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  She got up to greet them as they opened the door.

  "Hello. How was your evening?"

  "Very nice, Stephanie. Thank you. How's Lars?"

  "He's a little sweetheart. We played with some of his toys for awhile, I gave him the warm milk and he fell right asleep."

  Betty checked the kitchen. Everything ship-shape. Beadles pulled out his wallet and paid Stephanie forty bucks. "Thank you very much."

  "Thank you, Professor. And if you need me again please call."

  Betty went to check on Lars. Beadles waited until Stephanie had taken her bike down to the street and left before turning off the outside lights and locking the door. He went into the bedroom and took off his sports jacket. The disconnect between Liggett's effusive praise and their personal chemistry bothered him. The department head didn't like him. There had been nothing overt. A few disparaging comments about their own "GQ celebrity," an instant of undisguised lust directed at Betty.

  Mrs. Liggett was bigger than her husband and had a sour expression. Beadles had no doubt their home life was less than ideal.

  Betty swept into the room. "Lars is down for the count! Give me a minute to slip into something more interesting…"

  Bam. Just like that he had a stiffy. Beadles peeled off his shirt and trou. Betty came out of the bathroom wearing a filmy black baby doll. As they made love he couldn't help thinking does it get any better?

  "Did you see Doris Liggett?" Betty said lying in his arms after. "She looked like she was training for a pie-eating contest."

  "Now Betty. Be nice."

  "The Haverhills are going to have us over for dinner."

  "Who's that again?"

  Betty stretched languidly. "Ollie Haverhill runs Madwire Media. I ran into him at the bar. His wife Lois heads the Illinois Women of Influence. They've asked me to join them."

  "That's great, Bet!"

  "So all of a sudden you're an Indian?"

  Beadles felt a ripple of shame. "I thought you knew that."

  "Let me guess. Cherokee."

  "Yes, that's right. I knew I told you."

  "No you didn't tell me. I guessed Cherokee because every white American who claims Indian blood says Cherokee. Don't ask me why. Maybe it's that long march. Maybe they impregnated every farmer's daughter along the way."

  "My mother told me I had Indian blood," Beadles said in a slightly defensive tone. "It's part of our family history. I think my great, great grandmother on my mother's side was a full-blooded Cherokee."

  "Show me the papers."

  "I don't got to show you no stinkin' papers!" Beadles said.

  Heavy pounding on the door.

  Beadles and Betty looked at each other in astonishment. Who could it be at that hour of the night?

  The pounding resumed. A muffled shout.

  Betty looked at Beadles with bafflement. "Did he just say it was the police?"

  Beadles pulled his trousers on and threw on a Catamount T-shirt. He padded through the darkened house. The living room danced gaily with red and blue strobes through the front window. Beadles looked out the front door. Two police cars had pulled up, one in front and one in the drive. Three police officers stood on the porch waiting to be let in.

  ***

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "Nightmare On Maple Street"

  The cops were big. They were city cops, unknown to Beadles. Beadles opened the front door. The lead cop handed Beadles a folded warrant.

  "Mr. Beadles, I'm Officer Whitaker of the Creighton Police Department. We have a warrant to search your home for artifacts believed to be taken from a collection owned by the university."

  Beadle's face looked like counter-rotating gears. "Are you serious?"

  "We're very serious, Mr. Beadles. If you'll please step aside."

  Beadles looked at their uncompromising faces and stepped back. They all looked like linebackers. Betty appeared in the hallway wearing a terrycloth robe.

  "What is it?"

  Lars started to cry.

  "These gentlemen have a warrant. They think I've stolen artifacts from the university."

  "That's ridiculous!" Betty snapped, whirling and heading toward their son. One cop moved as if to stop her but Whitaker put a hand on his arm. A lady cop appeared. Her tag said Gonzalez.

  "Officer," Whitaker said, "follow Mrs. Beadles and keep her company."

  Like she was going to take the baby and run. Beadles watched in horror as the fat-hipped lady cop walked down the corridor, her black service shoes echoing on the hardwood floor. Soon Betty reappeared holding a fussy Lars accompanied by Officer Gonzalez.

