Page 30 of Five Goodbyes

“Okay bud. What jail? I’m on my way now,” I tell him over the speaker of my cell as I get dressed.

After I receive the information, I calm his nerves by telling him I’m on my way. I jump in my car and am on 95 South within minutes. Miami can have a lot of traffic but at this hour, there isn’t any. I feel confident in pushing well past the top of the speed limit the entire way. I soon pull up to the building ready to find out what in the hell is going on.

I contemplate calling Jasmine during my drive, but know there isn’t anything she can do for Isaiah in this moment. What it will do is stress her out, and the last thing I need is to deal with this situation and try to talk her off a ledge that I put her on. Nope, I’m keeping a lid on all of this until we get Isaiah back home safe and secure.

“Special Agent Hunter Sparks,” I say cooly to the intercom at the entrance of the jail. I present my badge to the fish-eye camera next to the button I’ve just pressed.

I thought about trying to get into the jail without the badge, but I know at this time of the morning there will be next to no chance of that happening. Abusing my power and position, probably . . . me caring in the moment . . . not at all. I only have one focus, and that’s getting Isaiah out of this situation.

“Morning. Who you here for?” the heavy set officer sitting behind the book-in desk asks. His eyes barely move up from the screen he’s staring at.

“Isaiah Anderson and his associates,” I reply. I may be tired, but my brain knows better than to call out Isaiah’s associates as friends. I need to make this look as official as possible.

“Why does the FBI care about these knuckleheads?” the officer asks.

“The FBI doesn’t care about them, but we do care about the father and his connections,” I reply matter-of-factly. I figure that isn’tnecessarilya lie.

“Ahhh . . .” the officer slowly blurts as he picks up his phone and hits a couple of buttons.

While he talks to someone on the other end, I look around the area. I’ve been here more than a few times over the years, but it’s the first time I’m picking someone up. It has a different feel in this situation.

I give more notice to the dilapidated conditions. The paint has peeled away from walls, the stain on the other part of the walls, which must be from years of who knows what not being wiped away quickly enough, and the few interior windows are now a cloudy color for the same reason as the walls being stained. It’s not an environment that screams sanitary. The skin on my forearms prickle with goosebumps, and my stomach turns a couple of times as I think of what could’ve created these stains.

“Okay, they’re on the way. I’m going to need you to fill out this release paperwork while I print out their citations,” the officer states.

“Yep,” is all I reply.

Not that it will be an issue, but I’ll have to tell my boss, Frank, about this incident, and using my position to get these men out of jail. I’m not getting them out of whatever responsibility they have to the club or the city in terms of tickets, just pulling them from their cells. The entire thing is relatively minor, but I can imagine the shitstorm this will create if I don’t notify him and then it got leaked that I hid it. Nope. I’ll deal with that part of it right away. It’s so much better than the alternative.

“Shouldn’t take long,” the officer states to clear the silence between us.

“Thanks. Nothing like babysitting these kids. Thought I’d be done with this kind of work at this point in my career,” I say.

It’s all a front conversation to help build the story of me being here. Not that I need to have the talk, but I refuse to sit down on the bench next to the desk. It’s terribly disgusting looking. I’m certain that almost all forms of bodily fluids have been secreted onto it over the years.

“I hear ya, man. I’m only here because we’re short staffed. I was doing this ten years ago,” the officer shares.

If his conversation is also a front, I don’t know. He looks of an age that what he’s saying is believable, but it can also be that he’s been sitting in this same chair for the last fifteen years. Not for me to judge, or to even care. I just want to get out of here. A couple of minutes later Isaiah appears. Two other young men walk in line behind him, all three followed by a man in uniform.

“We good?” I ask the officer behind the desk.

“All yours,” he replies as he looks over the last page of the form I completed and signed.

“Thanks,” is all I say as I turn and walk to the door, thankful for the buzz and hard click of the lock being released as I step up to it.

The warm salty air hits me, and it may be the cleanest thing I’ve ever inhaled in my life. Whatever’s happening with the air inside that jail can’t be good for the body. I was only in there for a few minutes and can sense thejunkescaping my bloodstream as I walk toward my car. I don’t say a word to Isaiah or his friends until we step up to the doors of the Audi.

“Names? And where do you live?”

The two young men introduce themselves. One has a busted lip and a deep red mark on his jaw next to his left ear. The other has a sliced forehead which is now closed with three butterfly bandages. I see he’s favoring his left shoulder as well.

One, named Enrique, the other Donovan, tell me they both live a few blocks away. After confirming they’re okay, at least physically, I agree to drop them off at Enrique’s condo because it’s closest.

Isaiah is never going to be able to hide that he’s been in a fight unless he plans to not be around his parents for the next three weeks. His right eye is swollen, his nose is slightly crooked, and the middle of his chin has an impressive gash in it.

“Don’t even ask me to drop you off there with them,” I warn Isaiah.

As I fire up my car I pause before putting it into motion. “At least tell me the other guys look worse than the three of you. It looks like you guys had your hands tied behind your back and just let them punch you over and over again. Do any of you know how to block your face?”

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