The Poet by Michael Connelly

bottom line to this whole matter is that whoever you had behind that glass, she or he is a witness to something that wasn’t even a crime. How that equates to a night in the county jail, I don’t know. But maybe you can explain that to me, Detective Sweetzer, if it isn’t too much of a strain on your intelligence.”
    Sweetzer stood up, knocking his chair back into the wall. Delpy reached an arm over, this time physically restraining him.
    “Take it easy, Ron,” she ordered. “Sit down. Just sit down.”
    Sweetzer did as instructed. Delpy then looked at Gladden.
    “If you are going to continue this, I’ll have to make that call,” he said. “Where’s the phone, please?”
    “You’ll get the phone. Right after you’re booked. But you can forget the cigarettes. The county jail is a smoke-free facility. We care about your health.”
    “Booked on what charge? You can’t hold me.”
    “Pollution of public waterways, vandalism of city property. Evading a police officer.”
    Gladden’s eyebrows went up in a questioning look. Delpy smiled at him.
    “You forget something,” she said. “The trash can you threw into Santa Monica Bay.” She nodded in victory and turned off the tape recorder.
    * * *
    In the holding cell of the police station Gladden was allowed to make his call. When he held the receiver to his ear he smelled the industrial-strength soap they had given him to wash the ink off his fingers. It served as a reminder to him that he had to get out before the prints went through the national computer. He dialed a number that he had committed to memory the first night he had made it to the coast. Krasner was on the network list.
    At first the lawyer’s secretary was going to put him off but Gladden said to tell Mr. Krasner that the caller was referred by Mr. Pederson, the name suggested on the network bulletin board. Krasner came on the line quickly after that.
    “Yes, this is Arthur Krasner, what can I do for you?”
    “Mr. Krasner, my name is Harold Brisbane and I have a problem.”
    Gladden then proceeded to tell Krasner in detail what had happened to him. He spoke low into the phone because he was not alone. There were two other men in the holding cell, waiting to be transferred to the county jail at Biscailuz Center. One was lying on the floor asleep, an addict on the nod. The other was sitting on the opposite side of the cell but he was watching Gladden and attempting to listen to him because there was nothing else to do. Gladden thought he might be a plant, a cop posing as a prisoner so he could eavesdrop on his call to the lawyer.
    Gladden left nothing out save for his real name. When he was done Krasner was silent for a long time.
    “What’s that noise?” he finally asked.
    “Guy sleeping on the floor in here. Snoring.”
    “Harold, you shouldn’t be amongst people like that,” Krasner lamented in a patronizing tone Gladden disliked. “We’ve got to do something.”
    “That’s why I’m calling.”
    “My fee for my work on this today and tomorrow will be one thousand dollars. That is a generous discount. I offer it to those referrals I receive from … Mr. Pederson. If my involvement goes further than tomorrow, then we’ll have to discuss it. Will it be a problem for you to have the money?”
    “No, no problem.”
    “What about bail? After my fee, what can you do on bail? It sounds like pledging property is out of the question. Bondsmen need ten percent of the bail fixed by the judge. That amount is their fee. You won’t get it back.”
    “Yes, forget property. After taking care of your exorbitant fee I can probably go up to five more. That’s immediately. I can get more but it might be difficult. I want to keep it to five max and I want to get out as soon as possible.”
    Krasner ignored the remark about his fee.
    “Is that five thousand?” he asked.
    “Yes, of course. Five thousand. What can you do with it?”
    Gladden figured Krasner was probably kicking himself over