  "Do I have the right to know who's accused me of theft?" Beadles said with a self-righteous stain.

  "The document was generated by a credible but confidential source," Whitaker said. "We're only following the judge's orders."

  A cop went to the basement stairs and turned on the light. Drawing a flashlight he descended followed by a fourth cop who had come in the door. Beadles felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. It wasn't possible. How could they know? The moisture fled from his mouth as he listened to the cops opening drawers and moving boxes.

  "This is ridiculous," Betty hissed. Lars kept up a low level sob. "Do you mind if I put my child back to bed?"

  Whitaker nodded at Gonzalez. "Please accompany Mrs. Beadles."

  They disappeared down the hall leaving only Beadles and Whitaker.

  "This is somebody's idea of a malicious prank," Beadles said.

  "Sir," the cop said, "do you have any firearms in the house?"

  Beadles goggled. "What? What is this, a fishing exhibition? No, I don't have any firearms in the house!"

  There was a grunt from below. Minutes later the two cops emerged, the one in front toting a cardboard box. He set the box on the floor between Beadles and Whitaker and shined his flashlight in it. The interior contained an Anasazi pot, six inches tall by seven wide, decorated with the characteristic squiggle of the Azuma. Beadles had never seen it before. It easily could have come from the collection. He hadn't even started to catalog and had only looked at a small portion.

  "I've never seen that before!" he protested.

  Whitaker drew his cuffs. "Sir, you're under arrest for theft. Please turn around."

  In a stupor Beadles turned his back. He felt the cold steel of the cuffs clamp around his wrists. Like some stupid nightmare.

  "Sir I am advising you of your Miranda Rights. Anything you say can and will be used against you. You are entitled to have a lawyer present during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, the court will provide one. Do you understand these rights?"

  "Yes. Yes, goddamn it! Betty! Call Mel Berenson! Tell him what's happening!"

  Betty ran down the hall sans Lars, terrycloth robe flapping. She looked at her handcuffed husband. "Oh no. Oh no. There's got to be some mistake."

  "Betty! Did you hear what I said? Call Mel! Get him out of bed! Have him meet me down at the fucking jail! Where are you taking me?"

  "Steubenville Justice Center on 10th St. I doubt a judge will be available to grant your bail at this hour. The earliest that could happen would be nine Monday morning."

  Betty watched in shock and disbelief as the cops took Beadles, one at each elbow, led him down the stairs and put him in the back of one of the cruisers.

  "Jesus fucking Christ!" Betty said.

  "Ma'am," Officer Gonzalez said coming up behind her. "There's no call for that kind of language."

  ***

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "Jailhouse Talk"

  The cell was made of yellow-painted cinderblocks and contained two steel bunks on opposite walls, hanging from chains. It smelled of piss and disinfectant. There was a stainless steel toilet with a sink over it on the wall between the cots. Beadles, deprived of his belt, sat on one cot with his head in his hands. A black kid with an explosion of weasel tails on his head sat opposite. He wore a gray wife beater exposing blue tats, a cut torso and baggy cargo pants.

&nb
sp; "Hey man whatchoo in for? They holdin' me on a federal beef. I hacked into Homeland Security's Atlanta Fusion Center. Man, I had those babies looking at naked women on rooftops! They think I'm some kinda terrorist threat all I want to do is look at naked women! I could shut them all down I wanted."

  Dude had to be piped on meth. He radiated a raw animal odor as he gesticulated like a signer for the deaf.

  "Hey my name's Ninja. Whatchoo in for?"

  Beadles looked up. "They think I stole a pot from the university."

  Ninja snapped his head on his long neck like a towel. "Whaaaaat? You stole pot from the u-ni-VERS-ity?"

  "Not pot as in reefer--a clay pot."

  "That's fucked up man."

  "I didn't! It's some kind of set-up! I've been framed. Now I'm trying to figure out who and why."

  Certainly the distinguished head of Anthropology would never stoop to such a thing. Why? Out of pique? Because Beadles had once made fun of him? That would make Liggett a psycho, and psychos didn't get to head major anthropology departments.

