* * *
The holding cells at Cook County Jail are overcrowded bullpens of chain-link fence, the sour, putrid smell inside strong enough to singe nose hair. Carmine sat in the corner of one with his head down, surrounded by dozens of murderers, druggies, and thieves. People bickered, scuffles breaking out between rival detainees. On edge, he tried to maintain his strength, but he was dangerously close to cracking.
It was after nightfall when they booked him into the system. He was taken to a small room where he sat across from a lady who asked a lot of questions he had no desire to answer. He humored her with the basics, like his name and date of birth, but when she asked how he felt or if he was suicidal, he remained silent.
The love of his life was missing and his ability to help was gone. Instead of being out there, searching, he was trapped in a room with this nosy bitch asking him if he felt angry. Of course he was angry. Wasn’t he supposed to be?
They gave up and ordered him out, writing an identification number on his arm in permanent marker before fingerprinting him and taking mug shots. He stared at the number the whole time, feeling sick at the sight of it. They had stripped him of his name. He was now number 2006-0903201.
An intake officer photographed Carmine’s tattoos as he continued to glare at the number. “Are you affiliated with any gangs?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? LCN counts as a gang.”
“LCN?”
“You know, the Mafia?”
Carmine cut his eyes to him. “There is no Mafia.”
The officer wrote something in his file before sending Carmine to be strip searched. By the time he put on that orange jumpsuit for protective custody, he felt like he had been thoroughly fucked.
They took him to division nine, placing him in a small cell on the top tier. It was closed in and suffocating, no bars or windows to the outside. The green paint on the thick metal door flaked, words scratched into it. He had nothing but a light and a threadbare blanket, the mattress no thicker than egg crate foam.
Hours slipped by while Carmine lay there, staring at the ceiling. Inmates yelled around him, sirens going off as guards ran by the door. He barely slept, tossing and turning in agony all night.
The next morning they came by with a breakfast tray, but he refused to eat their food, demanding they get him a lawyer. The same thing happened with lunch—he ignored their food, and they ignored his questions. He was infuriated by the time dinner rolled around, utterly exhausted and frantically pacing the cell. He heard someone walking up and expected another tray to be shoved inside but was surprised when two correctional officers unlocked his door.
“You have a visitor,” one of them said, handcuffing and shackling him before leading him to a small holding room. A hefty balding man sat inside at a table, a briefcase open in front of him. He looked up when Carmine entered and motioned for him to sit. The corrections officer secured Carmine before leaving them alone.
“My name’s Rocco Borza, attorney at law. Celia Moretti contacted me about you.” He pulled out some paperwork, sliding it across the table to Carmine along with a pen. “I need you to sign this, agreeing to let me handle your case, and anything you say is confidential.”
Carmine scanned the papers and awkwardly signed the lines the best he could with his restraints, before sliding them back.
“First of all, I need to know if you’ve spoken to anyone,” he said, slipping the papers into his briefcase. “Have they attempted to interrogate you?”
“No,” he said. “They haven’t even explained why I’m here.”
“They charged you with possessing a fraudulent government document,” he said. “It’s a class-four felony but can easily be knocked down to a misdemeanor. You should’ve been given a probable cause hearing within a few hours and been released on bail.”
“Then why am I sitting in that damn cell?”
“They can detain you for a reasonable amount of time,” he said. “But truthfully? You’re there because you’re the son of Vincenzo Roman DeMarco, the nephew of Corrado Alphonse Moretti, and the godson of Salvatore Gerardo Capozzi. You don’t get much more notorious than that.”
“That’s fucked up,” Carmine said. “I have nothing to do with their business.”
“Guilty by association,” he said. “Having you released is my number one priority right now. Lucky for you, it shouldn’t be more than a few days.”
“Days? I’m supposed to stay in this place for days?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I’ll request a hearing, but it’ll take time to get in front of a judge.”
Mr. Borza walked out as the corrections officer patted Carmine down before escorting him to his cell, where a tray of food awaited him. He conceded to hunger, grabbing the container of pudding and sitting on the lumpy bed.
* * *
The second day of Carmine’s incarceration passed similar to the first. Sometime in the evening, an officer came by to tell him he had another visitor. Relief washed through him, as he figured Mr. Borza had news, but the familiar man waiting was clearly not his lawyer.