A Very Long Night

by Douglas Young

Table of Contents

Table of Contents
parts 1, 2, 3

conclusion

Desperate, he prayed:

Dear God, please help me get through this. Please give me the strength to withstand whatever comes my way. If I’ve done anything wrong this evening or broken the law, please help me man up and accept whatever the consequences, and please help my family and everyone I love not be harmed by this. I’m sorry for all my sins. Please forgive me. In Christ’s name I pray. Amen.

Pondering his bandmates, he felt a strange mix of confusion, disappointment and hurt. Why had they fled? Since they all had cans or bottles of beer on stage, the two of them under 21 could have been charged with underage drinking. He recalled seeing the two who were 21 and 22 smoke a marijuana joint before the show, and one often carried a bag of weed. Perhaps they dreaded a drug bust. Maybe they all just ran on a sudden impulse and assumed he would, too. However hard he tried to rationalize their escape, he felt a growing sense of abandonment. Suddenly he was significantly less upbeat about Planet Pax.

Then he noticed four girls standing about ten feet from the car looking at him. One was Giada. The moonlight and flashing lights illuminated her tortured expression, and he could see she had been crying. One of her friends had an arm around her.

“He is so scared,” he heard Giada cry. Ashamed to cause her such agony, he leaned his head back with closed eyes wondering how soon she might avoid him as damaged goods. Indeed, he shuddered at how the whole campus and small town could treat him. The specter of the college’s Rebel Yell and the Hardeeville Herald running lead stories about the arrest made him cringe.

At last Deputy Gray got inside and cranked up the car. As they started to move, Dorsey heard a thump on the vehicle’s back right window and saw a grieving Giada with her hand on it. Before he could react, the car pulled away. Looking at the rearview window, he saw a girl hugging Miss Giordano. Great, he lamented. How many other people will cry over this? The thought of his grandparents prompted him to shut his eyes and breathe deeply.

“Listen, dude,” Darius spoke up. “I know you’re scared, but I promise this ain’t the end of the world. Your folks’ll bail you out in a couple hours and the District Attorney may even drop the charges.”

Looking at Dorsey in the rearview mirror, he continued: “Yeah, man, see, there’ve been illegal concerts at that church for years, and we never broke any up. Old Sheriff Pritchard’s never bothered ‘bout ‘em ‘cause nobody lives near that church, and we never got any noise complaints. As for underage students drinking, I ‘spect he figures it’s better for ‘em to drink within easy walking distance of the college than driving downtown. But this new head deputy is just a hard-ass looking to make a name for hisself, ‘specially if Sheriff Pritchard don’t run for re-election next year. So don’t panic, man.”

“Thanks, Darius. All that means a lot. I really appreciate you.”

“No problem, man, and you the only one in that band man enough not to run away, too. You handling this well, dude.”

“Thanks.”

“Shoot.” He smiled. “This gon’ give you more street cred than you ever had, boy.” He laughed looking in the rearview mirror. “You gon’ be the coolest rebel on campus now. Chicks gon’ flock to you like you was a magnet, man.” He laughed again.

Dorsey caught himself smiling and had a dry chuckle. He did not believe it, but was grateful for the humor and especially the support.

They arrived at the E.L. Thomas County Sheriff’s Department where Darius helped Dorsey out of the car and led him inside. At the front desk, Dorsey was embarrassed to recognize an attractive Hispanic high school classmate, Salina Alvarez.

“Hey, Dorsey.” She greeted him with a sympathetic smile. “It’s good to see you. I’m just right sorry it’s like this.”

“Thanks.” He managed a weak smile as Darius took off his handcuffs. Only now did Dorsey feel how uncomfortable they had been.

“You’ll need to please empty your pockets, putting everything and your belt inside this envelope, and then fill out some paperwork as we process you,” Salina said gently.

Dorsey complied and Deputy Gray led him to a room to get fingerprinted. Another deputy took his mug shots against the opposite wall. Facing the camera, Dorsey recalled famous mug shots of Frank Sinatra, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison and President Trump. Should I try to look cool, angry, flippant, or what? he asked himself. Before he could decide, his front picture had been taken and he was asked to turn to the side.

As several deputies stood around chatting and occasionally looking at him, Dorsey put his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor. He was struck by how casual and even cheerful the officers were. Deputy Gray re-entered the room with a fresh print-out.

“Hey, man, I gotta’ read you the charges,” he announced. “Criminal trespass on private property, violating the noise ordinance, creating a public disturbance, serving alcohol without a license and serving alcohol to minors.”

“We didn’t serve beer to anybody. I don’t even drink,” an exasperated Dorsey stated barely above a whisper.

“Don’t worry, man.” Darius put his hand on his shoulder. “Your folks’ll get you a good lawyer who’ll get most of the charges dropped anyway, maybe even all of ‘em.”

He shook hands with Dorsey. “You gon’ get through this, man, and you taking it real well, too,” the deputy stated before smiling. “I seen big football players get arrested and bawl they eyes out like a baby.” He chuckled. “I’ll check on you later.”

Dorsey was so touched that he hugged Darius and was relieved the deputy hugged him back. He hoped he had not gotten him in trouble with his peers.

A large, middle-aged Black deputy leaning against the wall stepped forward. “Let’s head to the holding cell, Mr. Cullen.” Deputy Tyrone Jones motioned for him.