  "Hey man, what's your name?" Ninja said with a hint of impatience.

  Beadles looked at him. Two men in a cage. It always came down to this. Can I take him? Beadles thought that he could. Beadles had boxed in college and still sparred regularly at the University Health Club. He had a black belt in karate. He was four inches taller and had Ninja by at least forty pounds. Ninja looked like a Mad Max extra but his brain was probably fried on meth.

  "Vaughan," Beadles said.

  "So what were you gonna do with that pot, Vaughan, fence it or what? It must be some kind of rare sumbitch like something you'd see on Pawn Stars or something 'cause fucking pots are hard to fence, y'know? I mean, it's bulky, it's breakable, it's a piece of shit! I was gonna steal something it would be something valuable like a diamond or some gold or something, you know what I'm sayin'?"

  Beadles was developing a healthy loathing for his cellmate. A baton banged against the barred door. Outside stood a jailer the shape and size of a refrigerator. "You two lovebirds shut the fuck up," he said, "or ahmina come back and mace ya. That means you, Preston."

  He glared to punctuate his message, satisfied when the occupants had turned away.

  As soon as the guard moved on Ninja spoke in whisper. "Hey man you gotta mouthpiece? I know a Jew lawyer slicker 'n' a preacher. Name's Feldstein you want I could put a word in for you. He's my lawyer."

  "I have a lawyer," Beadles replied lying down and staring at the ceiling. Maybe motormouth would get the hint.

  No such luck. "Yeah? Who's your lawyer? I know a lot of lawyers in this town."

  I'll bet you do.

  "Does it matter?" Beadles said softly willing Ninja to shut up.

  "Fuck it matters! You probably got some high-priced corporate asshole or tax lawyer don't know shit about the criminal justice system."

  Snap! Ninja was exactly right. But Mel also knew most of the lawyers in the city and if he didn't feel capable of handling the situation he would pass Beadles on to the right man.

  Ninja suddenly got to his feet and in one smooth motion dropped his trousers and swiveled his ass onto the stainless steel toilet. Seconds later he exploded releasing a cloud of poison from which there was no escape. Beadles buried his mouth in his sleeve and turned to the wall.

  "Sorry, man. I had a parastaltic rush. When you gotta go you gotta go, you know what I'm talkin' about?"

  Beadles willed the man gone.

  "Hey," a guttural whisper. "Hey I'm talkin' atchoo."

  Beadles sat up and faced his cellmate who had returned to his cot. Beadles held his sleeve in front of his face. "I don't wish to appear unfriendly but this is extremely difficult for me. Could you just give me some space here to figure it out?"

  Ninja put his hands up a placating manner. "Okay. Okay. Don't go all gangsta on me, y'hear?"

  Beadles lay back down with his arms crossed and stared at the ceiling. He could hear Ninja muttering to himself but as long as he wasn't interactive that was enough. He remained awake all night until pale morning light crept in through the cube-like window high up on the outside wall. They'd taken his watch so he had no idea of the time. About an hour after sunlight, when Ninja had finally run out of fuel and was contorted on his cot facing the wall, two guards came by and delivered two box breakfasts consisting of cardboard coffee cups, packets of creamer and sugar, a cold, uncooked English muffin, a small tin of Philadelphia cream cheese, an apple, an individual tub of applesauce, and a napkin. No utensils.

  It was Sunday.

  Beadles mutilated his cream cheese tin to spread it on the cold English muffin. He ate the applesauce directly from the tub. He poured all the packets of creamer and sugar into the coffee which still tasted like cardboard. He rinsed out the cup and used it to drink water from the faucet above the toilet.

  Ninja awoke with a jolt, looked at Beadles as if seeing him for the first time, saw Beadles' empty breakfast box, looked down and saw his own beneath his bunk. He picked it up and looked inside.

  "Why you not eat my breakfast?" he said, honestly bewildered.

  "It's your breakfast," Beadles replied.

  "Shit. I woke up first, I would have eaten yours."

  Beadles crossed his arms, sat back and stared at the wall.

