Frozen Assets Page 8

  It would be funny if so many people hadn’t been hurt by the whole thing. The kids all had records, so they would be going back to prison for some time, which meant that the people whose garage doors and cars had been damaged – including the owner of the car now residing in a police impound lot – wouldn’t see a penny of restitution. Prison inmates who are lucky enough to get jobs inside make a whopping fifteen to thirty cents an hour, and usually use it up in a hurry buying munchies at the canteen.

  The next day I put on my only remaining lawyer suit, rooted out a yellow pad from the mess I call an office, and headed down to the county lockup. I was put in a room the size of a broom closet, with a plexiglass barrier. There were black telephone handsets on both sides of the plexiglass, and a turnkey brought the prisoner into the matching broom closet on the other side.

  My client, Peter Grimmes, "That’s Grimms, not Grim Ass." was nineteen, and looked about twelve. He had white-blond hair which fell over his forehead onto his eyebrows, watery blue eyes which showed that he was in considerable pain, and the pasty complexion of someone who doesn’t see much sunlight. His left leg was encased in a cast from his toes to his crotch and his right arm was in a sling which was tightly bound to his chest. He had small cuts, abrasions and bruises on his face and basically looked like somebody had beat the shit out of him. He had been in prison on his third conviction. Nice kid.

  I introduced myself to him and told him that I was the lawyer whom the judge had appointed to represent him on felony charges of escape from a correctional facility, breaking and entering with intent to commit the felony of car theft, felony car theft, fleeing and eluding a police office, burglary in a building and a whole slew of misdemeanors. The prosecution always charges people with everything they can think of – the old "throw the book at ‘em" philosophy - with the idea of generously offering to dismiss a few counts in exchange for a plea bargain.

  The kid was scared, but tried to cop an attitude. I leaned in so my forehead was almost touching the glass and said "Look, Pete, your ass is grass and the prosecution is getting out the lawn mower. You’ll be wrinkled and gray before you get out of prison unless we can work something out. And I’m the only thing you have between you and life in prison. Now do you want to stop asking me how long I’ve been a lawyer, and talk to me?"

  He hung his head and nodded. I asked him to tell me his version of events and, surprisingly, it differed very little from the police version. I asked him about the roles of his two fellow escapees, and he left nothing out. At least that I could pick up on.

  "You think you can get me a deal? I’ll testify against the others if you can just get me a deal." He looked anxious, almost desperate. I figured he must be terrified, since he didn’t even wait for the prosecutor to offer something. I told him I would do my best, that I would keep him informed so not to waste time trying to call me collect, and that if he didn’t hear from me, it was because there was nothing new to report. I figured it would be a day, maybe two, before he tried to call me.

  After I left the visiting cell - for that’s exactly what it was, a locked cell on both sides - I walked down the block to the prosecutor’s office. The prosecutor, a short, stout man with a mop of curly black hair, came out of his office and offered his hand. I shook it. We went into his office and I closed the door.

  "Sam, I just came from talking with my client.-" -

  "Which one’s yours?" he interrupted.

  "Peter Grimmes." He nodded and I continued. "He asked me to see if you might be willing to work out a deal if he testifies against the others?"

  Sam Redding grinned. "Too late - the other two have made the same request."

  I threw up my hands. "Jeez, whatever happened to honor among thieves? They don’t even wait for you to offer before they start climbing all over each other to cooperate."

  Sam laughed. "You got that right. If we had one more, we could call it a barbershop quartet, they’re singing so loud." He chuckled, then leaned forward. "But tell you what, since he’s so young, I’m willing to give him a break. A small one, but a break."

  We spent half an hour working out an agreement where Pete would give a true and accurate statement of what occurred, would plead guilty to prison escape, would pay restitution to the victims, and would, if either or both of the others did not plead, testify against them at trial.

  I stopped back at the jail and gave Pete a copy of the notes I took, and he brightened considerably when I told him all the misdemeanors would be dismissed, along with two of the felonies. I told him I would see him at the next court date. As I was leaving the sheriff’s office, four men in Department of Corrections uniforms passed me and went into the building. The three boys would spend their waiting time in one of the prisons on the eastern end of the peninsula near Sault Ste. Marie.

