Different Circles

“He fuckin’ deserved it,” Coop said simply. “The motherfucker blabbed his fuckin’ mouth to some reporter and spread Celia’s and Teach’s dirty laundry all over the place. I’m glad I did it. I’d do the same thing again.”

“What did you do?” she asked as they rode the elevator up. “Did you just knock on his door and start beating on him?”

“Naw, I gave him a chance to explain himself first.”

“What did he say?” she asked.

“He kept saying he didn’t do it, that he had no idea what I was talking about. So I asked him why the bitch who wrote the article thought Suzie was the copilot. He said he didn’t know why she would think that. Then I reminded him that I heard him introduce himself as Celia Valdez’s personal pilot a hundred times, and that I have even heard him call Suzie his lesbo copilot, and then mentioned that that exact phrase had been quoted in the story. He still said he didn’t know what I was talking about, but I could tell he was lying about it.”

“How could you tell?”

He shrugged. “I just knew. Can’t you tell when someone is lying to you?”

“Yeah,” she said. “A lot of the time I can. When you deal with record company suits and their lawyers, you get kind of good at lie detection.”

“Exactly,” he said. “I just knew he was lying. And I told him that.”

“And then what happened?”

“He told me one more time he didn’t have anything to do with that story. By that time, I was done listening to him. I started punching.” He shook his head in disgust. “That fuckin’ pussy seriously does not know how to fight. He never even managed to hit me once. He was only able to block like two of my punches.”

Pauline was not quite sure what to say to that, so she said nothing. The elevator reached the top floor, where their suites were. The doors slid open and they stepped out.

“How much trouble am I in for this shit, Pauline?” Coop asked her. “One of them cops that arrested me told me they’re charging me with a felony, that I could get ten years for this shit. Am I going to end up in that fucked up prison that Stephen King is always writing about?”

“That’s not going to happen, Coop,” she assured him.

“It’s not?”

“It’s not. First of all, that prison is fictional.”

“Fictional? What does that mean?”

“It means it is fiction,” Pauline explained. “As in, it does not really exist.”

“No shit?” Coop asked. He seemed a little disillusioned by this revelation.

“No shit,” she confirmed. “And, second of all, I’ve already talked to Aristocrat. They have hired the best criminal defense lawyer in Maine—who happens to practice right here in Bangor—and he’s going to meet with you in your suite tomorrow. He’ll get this reduced down to a simple assault charge and get you clearance to leave the state and the country so you can finish the tour.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she said. “Justice for money. It’s the American way, right?”

“Yeah,” Coop said, “that is the way the fuckin’ world works.”

And, of course, Pauline was right. After conferring with Arthur Bradford III, attorney at law, who charged Aristocrat Records eleven hundred dollars an hour, with a minimum of twelve hours of billing, plus court appearance fees in the amount of another six thousand, the Penobscot County DA himself decided to reduce the charge to a simple misdemeanor assault on the grounds that an ordinary old broken jaw, broken teeth, and concussion did not rise to the level of “great bodily harm” that was required to prove a class C felony. The next day, at the preliminary hearing, the Honorable Jefferey T. Smith agreed (over the stern objection of the deputy DA assigned to prosecute) to release Mr. Cooper on his own recognizance and allow him to leave the jurisdiction and even the country to finish out his contractually obligated touring duties. Mr. Cooper would return to Bangor on June 25, 1996, during the hiatus between the end of the North American tour and the beginning of the European tour, to face trial in the matter. Arthur Bradford III let Coop know that there was a better than even chance that the DA would decide to simply drop the charges before then.

By this point, Jake and Laura had returned to Bangor and been briefed in on the situation. Jake’s concerns with the matter were more practical.

“Can you still play the drums, Coop?” he asked. “With your hand all fucked up like that?”

It was a legitimate concern. They were supposed to appear in Quebec City in less than forty-eight hours. The trucks and buses with the roadies and equipment were already on their way.

“I can play,” he assured Jake. “I got this wrist brace thing they gave me at the hospital, and I’ll keep the fingers buddy taped together.”

“What about the stitches?”

“I’ll wrap ‘em up real tight,” he said. “I’ll get by. The fuckin’ show must go on.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Jake told him. He looked at the drummer meaningfully. “Was it worth it?”