“Yes, sir,” Dorsey replied meekly.

“Whoo. A polite one. Y’all hear that? I can’t remember the last time a prisoner said that to me.” Deputy Jones shared a laugh with the other deputies as Dorsey tried to smile.

Walking down the hall, Dorsey was besieged by images of a motley crew of career criminals crowded together and itching to prey upon the naïve college boy. His chest tightened and he feared he might vomit.

To his enormous relief, the oversized cell had just one older, unshaven occupant sleeping on a cot against the back wall. Dorsey was also relieved that it was an open-air cell with bars. He hated to think what being in a closed room with other inmates behind a locked door could do to his claustrophobia.

“You can make your phone call soon. I’ll come get you. If you need anything, holler,” Tyrone told him.

“Okay. Thanks.” Dorsey nodded and sat on the cot against the left wall closest to the bars. To his surprise, his dominant emotion was no longer fear but loneliness. Instead of lots of prisoners full of noise, there was complete quiet amidst a jet-white, antiseptic setting.

Suddenly realizing he had a powerful urge to urinate and relieved no one was watching, he quickly used the cell’s lone open toilet and hoped flushing it would not wake his cellmate. It did not.

Retaking his seat, the clock in the hall revealed it was 3:15 a.m. Reflecting that the last two hours had been perhaps the best and worst of his life, Dorsey let out a long sigh and slumped against the wall. For the first time that night, his mind mercifully became blank as he stared at nothing. The evening’s emotional extremes had wrung his feelings dry, leaving him numb. Grateful he was no longer shaking, he wondered whether the worst was behind him and if the biggest bogeymen were actually in his head.

“Phone call time,” Deputy Jones soon announced. Not hearing his approach, Dorsey jumped and quickly stood. Butterflies began fluttering in his belly again at what could be the worst phone call of his life. Following Tyrone into a small room with his phone on a table, he rehearsed what to tell his father before resigning himself just to stating the facts. Despite all the recent tension, he knew his dad loved him and was deeply worried about him and, however stressful the call, Dorsey still preferred being scolded by his father to breaking the news to his mother.

“Oh,” the deputy added. “And bail’s just been set at $4,000.”

“Four thousand,” Dorsey cried incredulously.

“On account of all the charges,” Tyrone explained. “But just ten percent has to be put up for bail. So just $400.”

Relieved and not knowing how much time he had on the phone, Dorsey dialed his dad. After three rings during which he envisioned his father groping for the phone as his mother asked what it could be about, his dad answered.

“What’s wrong?”

“Ah... I’m okay. But... I’m in jail.” There was a pause.

“Why?”

“Um, the band played a late show at an abandoned church... and some sheriff’s deputies showed up saying we were trespassing and, ah, creating a public disturbance,... violating a noise ordinance and serving alcohol without a license... to minors.”

“Who is it? Dawson?” His mother’s alarmed voice cried.

“Your elder son is in jail—”

“Oh, my baby!” she shrieked as Dorsey put his hand to his head.

“And I guess you expect me to bail you out, huh?” his father asked.

“My son is not spending the night in jail, Dawson! If you won’t bail him out, I will,” his mother shouted.

“Suit yourself,” a suddenly livid Dorsey told his father and hung up.

Leaning against the wall with arms crossed, Deputy Jones lowered his head and raised his eyebrows. “You sure you don’t wanna’ tell me the line went dead and you need to call back?”

“No, sir. I’m done. Thanks.”

“Suit yourself. Let’s go.”

Walking back to the holding cell, Dorsey started to regret hanging up on his dad. He figured his father’s reaction was understandable, particularly at 3:30 in the morning. But Dorsey was determined not to take any more insults about his musical ambition.

For the first time that evening, he felt growing anger: at his father, the lead deputy having him arrested, his bandmates running out on him, whoever — if anyone — complained about the band’s volume when no one lived anywhere near the church and anyone else helping to hurl him into a jail cell when he was convinced he did nothing to anyone that evening. He lay down on the cot and closed his eyes.

Soon Deputy Jones returned. Dorsey opened his eyes and was relieved to see no additional company.

“Time to go.” Tyrone smiled.

“My parents have already posted bail?” an incredulous Dorsey asked, figuring he had only hung up the phone 20 minutes before.

“Must have.” The deputy shrugged and led Dorsey to the lobby where a smiling Salina handed him the big envelope with his belongings. Looking around the lobby but seeing neither parent, a confused Dorsey turned to her.

“Where are my folks?”

“I don’t know. You expecting them?” she asked.

“Who else would bail me out?” Dorsey asked.

Miss Alvarez’s face broke into a full grin as she looked to Dorsey’s right. Turning in that direction, Dorsey was stunned to see Giada Giordano coming out of the ladies’ room with a freshly-washed face breaking into a joyful smile.

Dorsey Cullen’s heart felt fuller than he could ever recall. With his eyes and mouth wide open, he was transfixed as Giada walked slowly and then quickly toward him. He opened his arms and they embraced for a long time. Dorsey was overcome with profound relief and deep gratitude. Whatever the ultimate fallout from this consequential morning, he was now convinced he would prevail and not be alone.

Salina Alvarez beamed at the young man and woman hugging in the lobby. Walking behind her chair, a smiling deputy leaned down and spoke: “True love.”