailer meticulously snapped his picture and fingerprinted him. Finally, they allowed him to use the phone.
It took one phone call to his cuz, $4500 out of his stash and a second call, this to a bail bondsman, before he was booked back out. The process going out seemed even quicker than going in, an irony that was not lost on Morris. He hit the street and got into T-Dog’s car exactly one hour and forty-eight minutes after being brought to jail.
Sunday, August 21st
0021 hours
Stefan Kopriva left the property room where he’d just written his report and placed the magazine and ammunition on the property book. He heard a screech of tires from the corner. A Cadillac approached, the silhouette of a head sticking out the rear window.
Kopriva drew his pistol and held it at his side. He moved quickly to the patrol car for cover.
The car rolled closer and he saw Morris in the window.
“One-eighty-seven, motherfucker-r-r-r-r-r!” the gangster yelled.
Kopriva raised his gun in case Morris fired, but the tires squealed and the Cadillac pulled away. At the i n te r section, they took a right and disappeared.
What is he doing out of jail already? Kopriva shook his head. What a screwed up system.
When he holstered his gun, he suddenly realized he was breathing rapidly. Damned adrenaline . Kopriva took several deep breaths, taking his time and forcing himself calm before he got into the patrol car and started
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