"I'll do it."
"Bailing guys out is actually one of my jobs for the club. But you're welcome to come along. Unless you're so pissed off that you'd like to see him stew in a cell overnight."
"Mmm, tempting. But no. I'll come. I should learn how to do this for clients."
--
I don't think this particular station was accustomed to seeing bikers. Considering the median property value of the area it serviced, that's probably a given. I was the one the desk clerk recognized first. Ricky introduced himself and told the clerk why we were there, and suddenly I swear every officer in the place found an excuse to come up front as we waited.
It was like the setup to a joke: the gang leader's son and the serial killers' daughter walk into a police station and . . . Well, hilarious shenanigans ensue, I'm sure.
The reality, I fear, was not nearly as entertaining. Ricky and I waited, talking in low voices, causing two officers to creep ever closer until they overheard Ricky discussing a marketing project. One walked away in disgust. The other hovered, as if convinced it was really code for some nefarious scheme.
Finally, someone came to process our bail request. In Chicago, you pay the police, not a bondsman. Bail had been set at under two thousand dollars, which is why Gabriel hadn't called anyone to spring him--he'd be able to cover it himself with a call to the bank in the morning. The police knew that, so they were holding him in the drunk tank rather than shipping him to the Cook County jail. They could have let him stop at an ATM on the way, but this was Gabriel Walsh. The cops weren't doing him any favors.
The desk sergeant was a middle-aged woman who seemed to know exactly who we were and, quite frankly, didn't give a damn. We were being polite, so she was polite back.
According to her, James hadn't called the police. His mother--Maura--had. Maura claimed Gabriel had broken in, drunk, and proceeded to beat the crap out of James, while issuing death and blackmail threats. When the police actually arrived, they'd discovered a few flaws in Maura's story. One, no sign of break-in. Two, Gabriel was obviously sober. Three, n
o matter what they might think of him, they knew he wasn't going to suddenly go raging bull on anyone. That wasn't his rep.
The charges were simple assault and trespass, which were both misdemeanors. Serious enough, though, when you were an attorney. Yes, according to the desk sergeant, James had been taken to the hospital for possible internal injuries, but Gabriel would never have gut-punched him without provocation. James was being something I never would have thought possible. He was being an asshole.
Ricky and I were left in a room while the officer went to get Gabriel. When that door opened, I started forward, but Ricky stopped me. As Gabriel saw us, humiliation flickered over his face. It vanished in a blink, helped by the fact that I didn't rush to him. We played it cool, as if this sort of thing happened all the time. The officer who'd escorted Gabriel gruffly told us to see ourselves out and then retreated.
Once the door closed, Ricky said, "Aren't I supposed to be on that side of the room, and you over here?"
Gabriel only grunted, then seemed to realize Ricky was trying to lighten the mood and said, "I hope it never is reversed. I trust you know better than to get on this side. I'm presuming the police notified you, because I certainly didn't ask them to call."
"You should have," I said. "And no, it was James, actually."
"Liv was going to come bail you out," Ricky said. "But I'm the one with the experience. So now that that's done, I'm going to guess you're okay handling car retrieval? I should grab some sleep before morning classes."
He gave me a sidelong look, in case I was thinking of reminding him he didn't have any morning classes. He was trying to make an awkward situation easier by extricating himself. I glanced at Gabriel. He looked like hell--exhausted and disheveled, with a bruise on his jaw and blood spatter on his shirt. There was a vaguely disoriented look in his eyes, too, as if he'd lost his footing and still hadn't found it. I wasn't letting him go anywhere on his own.
"I'll go with Gabriel to fetch his car," I said, passing Ricky my helmet. "Thank you."
"Call me?"
I nodded. He made it halfway out the door before Gabriel seemed to snap out of it.
"Thank you," he said to Ricky. "I won't forget this."
Ricky grinned. "That would be the idea. And I'd hope I don't need to say it, but I'll keep this between us. I'm sure you'll get it resolved."
I waited until he was gone, then handed Gabriel a hairbrush and tissue I'd dug out of my bag. I gave him my makeup compact, too, for the mirror.
"Since I'm guessing there's no back way out . . ." I said.
"Right. Thanks."
"If you pat some powder on your jaw, it'll make the bruise less noticeable."
He did. Yes, no one except the cops would see him. But to Gabriel, it still mattered. He cleaned up and brushed his hair, and by the time he looked presentable, he seemed a little more himself, reoriented, the usual chill back in his eyes, the steel in his jaw and spine. When we turned to go, that resolve softened again as he glanced over at me.
"Thank you," he said. "For coming. I know I don't deserve--" He cut himself short and pulled up straight again. "We'll talk later."
--