  18

  The following week I pulled out the plat book again, and looked up the land surrounding mine. My little square piece is surrounded by a squared "U" which wraps around three sides, with the fourth bordering on Book Road, a dirt two-track which takes off from County Road 424. The private road to my cabin is about a quarter-mile long and meanders where the loggers cut the timber before I bought the place. If they added my piece, they would have a complete square of land with, essentially no neighbors, since their property was bordered by Section 6 road, US Highway 2, and land owned by a timber company. Since the timber company cut wood only about every five years, privacy was almost complete. Which is why I bought my piece from the timber company when it came up for sale.

  I sat for a long time, with Jeezo Petes next to me with his head on my lap so I could stroke his silky fur. Holy Wah lay at my feet, occasionally making small yips and paw movements. Dreaming of chasing rabbits? Who knows what goes on in her doggy mind.

  I went into the office and fired up the computer. I downloaded some thirty email messages. About half could be deleted immediately, having successfully fooled my spam filter, offering me everything from bigger breasts to diet aids guaranteed to help me lose thirty pounds a month. The rest I read one at a time, until I came to number eleven. My gut turned to stone as I read:

  THERE’S STILL TIME TO GET OUT. LEAVE WHILE YOU STILL CAN

  Great. Just fan-fucking-tastic.

  19

  After I quit my law practice, I spent the next two years traveling the back roads and eating in mom-and-pop diners and loving every minute of it. I became proficient in setting up – hooking up the water, lights, graywater tank and blackwater drain (blackwater, of course, being a euphemism for what gets flushed down a toilet.) I learned that if you have a flat tire, you either have good cell reception, or you stand by looking helpless until a Good Samaritan stops and agrees to phone a tire repair place when he gets to the next town. I became good at sussing out which RV camps were to be avoided. RV’ers are a friendly group, always willing to give information and help. And believe me, if they feel like they got screwed at a certain place, the whole RV world will know about it soon. Good way to keep the camp owners honest.

  I traveled north to Alaska, and south to Mexico. I drove up the Pacific Coast Highway and marveled at the majestic redwoods. I gnashed my teeth at the thought that developers were lobbying to get permission to cut down those ancient trees. I pretty much avoided the Eastern Seaboard, having spent more than enough time in places like New York City and Washington D.C. I made it up to the pine barrens of Maine and the autumn color splendor of New Hampshire. I hiked in Bryce Canyon and Canyonlands in Utah and rafted a stretch of the Colorado River. I rode the narrow-gauge train from Durango to Silver City and toured the mining-town-turned-tourist-trap, including a visit to Maude’s Bawdy House where I acquired a wooden token good for all night. (The place actually was a whorehouse in the late 1800's, but now it’s a saloon. But the tokens make a good gag.) I went into caves in Arkansas and New Mexico, fished for rock fish off the Florida Keys and sea bass off the California coast. I met some wonderful people, and I ran into some that were not so won
derful. I spent weeks in some places, days in others, and only hours in a few places

  In other words, I had the time of my life. At first I was a little touchy about the fact that everywhere I went, the folks kept looking for a man to emerge and set up my home away from home. Or at least another woman, in case I was gay. The idea that a middle-aged woman would travel alone just didn’t compute with a lot of people. Eventually I learned to introduce myself immediately and say something about what a good time I was having going cross-country by myself.

