I crossed the street and rang the Pottses’ doorbell. A skinny guy with a large nose and mousey brown ponytail answered.
“George?” I asked.
“Oh jeez,” he said. “I know who you are. How did you find me?”
“You gave this as your address,” I told him. “It’s on your bond application.”
“Oh yeah. I forgot about that.” He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “So, what’s up?”
“You missed your court date. You have to reschedule.”
“Did they tell you I have PTSD?”
“No. Were you in the military?”
“No. College. It was a bad trip.”
“Okay, but you still need to reschedule.”
“Here’s the thing. I don’t want to involve my parents. They’re sort of freaked-out about me. My mom won’t go to the bakery anymore because… you know.”
“I do,” I said. “I know. That was an unfortunate emergency.”
“Yes! OMG, you understand. That’s so amazing. Thank you.”
“Sure, but you still have to reschedule your court date.”
“I get it,” Potts said. “How do we do this?”
“I can take you to the courthouse and get you re-bonded.”
“That would be cool. That would be amazingly cool. And we don’t have to involve my parents?”
Here’s the dilemma. If I say his parents won’t be involved, it’s not a fib, but the reality is he won’t get out of jail unless he finds someone else to post his bond. If I tell him the whole story, he probably won’t get in my car.
“What do you want to hear?” I asked him.
“Something good. Like you want to come in and hang out in my room with me.”
“Not going to happen.”
“I have a PlayStation and a big tub of cheese puffs. They’re made from corn and the cheese dust is lactose free.”
“No. Never.”
“That’s harsh. Never is a long time.”
“Are you going downtown with me, or do I have to get your parents involved?”
“Wow,” he said, “you play hardball.”
I pulled cuffs out of my back pocket and clapped one on his wrist, and he squealed like a pig.
“Get it off! Get it off!” he said, jumping away. “I don’t like it. I’m feeling anxiety. I’m feeling panic. I’m feeling faint. Call 911. I need a doctor. I need a paper bag. I need a joint.”
“I haven’t got any of those things,” I said. “Do you want me to get your mother?”
“No! Not my mother. I’m feeling better. I just need a moment. You surprised me. I’m not good with surprises.”
“I should put the other bracelet on you,” I said.
“Is that necessary?”
“They like it at the police station. It’s a security thing.”
He held his hand out, so I could put the cuff on him. “I guess you never know who’s going to be dangerous,” he said.
“Exactly.”
“I’m not very dangerous. I’m mostly fearful and I have allergies.”
I led him across the street and got him settled into the backseat of my car.
“I’m allergic to cats and bananas and garlic and marigolds and wool and macadamia nuts and wheat gluten and cucumbers,” he said. “There are other things, too. There’s a long list of things I’m allergic to, but I’m not allergic to peanuts. For instance, I could have a peanut butter sandwich as long as it’s on gluten-free bread.” He was silent for a long moment. “Do you think they have gluten-free bread in prison? I get the poops if I eat wheat bread.”
I turned onto Hamilton Avenue and glanced at Potts in the rearview mirror. “Hopefully you won’t have to go to prison,” I said. “You were accused of a nonviolent crime, so maybe you’ll just get community service.”
“That would be awesome,” he said. “I’m all about community service.”
“Do you volunteer anywhere?”
“No, but I think about it sometimes. I wanted to volunteer at the zoo in Philadelphia, but it turned out I was allergic to giraffe dander. And they’re very big when you get up close. I’m not comfortable with animals that are bigger than me.”
“You aren’t having any allergic reactions now, are you?” I asked. “Like gluten?”
“No. I’m okay. I’m a little apprehensive, but that’s normal for me. Did I tell you I have PTSD?”
“Yes.”
“It makes me apprehensive.”
Having Potts in my car was making me apprehensive.
“Do you mind if I hum?” he asked. “Humming helps to settle my stomach.”
I checked him out in the mirror again. “You have a stomach problem?”
“It happens when I get apprehensive. I get a nervous stomach.”
I was less than ten minutes away from the courthouse and police station. If I stopped to get the shower curtain out of the back, I’d add at least three minutes. Best to drive faster and take a chance he wouldn’t spew before I pulled into the parking lot, I thought.
“Go ahead and hum,” I said.
“Sometimes my humming bothers people,” he said.
“Not me,” I told him. “Hum all you want.”
After seven minutes of listening to tuneless humming I thought letting him throw up in the car might have been a better choice. I sped into the lot across from the municipal building, slid into a parking slot, and jumped out of the car. I stood for a moment, enjoying the sound of traffic.
Court was still in session, so I took Potts directly to the judge. If the judge had the time and inclination to see him and Potts could make bail, Potts could avoid spending the night in jail.
* * *
Connie was alone when I walked into the office.
“I have a body receipt for Potts,” I said.
Connie’s eyebrows raised a little. “Didn’t he want to get bailed out again?”
“He refused to call his parents, and he had no one else he could ask.”
“There’s more,” Connie said. “I know you. You have that look.”
“What look?”
“The look like you want to poke your eye out with a sharp stick.”
I slumped into the uncomfortable plastic chair in front of her desk. “I put up his bail.”
“Excuse me?”
“It was small. I put it on my credit card. I couldn’t just leave him there. The man is a car crash. He has all these allergies and insecurities. And he has PTSD.”
“Jeez. Don’t drive past the Humane Society on your way home. You’ll go home with a box of kittens.”
“He hums,” I said to Connie. “Parts of songs. Over and over. And sometimes he hums nothing.”
Connie took my body receipt and wrote out a check for the capture. “My Uncle Big used to hum like that,” she said. “One day he was humming, and someone shot him… twelve times.”
“Because he was humming?”
“Maybe, but he was also trying to hijack a truck full of sneakers.”