A Cell in San Antonio

A John Rain Fan Fiction, Episode 4, Part 1

Plotting in a holding cell…

“What are you doing, rookie?” A female voice sliced through the din inside Bexar County Jail. It rang with annoyance tempered by years of experience. It was the voice every mother uses on their children when they know the exact mistake the child is about to make.

The officer to my left, the smooth-faced ‘rookie’, looked up.

“Ma’am? I mean, Sergeant?” A rush of red tinged his neck, running up to his face from beneath his starched uniform collar. He reached for my shackled hands. “I’m going to fingerprint him.” It sounded more like a question than a statement.

I remained silent, glancing at the Sergeant who’d now come into view from behind me. She was a short woman, Black American, with hard eyes softened by a rounded face. Her lips quirked in the corners as one eyebrow hitched. She turned her all-seeing gaze upon me, raking me from head to toe.

“A Drunk and Disorderly? Does he have identification, Niemetz?”

“He does, ma’am, uh, Sergeant.” The rookie handed over my passport. “We found this on him. A mister Jin’itchy Hattori from Japan.” He lifted out a business card also strategically placed inside. “He’s an accountant.”

The formidable woman studied my passport and then read the card.

She replied, “It’s Jin’ichi, Niemetz. Not “itchy.” She then looked me in the eye. “Do you speak English, Mr. Hattori”

I offered a polite bow of my head. “I do, ma’am.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s enough of the ma’am from both of you. It’s Sergeant Anthony,” she stated. “Niemetz, we do not need to fingerprint intoxicated accountants, especially those with verifiable passports.” I knew this, but was prepared, nonetheless. She continued, “Is there anyone that can pick you up, Mr. Hattori? You did blow a point oh-eight so I cannot release you on your own recognizance.”

I looked down at my feet, swaying a bit for effect. “No, Sergeant Anthony, ma’am.” I threw the last in to prick her. A slight narrowing of her eyes told me it worked.

Sergeant Anthony huffed.

Although Misao had said to use my one phone call to call her, I did not see any reason to further involve her. She might be offended, but as far as this job went, it was my show on my terms.

Niemetz handed over more papers from my jacket. “He also has this airline ticket. Leaving San Antonio tomorrow morning for Tokyo.”

A ruse, of course. It would not do for anyone to track me to Rio.

Sergeant Anthony opened and closed it quickly. “Business concluded, eh? I take it you were celebrating?”

I smirked, then let it slide into a grin. “Very good business meeting, yes. Cervezas are also very good.” I launched into a Japanese folk song.

Sergeant Anthony snorted. “Put him in holding. Mister Miyagi here can sleep it off. We’ll get you in a cab to the airport bright and early, Mr. Hattori. I expect we will not be graced with your off-key singing again?” Her eyebrow hitched.

“You are most kind, ma’am.” I hiccoughed, and continued singing, grinning idiotically.

“Take him straight to holding, Niemetz.”

Niemetz hesitated. “But, Sergeant, holding is full. We only have adult detention, which means I’d need to go through the entire booking process.”

A look of irritation screwed up Sergeant Anthony’s rounded face. It was an expression my own mother used to make, the one that warned I was one step away from being the target of her anger. Niemetz seemed to realize this too late.

“Rookie, I’ve had a long day. The last thing I need is more paperwork. Take Mr. Hattori to isolation.”

“But that’s where,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “Morales is being held. Didn’t the feds tell us to keep him away from the general population?”

Sergeant Anthony placed her hands on her hips. “I don’t give a good goddam what they said. The inn is full, and we’re short-staffed. This one here,” she pointed at me, “is not going to cause us any problems, are you Mr. Hattori?” She turned stern eyes upon me. I let my own droop and swayed. “See that? He’s almost asleep on his feet. I’m not worried about drunken Japanese accountants, Niemetz, are you?”

Niemetz joined the sergeant in appraising my condition. “No, ma’am, I suppose not.”

“It’s Sergeant! Now, do as you’re told. After he sleeps it off for a few hours, we’ll call him a cab.”

The rookie shook his head but took my arm.

“This way.” He pulled me along, through two sets of electronically locked doors, and then down a long hallway lined with interrogation rooms at the entrance, and one isolated holding cell toward the back.

In my head, I congratulated myself on my good fortune. Before this moment, I figured I would need to seek out Morales Jr. in the common area or even manipulate, possibly bribe a guard, that is, if he wasn’t sequestered away from everyone else. I knew the latter was the more viable alternative. The FBI wouldn’t want anything to happen to Morales Sr.’s son before they had the chance to flip him. But this was the last day they could legally hold him. If he hadn’t flipped as an asset by now, all bets were off, which meant they might seek to make his life miserable while still here. That might have meant tossing into general population where he’d spend the rest of his time on the defensive from other hardened criminals. So many scenarios, and so much that could go wrong. I was thankful for my good fortune.

Niemetz reached the last door on the right and ran his security key through the magnetic strip. A buzzer sounded, and the lock clicked. He turned the knob, pulling the door open.

“Step inside, and then wait until I close the door. Then place your hands through the pass-through.”

I stumbled in, turned, and waited. The door closed, and I shoved my manacled wrists through the slot after three bumbling attempts – just to annoy the guard and further prove my pretend drunkenness. Niemetz released the cuffs, cursing under his breath.

“Enjoy your stay at the Ritz, Mr. Hattori.” He left.

I stood there a moment longer, glancing left and right at the corners of the ceiling. There was a camera on my left aimed at the long benches that lined the opposite walls and came together in the far-right corner. Also on the left, beneath the camera, was the toilet/sink combo. I turned slowly, taking in the rest of the room. In the center was a metal table and four chairs. Sitting on the bench across from the door was a man, thick with muscles defining his neck, shoulders, and arms. They tapered down only a bit to a barrel-shaped midsection. By contrast, his legs seemed underdeveloped inside his orange jumpsuit.

I was overdressed for this prison party. The annoyed sergeant and chastened rookie had left me in my street clothes, thinking me non-threatening, while Juanito Narvaez Morales, Jr. was stripped of his and left to sit it out for three days inside this room. He didn’t look pleased by my presence. I let my eyes peel away from his dark, piercing stare and made my way to the empty bench. I sat down on the cold, hard concrete surface, and laid back, using my arm to cushion my head. Within moments, I let out a soft snore, feigning sleep. The sooner he relaxed and let his guard down, the sooner I could make my move.

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