Elmore Leonard - Riding the Rap

Raylan wondered if the court clerk would have a spare copy of the sentencing guidelines.

Waiting for the proceedings to start, he looked around thinking this was what a courtroom should look like: the ceiling a good twenty-five feet high, gold chandeliers, marble panels on the wall, the windows draped in red velvet, antique-looking lamps on the front corners of the judge’s bench. His Honor came in and everyone rose, sat down again and the court clerk called the case number, 95-9809, the United States of America versus Rudi Braga.

It gave Raylan another momentary feeling for Rudi, the whole country against the poor little guy. Then changed his mind about this rich little guy-Rudi’s attorney up to argue that his client shouldn’t have to forfeit his Learjet, his Rolls, his other cars, his boat and his home on Key Biscayne. Milt Dancey said, behind his hand to Raylan, “Near President Nixon’s old place.” Reverence in his voice.

The discussion went on for a while, the natty young assistant U.S. attorney wanting it all, arguing that Mr. Braga’s possessions could not be excluded for the reasons contained in the presentence investigation report, and the judge ruled in his favor.

There was more arguing, the defense attorney requesting a downward departure in the sentence, using the low end of the guidelines, 235 to 293 months at the most, because of Mr. Braga’s age. The assistant U.S. attorney argued that the defendant had been involved in criminal endeavors for over four decades and wanted an upward departure. Which Raylan understood to mean, throw the book at him. Raylan would listen to parts of the long-winded arguments, all the legal terms, while thinking about a house in Manalapan and a guy named Chip Ganz and the prospect of meeting him face-to-face, maybe tomorrow, if Dawn was right and Chip hung with the Huggers on weekends. Raylan had been thinking of that more and more, Chip trying to make money off runaways.

Finally he heard the judge say, “Pursuant to the Sentencing Reform Act of 1984, it is the judgment of the court and the sentence of the law that the defendant, Rudi Braga, is hereby committed to the custody of the Bureau of Prisons to be imprisoned for a term of three hundred and sixty months to life as to the indictment.”

Raylan heard groans behind him, words in Spanish.

The judge stared out at the audience from the bench, pounded his gavel one time only, and there were no more sounds. He said, “The defendant is remanded to the custody of the United States marshal,” and it was over. Everyone rose.

Once they had Rudi in the holding cell, Raylan went back into the courtroom to talk to the clerk.

Milt Dancey was by the railing of the outside hallway smoking a cigarette. He saw Raylan coming toward him with the United States Sentencing Commission Guidelines Manual under his arm.

“You’re on Warrants,” Milt said, “investigating a kid napping? How come I haven’t heard anything about it?”

Raylan started telling about Harry Arno and the collector Harry was supposed to meet at a restaurant a week ago today, Raylan wanting to give Milt a short version. But he kept talking-what did you leave out?-and Milt kept smoking and by the time he’d finished another cigarette Raylan had told him the whole story.

“What do you think? Have I got probable cause?”

“To get a warrant?”

“Yeah, go in the house.”

“What’s your probable cause based on?”

“I just told you.”

“You don’t even know a crime’s been committed.”

“I’m pretty sure Harry’s in there.”

“You hear what you’re saying? A guy is snatched and kept in the kidnapper’s home ? How do you come up with an idea like that?”

“I’m psychic,” Raylan said.

“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so?”

Raylan sat at a desk in the court support squad room to call Joyce at home.

“Did she show up?”

“After I sat there for almost a half hour. The reverend goes, ‘Oh, have you been waiting long?’ She looks like Marianne Faithfull with dark hair.”

“I told you she has that hippie look. How’d you get along?”

“I showed her up to Harry’s apartment and gave her the key. That was it.”

“I thought you wanted a reading.”

“The reverend was tired. She said she had to rest and meditate. If I want to come by in the morning she’ll see me.”

“She’s just gonna sit there?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never meditated.”

“Well, what do you think of her?”

“In what respect,” Joyce said, “her looks, her manner? Do I get the feeling she’s sincere, a nice girl? Or do I think she has you believing whatever she tells you?”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Raylan said.

Melinda surprised him, walking up only a few minutes after the waiter had served Raylan his beer and conch fritters, on the sidewalk outside the Santa Marta. She said, “Well, hey,” coming to him with a big smile. She wore a blue tank top and a little purse that hung from her shoulder on a chain. Raylan had the Guidelines Manual open on the table. Sitting down, Melinda looked at it and said, “What’s that?” making a face. “Like you’re doing your homework.”

“Looking up things,” Raylan said. “I was afraid you might be in Hialeah, dancing.”

“I’m going later.” She smiled again. “You were waiting for me?”

People strolling past in their trendy outfits would observe the young girl sitting with the older guy in the only suit and tie on South Beach. Raylan would raise his gaze beneath the hat brim and they’d look away. He said to Melinda, “I’ve been thinking about you. You okay?”

It seemed to surprise her. “Sure, everything’s fine. Except I haven’t seen Do-do all week.”

“Who’s Do-do?”

“Bobby. Everybody calls him Bobby Deo? I call him Bobby Do-do.”

“He mind?”

“I don’t say it to his face. I did once and he tried to slap me around. I told him, he ever touched me again I’d leave. I don’t need that.”

“I guess not,” Raylan said. He took off his hat and laid it on the table and saw Melinda smile.

“You have nice hair. I thought you might be bald-why you wore the hat. Oh-I phoned Bobby today, where he’s working? Some colored guy answered and said he’d left and wasn’t ever coming back.”

Raylan closed the Guidelines Manual .

“Maybe to get rid of you.”

“He did. He goes, ‘I’m busy,’ and hangs up on me. Very impolite.”

“Bobby was there yesterday.”

“Oh, you saw him? Good. Was he working?”

“Taking a rest.”

“He must’ve finished; that’s why he left.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, if he was working he’d still be there.” She looked up, as though Bobby might be coming along the street. “I should’ve asked what time he left. I sure haven’t seen him.”

Raylan said, “You really want to?”

Melinda gave him a look with half-closed eyes, putting it on. “You trying to move in?”

“I’m older’n Bobby,” Raylan said. “And he’s too old for you. Where’s home?”

“Perry, Georgia. You know where it is?”

“I’ve been through there.”

“Everybody who comes down Seventy-five has. You work at a motel cleaning rooms, making beds, or you get out of town. Here, I can waitress if I want and have something to do at night.”

“Bobby’s a bad guy,” Raylan said.

She seemed about to speak, maybe to defend him, and changed her mind to think about it first, looking out at the street.

“You can do better.”

She looked at Raylan now and nodded. “You’re probably right. I mean about him being a bad guy.”

Raylan said, “Can I ask you something? What is it about him you like?”