The Past III Part 8

The Past III
Part 8

Friday, January 21, 1983

Dan tried to hold his breath as he moved across the room, but the need to breathe was greater than his dislike of the marijuana haze that filled the air. He stepped over Derek, lying on the floor with an empty bottle of Jim Beam at his side. Dan was pretty sure Derek was breathing, but he didn’t stop to check. All he wanted was some air. Just inside the partially open door, Luke’s little brother, Benny, was curled up under a pile of coats, his inhaler clutched in his hand, his dirt-streaked face turned toward the draft of cold, but fresh air.

Twelve days had passed since Dan had returned to the warehouse. Luke had welcomed him back, a sly grin on his face. Nothing was said about the Molotov cocktail sent through the restaurant window, and once Luke had a “private word”, leaving several painful bruises on Dan’s stomach, arms, and face; no further retribution was exacted.

By the end of the second day, Dan found himself sliding into tough mode. He couldn’t have a normal life -- that was obvious. He would have to do the best he could with what he had. Bitterness sprouted around his heart, like thorny vines protecting it from invasion. His street punk mask slid into place, and the magic in his fingers returned. In three days, he jacked five cars--three of them belonging to members of a rival gang, the Regulators. Luke was ecstatic. He held up Dan’s acquisitions as the new standard. Dan took the praise stoically. He did everything stoically. He locked away all of his feelings, even his fear. There was no longer any room in him for emotion.

The party had been loud and long. It had started after four on Thursday and hadn’t petered out until most of the twenty-two gang boys were unconscious. Dan had downed half a beer, the sourness curdling in his empty stomach, passed on the pot and coke floating around, and curled up on a corner of the stairwell with his notebook, a pencil and a moth-eaten wool blanket. Finally, hunger drove him out of his haven. He had fifty bucks in his pocket--his take from the cars--and a craving for a bacon-cheddar omelet from the deli down on Federal. The deli opened at six, and it was quarter to nine now. Dan doubted any of the rest of the gang would be awake before noon.

Dan took his time at the deli. The food and the atmosphere were ten times better than Jake’s, the dive where Luke did all of his gang “business”. By the time he finished his omelet, hash brown potatoes, fruit cup, apple danish and three glasses of chocolate milk, it was half past ten. He bought two apples and a cinnamon roll for later and leisurely strolled the twenty-three blocks back towards the warehouse. He kept his eyes peeled for cops and easily jacked cars.

It was nearly eleven-thirty when Dan opened the door to the warehouse. A quick movement in the shadows alerted him to his attacker barely two seconds before he was struck. The force of the blow knocked Dan to his knees, and he managed to shout out a warning as several figures in Regulator jackets swarmed towards the warehouse doors. Then a second blow turned out the lights.

Dan returned to consciousness just in time to have his hands cuffed securely behind his back by an unsmiling, uniformed cop. Propped up against the wall, he watched as Cowhands and Regulators alike were lined up, laid out, frisked, and cuffed. A few were loaded into ambulances, while the rest were dumped into the paddy wagon for the trip to the police station. After being fingerprinted and photographed, Dan found himself cuffed again, and stuffed in a cell with a wheezing Benny, Kerm and three Regulators.

The Cowhands sat along one side of the ten-by-ten cell, while the Regulators took the other. Since all six were handcuffed, they simply exchanged murderous glares.

Dan’s head was pounding, and underneath his sullen scowl, he was terrified. He had lied when asked his name; mumbling Timothy Cavanaugh, his father’s birth name, but his fingerprints would give him away, should anyone check. He knew his prints were on record from his arrest for auto theft three years before, even though he had only spent four hours in jail. He had been told at adjudication that although he was being given community service instead of jail time, the arrest would be on his record until he turned eighteen.

If they looked hard enough, they might find the Rat Bastard, and Dan knew that he was dead if that happened. He was hoping and praying that the cops would just let everyone go with a warning. It was vain hope and futile praying, but he kept at it.

One by one the gang boys were processed. The lucky ones went off with disgruntled parents, others off to Juvie or county lock-up. Finally, Dan was alone in the cell. He shifted into a prone position on the bench, staring at the ceiling and glad that his hands were cuffed in the front now, and not the back. Obviously, release was not an option, and Dan had no one left to call. He closed his eyes and slept.

“Well, well, well!” The voice rousted Dan from his slumber. “Mr. Cavanaugh...or should I say Mr. Mangan?”

Dan’s heart sank as he realized his jig was up. Morning had broken, and the sun was not shining on his side. He pulled himself up and stared sullenly at the big police officer standing just outside the cell door. “Don’t cower,” he told himself. “Bluff. Show no fear.”