  The dog found me fairly early in my journey. When I set out initially, I headed east and crossed Lake St. Clair into Canada over the bridge connecting Detroit and Windsor. I followed the lake shore road until it crossed 94, then followed the highway to Tobermory, where I took the ferry to South Baymouth. I passed through Mindemoya and Little Current, then caught 17 and stayed on it until I passed through Canadian Sault Ste Marie and crossed the bridge into Michigan Sault Ste Marie. Keeping to my pledge to avoid freeways and main roads, I took the back road along the southern shore of Lake Superior through Brimley, up to Paradise, southwest to Newberry, then turned west toward Seney. About halfway between McCloud’s Corner and Seney, I was cruising along at about forty, enjoying the scenery. I could do that because traffic was sparse and there was nobody behind me to gnash their teeth at my poking along. A small critter ran across the road a bit ahead of me - a rabbit maybe? - so I let up on the gas and slowed. Good thing, because right behind the critter came one of the largest dogs I’ve ever seen, intent on its prey. I didn’t even have time to hit the brakes before I heard a thump and a canine scream. I slammed to a stop, jumped out, and ran back the hundred feet or so I had traveled before stopping. A bedraggled ratty-looking very large dog was lying on its side, panting shallowly. As I approached, it raised its head and looked into my eyes. Apparently it found me non-threatening, because it laid its head back down and stayed still for a few seconds. Then it tried to stand up. When its right foreleg crumpled, I knew the dog was in trouble. I could hear a vehicle approaching so I stood in the middle of the road and waved my arms. A rust-and-blue four-wheel-drive pickup which sounded like it had little muffler left slowed to a stop and two men in Packers ball caps got out.

  "Boy am I glad to see you two!" I turned on the charm I had so successfully used on judges Back in the Day. "This dog just ran out in front of me and I couldn’t stop in time to miss it. I think its leg or shoulder is broken. Could you help me get it into my motor home, and tell me where I can find a vet?"

  The two men eyed the dog warily. The younger one frowned and I was sure he was going to say it was none of his business, but then the older one - his father, maybe? - walked over and squatted down by the dog. "Holy Wah! Dat’s one big dog!" He laid his big hand on the dog’s head for a moment, then straightened. "Yep. Be happy to help you. No way a little lady like you is gonna pick up that dog, eh? I got a piece of two by ten in the back dere we can use like a stretcher maybe."

  I walked back to the motorhome and backed it slowly up on the shoulder until I was even with the dog, who lay there calmly, seemingly unperturbed by the commotion. I made sure there was a space big enough cleared on the floor and grabbed a blanket. I hopped out and walked over to the dog at the same time the men were laying down a slab of wood that looked like it had been custom-made as a dog carrier. This was great luck! I was surprised at the gentleness both men showed as we rolled the dog just enough to get the board underneath her – I had noticed she was definitely female - and then the two men, waving off my attempts to help, lifted the dog, one at each end, and walked over to the open door on the side of the RV. They put one end inside on the floor, and while the elder of the two held the outside end, the younger one went in through the passenger door and helped pull the dog into the interior. All this time the dog not so much as whimpered.

  "Gee, guys, I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along." I meant it. "There’s no way I could have moved her without making her injuries worse. Can you tell me if there’s a vet anywhere near here?" Please say yes, please say yes.

  The older guy pushed his cap back on his head and wiped the beads of sweat with his sleeve. "Well, there’s none around here, but Manistique has one."

  "Um, Manistique? What’s the best way to get there?." I’d lived in Michigan for decades and knew most of the streets in Lansing and Detroit and Grand Rapids, but I hadn’t the foggiest idea of where Manistique was.

  They gave me directions, and I thanked them again, and they both aw-shucks-ma’am-it- warn’t-nuthin’d me and drove away. I took another look at my passenger. Damned if she wasn’t an Irish Wolfhound, a pureblood from the looks of her. I hadn’t recognized the breed originally because she was so thin and scruffy. Looked like she’d been on her own in the woods long enough to lose significant weight. I filled a bowl with cold water and put it on the floor next to her. She raised her head and hung her muzzle over the rim, lapping greedily at the water. She emptied the bowl in no time and looked at me with an "Is that all?" look, so I rummaged in the fridge and found a couple of pieces of lunchmeat which she made short work of. I didn’t dare feed her much, lest she get sick. That would really make my day having to clean up dog barf from a dog this size!