  "Okay," Ninja said. "Okay." He ate his breakfast.

  There was a blessed five minutes of silence filled with the echoes and shouts from other inmates.

  "My man Feldstein gonna get me outta here," Ninja said. "You got a mouthpiece?"

  "We had this conversation last night, don't you remember?"

  "I don't remember nothing, man. Whatchoo in here for anyway?"

  Beadles felt as if he were trapped in a bizarro version of Groundhog Day. "Theft. A pot."

  Ninja' face lit with recognition. He pointed. "That's right! You stole the fuckin' pot from the university! You a gangsta!"

  Twenty-four hours later the door opened. "Let's go, Mr. Beadles," said the refrigerator.

  ***

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "Initial Appearance"

  Mel Berenson waited in the jail foyer to accompany his client across the street to the courtroom. Berenson was a tall, dignified man with glasses and a Roman nose. He'd handled the closing on Beadles' house and other matters that had come up over the years. He watched as a jailer returned Beadles' belt, watch, and wallet.

  Beadles remained uncuffed accompanied by a policeman as they took the elevator to the second floor and from there an enclosed pedestrian bridge over 10th St. to the courthouse, a Georgian revival with fluted columns. The streets were alive with vehicular and pedestrian traffic, people going about their Monday morning business.

  "Vaughan," Berenson said. "I read the warrant. I assume you had nothing to do with this."

  "Absolutely not. It's a frame-up."

  "Well let's just let that slide until we get you out of here. Considering your lack of record and standing in the community I don't think we'll have to wait too long."

  "How's Betty?" Beadles said.

  "She's coping. She called her parents who are driving down from Elgin to be with her."

  Great. Betty's parents had never really warmed to Beadles, although they put up a good front. They were hide-bound conservatives who were not shy about expressing their opinions and turned every family get-together into a harsh debate.

  They joined a half dozen supplicants, their lawyers and police in the corridor outside the courtroom and sat on marble benches beneath a painting of Lincoln.

  "You need anything? Coffee? There's a vending machine downstairs."

  "No thanks, Mel. Let's just get this over with."

  Shortly the bailliff called them into the court. Judge Shirley F. Black was a wizened crone with pince nez peering down at them like a hawk at a mouse. The bailliff called their case.

  "Creighton University versus Vaughan Beadles."

  "This is grand larceny, Mr. Beadles. How do you plead?"

  "My client
pleads not guilty, your honor," Mel said.

  "I'd prefer to hear that from the client if you don't mind."

  "Not guilty, your honor."

  Black pored over papers four inches from her nose. "Very well, Mr. Beadles. I'm not going to set a trial date because judging from your history I expect you and the university to come to some kind of agreement before then. Bail is hereby set at five thousand dollars."

  "Five thousand dollars, your honor?" Berenson said. "Isn't that a little steep for a first-time offense?"

  "Well according to my documents Mr. Beadles was arrested for shoplifting in Rockford in 2005."

  "That was a misunderstanding, your honor," Beadles said. Berenson looked at him reproachfully.

  "We're satisfied with the bail, your honor," Berenson said.

  Black nodded her head. The door to the hall popped open with a degree of urgency. Whitaker appeared before the judge clutching a warrant.

  "Your honor, if I may?"

  The judge nodded. "Go ahead, officer."

  "Last night one of Professor Beadle's students, Rob Whitfield, died from a poisonous insect sting that occurred when Beadles violated university policy and a non-disclosure agreement he had signed and admitted Whitfield illegally to view a closed exhibit. That makes Professor Beadles an accessory to manslaughter. Professor, I'm placing you under arrest for involuntary manslaughter."

  Whitaker whipped out his handcuffs.

  ***

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "Phil Ruby"

  This time Beadles had a cell to himself. Betty came to see him in the afternoon. They ushered him into a common room with a formica counter running down the center and individual cubicles separating the inmates from visitors with a thick, plexiglass shield. There was a slot at the bottom like they have in box offices but everything was done under the watchful eyes of two armed guards and cameras in every ceiling corner. There were three other guys on his side spread out among the six slots.