“Yeah?” His voice held just a tinge of sarcasm. “What’s it to ya?”

“What it is, little punk, is the difference between a slap on the wrist and some serious time. For you, that is.” He opened the door and signaled Dan to exit. “For me, well, I get to book you all over again.” He pushed Dan in front of him. “We did a little checking on you, and guess what popped up? How do Grand Theft Auto and Aggravated Assault sound? Maybe even Attempted Murder. Movin’ up from a delinquent to an offender.”

Dan bit back a startled gasp and stopped, asking, “What?! Who? That’s bull!”

“Your stepfather, you little J.D.” The officer shoved Dan roughly to get him moving again. “And maybe on your grandma, too.”

“I don’t have a grandma. Or a stepfather!” Dan protested.

“The names Archibald and Paula Kawolski ring any bells?”

Dan didn’t answer. His mind was swirling. He was vaguely aware of being booked again, the handcuffs removed before he was shoved into an interview room. He barely looked up when the door opened and two people entered. One was a man in a gray suit. He looked to be in his late twenties. His brown hair was tousled, and his black-framed glasses sat slightly askew on his narrow face. The second was a woman. She looked younger than the man, and wore a pink sweater over tan slacks. Her dark brown hair was short and very curly, and her brown eyes were warm as she stuck out her hand and introduced herself.

“Hello, Daniel,” she said. “I’m Allegra Pasquale. I’m the social worker assigned to your case. This gentleman is Nathan Beidas. He’s your public defender.”

Dan stood and shook her hand and that of Beidas. He sat back down and waited. Ms. Pasquale started. “Daniel,” she said. “I’ve read your file. I know that both of your parents are dead. I need to know if there is anyone else. Do you have any other relatives?”

Dan shook his head. “I have an uncle, but I don’t know anything about him. My mom...she hired a private investigator to find him, but she died before...before. I’ve never met him, so I seriously doubt he’d be interested in helping me.” The last was said with a bitter smirk.

“Do you remember the name of the P.I. firm?” Pasquale asked. Dan thought for a minute and then recited the name to her. “What about your uncle’s name?” Dan told her and she wrote it down.

It was Beidas’ turn. He pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. “Do you understand what they’ve charged you with?”

“I understand what,” Dan said, his tough mask slipping slightly. “What I don’t understand is why. I never assaulted nobody...I mean anybody.”

“Mr. Kawolski claims that you attacked his girlfriend, Shirley Jeffers, and then tied or rather, taped, her to a couch. He claims you then attacked his mother, Paula Kawolski, striking her and locking her in a coat closet. He charges that you then attempted to sexually assault Mrs. Kawolski’s foster child.”

Dan gasped, his eyes wide with disbelief. Both attorney and social worker noted his response before Beidas continued. “Mr. Kawolski claims that when he tried to stop you from raping the girl, you attacked him, beat him unconscious, gagged him and tied him to the bed rails. Then you stole his car and several other items of value, and kidnapped the girl.”

“That isn’t what happened!” The words burst out of Dan’s mouth and right through his tough facade, emotion raw in both his eyes and voice. “I swear to you on my mother’s soul. That is NOT what happened.”

“I rather figured that,” Nathan Beidas said calmly. “Especially since the girl resurfaced last summer and claimed that she left with you, of her own free will, to escape the sexual advances of Mr. Kawolski. She also claimed that she taped Ms. Jeffers to the sofa, but that the woman injured herself in a fall. Ms. Jeffers has corroborated that story--the fall, I mean. Originally you were to be charged with Attempted Murder, Aggravated Assault, Battery, Grand Theft Auto, Robbery, Kidnapping, Unlawful Imprisonment, and Sexual Assault. After taking Miss Hart’s statement last summer, the charges have been reduced to Aggravated Assault and Grand Theft Auto. That is still pretty serious. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Dan wanted to say quite a bit. The truth sat heavy in his throat, pushing to scream forth. He swallowed hard and produced an edited version.

“I never touched Shirley or Mrs. K. I did hit Archie a couple of times when I was pulling him off Tessa. I taped him to the bed. I did take his car, but I had to get us away from him. He beat the crap out of me. He went after Tess, and he locked Mrs. K in the closet. We let her out and called for the ambulance. And I didn’t steal none of his other stuff.” Dan paused for breath. “That rat bastard ain’t my step dad either. My mom never married him. She hated him.”

