The Racketeer

“Cooley” not “Coley,” but then maybe the guy is trying to say “Cooley,” but it just comes out differently in Jamaica.
    “Are you all right, Mr. Coley?” the lawyer repeats.
    “I’ve had two fights in the past two hours. Lost both of them. You gotta get me outta here, Mr.…” He looks at the card but can’t focus on the words.
    “It’s Watley. Mr. Watley.”
    “Fine, Mr. Watley. This is a big misunderstanding. I don’t know what happened, what went wrong, but I ain’t guilty of anything. I didn’t use a fake passport and I damned sure didn’t try to smuggle in drugs and a gun. Somebody planted that stuff inmy bag, you got that? That’s the truth and I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles. I don’t use drugs, don’t sell ’em, and I damned sure don’t smuggle them. I want to talk to Reed.” He sort of spits his words through clenched teeth and rubs his jaw as he talks.
    “Is your jaw broken?” Rashford asks.
    “I ain’t no doctor.”
    “I’ll try to get one, and I’ll try to get you moved to another cell.”
    “They’re all the same—hot, overcrowded, and dirty. You gotta do something, Mr. Watley. And fast. I’ll never survive in here.”
    “You’ve been in prison before, I think.”
    “I just spent a few years in a federal pen, but nothing like this. I just thought that was bad. This is pure hell. I got fifteen guys in my cell, all black but me, with two beds and a hole in the corner to piss in. No air-conditioning and no food. Please, Mr. Watley, do something.”
    “You’re facing very serious charges, Mr. Coley. If convicted as charged, you could be sentenced to twenty years in prison.”
    Nathan drops his head and takes a deep breath. “I won’t last a week.”
    “I’m confident I can get a reduction, but still you’re facing a lot of time. And not in a city jail like this. They’ll send you away to one of our regional prisons where the conditions are not always as pleasant.”
    “Then give me a plan. You’ve got to explain to the judge or whoever that this is all a mistake. I’m not guilty, okay? You gotta make somebody believe that.”
    “I’ll try, Mr. Coley. But the system has to run its course, and unfortunately things move rather slowly here in Jamaica. The court will schedule your first appearance in a few days, then formal charges will be handed down.”
    “What about bail? Can I post a bond and get outta here?”
    “I’m working on that now with a bail bondsman, but I’mnot optimistic. The court would consider you a flight risk. How much money is at your disposal?”
    Nathan snorts and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I had a thousand bucks in my wallet, wherever it happens to be now. I’m sure the money’s gone. I had five hundred bucks in my pocket too, and it’s gone. They’ve picked me clean. I got a few assets back home but nothing liquid. I’m not a rich man, Mr. Watley. I’m a thirty-year-old ex-con who was in prison about six months ago. My family has nothing.”
    “Well, the court will look at the amount of cocaine and the private jet and think otherwise.”
    “The cocaine is not mine. I never saw it, never touched it. It was planted, okay, Mr. Watley? So was the gun.”
    “I believe you, Mr. Coley, but the court will likely be more skeptical. The court hears such stories all the time.”
    Nathan opened his mouth slowly and picked at the dried blood at the corner of his lips. He was obviously in pain and shock.
    Rashford stood and said, “Keep your seat. Reed’s here. If anyone asks, tell them he’s just one of your lawyers.”

    Nathan’s battered face lights up somewhat when I enter. I sit on my stool, less than three feet from him. He wants to yell but he knows someone is listening. “What the hell is happening here, Reed? Talk to me!”
    My act at this point is that of a frightened man who is not sure what will happen tomorrow. “I don’t know, Nathan,” I say nervously. “I’m not under arrest but I can’t leave the island. I found Rashford Watley first thing this morning and we’re trying to figure it all out. All I remember is that we got real drunk real fast. Stupid. Got that. You passed out on the sofa and I was barely awake. At some point, one of the pilots called me up to the cockpit and explained that air traffic around Miami was groundedbecause of weather. Tornado warnings, a tropical storm, really bad stuff. Miami International was closed. The system was moving north, so we circled to the south and were