  I drove to Seney, then dropped south through Germfask (I still haven’t figured out where that name came from) and at Blaney Park I turned west onto US 2, eventually coming into the picturesque lakeside town of Manistique. The local tourist info center was open, and they were more than happy to direct me to the local veterinarian. He took one look at the dog and went next door to the gas station and returned with a husky young man. After the two of them had carefully taken her from the vehicle and carried her into an exam room, he asked me to come into the room. He was appalled at the condition of the dog, but warmed up a little when I explained how I had come to bring her to him. He wanted to do a bunch of tests and x-rays, and I told him to go ahead. After the better part of an hour, she had been x-rayed, blood and urine tested, and had been examined closely by the doc. He didn’t look happy when he came out to delivered the news.

  "This dog," he said, "has fractures in three places on her left shoulder, a fracture in her upper left leg, and a couple of cracked ribs. She has worms, she’s full of woodticks, and, frankly, I think you should just put her down. It’s going to take a lot of money and time to fix her up, and she still won’t be a hundred percent again. And for sure she’ll never be fit as a show dog again."

  A lump had formed in my throat. This beautiful creature had managed to survive God knows how long in the woods, this creature who was so trusting while we moved her off the road, how could I just walk away and let her die?

  "Doctor, I don’t care about the cost." I whipped out one of my credit cards and handed it to him. "Whatever it takes, get her back to good health. She’s a special animal, and I don’t care if she limps or whatever. Just do your best work and try to minimize any future problems. You can advance yourself a thousand dollars right now, and then whatever it takes after you’ve done the work."

  He looked at me for a long time, no doubt wondering if I was nuts, then nodded slightly, took the card, ran it through the slot in the card reader, and punched in the numbers. His eyes widened slightly as the machine came to life and purred as it produced a slip for me to sign. I gave him the signed slip and he returned my plastic.

  I thought "so there - bet you thought I wasn’t good for it, eh?"

  20

  For the next week or so I camped at an RV park on Lake Michigan just outside of Thompson, a few miles west of Manistique. While the dog healed, I printed flyers with a photo of the dog and my cell number and put them up all over the area, and put ads in the newspapers which were likely to be read in the little towns near where the dog had found me

  It hadn’t taken me long to sort of get used to her company, and I half-hoped nobody would claim her. I fed her as the vet had instructed me, and brushed her wiry coat until all the burrs and sti
ckers were gone. I dutifully hid antibiotics in hotdogs - and when she ate the hotdog and spat out the pill, I shoved them down her throat. Not an easy task when a hundred- pound dog takes it into her head she doesn’t want to take her meds. I took her in every day so the vet could make sure everything was going well, because what I knew about dogs you could put in your eye. She put on a bit of weight while we waited to see if anyone would claim her. She had no collar, no microchip, and wasn’t known to the vet who had set her broken shoulder. I mulled over some names, none of which really resonated with me, until I flashed on the men who helped me load her up. "Holy Wah, dat’s one big dog!"

  Holy Wah she became, answering to it right away. Although I suspect at this juncture she would have answered to anything, since it had become obvious she had adopted me. After ten days with no queries whatsoever, I knew that I was now owned by a dog. I bought her a new blue collar, and off we went on our great adventure.

  21

  And adventure we did. The dog was a good companion, padding silently on my right side when we went for our daily walks. Always cognizant of the passing of time, I walked a lot to counteract the effects of spending so much time behind the wheel. I didn’t want to end up one of those old ladies who breaks a hip and fades away. Holy Wah was so mellow I sometimes forgot she was a dog. On the rare occasions I put a leash on her, primarily to allay the fears of people who took one look at her size and backed away, she never pulled ahead, but instead stayed right with me. If I turned, she turned as if she were a part of me. If I told her to sit or stay, she did so as if it had been exactly what she had intended before I told her to do it. She obviously had been very well trained and probably graduated summa cum laude from doggie obedience school. The vet who had treated her opined that she was about six months old and a show-quality dog, at least she was before she tried to occupy the same space as the front of my motorhome, and neither of us could figure out how she ended up in the wilds of Upper Michigan.