“He has a marriage certificate that says otherwise,” the lawyer stated. Dan’s eyes darkened with anger, but he held his tongue. He’d argued this point with his last social worker until his tongue was swollen and his face blue. It hadn’t changed anything.

Allegra Pasquale broke the tense silence. “Daniel,” she said. “You’re in very serious trouble here.” She waited until his eyes met hers. “You’re a minor with one juvenile offense already on your record. You have no adult supervision and were just arrested on the premises of a known gang hideout, wearing colors, involved in a gang fight, and in the presence of several illegal substances.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Dan protested. “I was just there. The Regulators jumped me. I never even had a chance to fight. Look.” He held out his hands. There wasn’t so much as a scrape on them.

“It doesn’t matter,” Allegra told him. “The fact that you were there is a big black mark against you. When you put it together with the fact that the charges you’re facing occurred while in a foster home, I doubt I’ll be able to place you with a non-related family.” Dan stared blankly at her. She explained, “I can’t send you back into foster care. If you had a close relative nearby, we might be able to work something out, but I’m afraid that unless some one comes forward, or you’re willing to return to your stepfather…” Allegra’s voice trailed off as she watched the boy’s face turn a shade of white tinged with green at that statement. “You’ll be remanded into a secure juvenile detention facility until adjudication.”

“After adjudication,” Beidas picked up the thread, “depending on the verdict, you might--and I stress might--be placed back into the system. If you’re sentenced to time, you’ll most likely be sent upstate to a reform school until you are eighteen.”

“Then what?” Dan asked, his throat dry.

“Again, that depends.” Nathan Beidas removed his glasses and wiped his face. “Right now, they’re considering charging you as a juvenile offender. That means you will be charged as an adult and go on trial at the Supreme Court level. The crime you’re accused of committing happened when you were thirteen, so you can be charged as a j.o. If you are cleared, or sentenced to the minimum amount of time, you‘d be released at eighteen, your record expunged. If you receive a stiffer sentence, at eighteen you’ll be transferred to Riker’s Island until your sentence is completed.”

“Now what?” Dan croaked again.

“Now we work on your defense, and on seeing if we can find your uncle.” Allegra put her notes into her briefcase and stood up. Dan automatically stood up, too. “I’m going to get on the search for your uncle. Nathan here is going to help you get through the interview with the police. Then you’ll be taken down to Spofford. I’ll be in touch.” She shook his hand again and left. Dan sat back down and faced his lawyer.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“I need you to trust that anything you tell me is between the two of us. Then I need the names of anyone who can vouch for your character, and the name and location of anyone who may have been a witness to your version of what happened that night. I also need more details, from you, about that night.” He pushed his glasses up again. “I’m going to try and have you charged as a juvenile delinquent. That way you can have a hearing in front of a family court judge. It’s a long shot, but I’ll try.”

Dan looked at him. Another adult asking for trust. Well, what did he have left to lose? He sighed, suddenly exhausted. “I don’t know where Tessa is. I haven’t seen her since last August, and the letter she sent me said her uncle was sending her to a boarding school in England. Mrs. K knows the truth, and Georgie--he’s a Cowhand--he and Luke saw us the night I took the car, and Father Paul at St. Cecilia’s. We were living in the church basement for a little while, before...”

Nathan Beidas took copious notes, and stayed with his young client all through the police interview. He even rode in the police car down to the Bronx with Dan, and saw him through the intake process. Promising to return to check on him, he caught a taxi back uptown and got to work.

He wasn’t hopeful.

Tessa Hart had disappeared. Andrew Belden was refusing his calls. Paula Kawolski had suffered a debilitating stroke on the night in question, and had lost her ability to speak. She was in an upstate nursing home. Margaret Ramirez had indicated in her notes that there might have been abuse in the Kawolski house, but there was no physical evidence to substantiate that claim. Georgie, the gang member was unlikely to be much help, even if he could be found, and the priest and the Maxim family could either help or hinder, depending on how the judge looked at the circumstances surrounding Dan’s departure from them. Nathan knew he had his work cut out for him.

Dan spent his first night in juvie curled up on the thin mattress in his eight-by-ten room. He had been checked in, checked over, photographed, surrendered his clothes and belongings, been issued a detention uniform, fed a turkey sandwich and an apple, and instructed to leave his shoes outside the door of his “room” before the door shut and locked behind him. In his hands were a list of rules, regulations and schedules. The list was four pages long. Dan read it over and over again until the lights went off at 9:30 p.m. sharp. Face first in the scratchy pillow, he pulled the covers over his head and tried not to cry in the lonesome dark.

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