There was another hurried conference at the bench. I could see that the name Quinones had given the court some pause. He was the News’ attorney, an ex-senator, and one of the most prominent men on the island.
We all watched nervously as the conference continued. Finally the judge looked over and told us to stand. You will be released on bail, he said. Or you may wait in jail — as you like. He jotted something down on a piece of paper.
Robert Sala, he said. Sala looked up. You are charged with public drunkenness, disorderly conduct and resisting arrest. Bail is set at one thousand dollars.
Sala grumbled and looked away.
Addison Yeamon, said the judge. You are charged with public drunkenness, disorderly conduct and resisting arrest. Bail is set at one thousand dollars.
Yeamon said nothing.
Paul Kemp, said the judge. You are charged with public drunkenness, disorderly conduct and resisting arrest. Bail is set at three hundred dollars.
This was almost as much of a shock as anything that had happened all night I felt as if I’d committed a treachery of some kind. It seemed to me that I’d resisted well enough — had it been my screaming? Was the judge taking pity on me because he knew I’d been stomped? I was still pondering it as we were led out of the courtroom and into the hall.
What now? said Yeamon. Can Sanderson afford that kind of bail?
Don’t worry, I said. He’ll handle it. As I said it I felt like a fool. If worst came to worst, I could cover my bail out of my own pocket.
And I knew somebody would post Sala’s, but Yeamon was a different matter. Nobody was going to make sure he came to work on Monday. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that in a few minutes we were going to go free and he would go back to that cell, because there wasn’t a soul on the island with a thousand dollars who had even the slightest interest in keeping Yeamon out of jail.
Suddenly Moberg appeared, followed by Sanderson and the man who’d been huddling with the judge. Moberg laughed drunkenly as he approached us. I thought they were going to kill you, he said.
They almost did, I replied. What about this bail? Can we get that much money?
He laughed again. It’s paid. Segarra told me to sign a check. He lowered his voice. He said to pay the fines if they weren’t more than a hundred dollars. He’s lucky — there weren’t any fines.
You mean we’re out? said Sala.
Moberg grinned. Of course. I signed for it
Me too? said Yeamon.
Certainly, Moberg replied. The deed is done — you’re all free.
As we started for the door, Sanderson shook hands with the man he’d been talking with, and hurried after us. It was almost dawn and the sky was a light grey. Except for a few people around the police station, the streets were calm and empty. A few big freighters stood at anchor in the bay, waiting for morning and the tugboats that would bring them in.
By the time we got to the street, I could see the first rays of the sun, a cool pink glow in the eastern sky. The fact that I’d spent all night in a cell and a courtroom made that morning one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. There was a peace and a brightness about it, a chilly Caribbean dawn after a night in a filthy jail. I looked out at the ships and the sea beyond them, and I felt crazy to be free with a whole day ahead of me.
Then I realized I would sleep most of the day, and my excitement disappeared. Sanderson agreed to drop us at the apartment and we said good night to Moberg, who was going off to look for his car. He’d forgotten where he’d left it, but he assured us it was no problem. I’ll find it by the smell, he said. I can smell it for blocks. And he shuffled off down the street, a small figure in a dirty grey suit, sniffing for his car.