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Getting Ben-s Keyboard Back | Howard ShaferSo, okay, I’m just the girlfriend, and wha’do I know, but I think Ben got ripped off.
Ben claims Mark’s still his best friend. Some friend. Mark stole his keyboard and hocked it for a heroin fix. Ben says Mark couldn’t help himself ‘cause he’s got to have that fix, but come on, Ben makes his living playing reggae. What was he supposed to do when the cops had his keyboard. Let’s not even mention the missing foot pedal.
The keyboard was in the evidence room. Ben and I tried to get there before they closed. We found ourselves in this dim, creepy warehouse with decades worth of dust. The cop in charge was lounging behind a wire fence. It looked like a pawn shop in there, everything under the sun on the shelves. He said he had to have permission from Sergeant Bomber before he could let it go. I think he smirked. Bomber’s the detective who’s supposed to be in charge of this fiasco. We had to wait.
The next day Ben was on the phone every hour trying to get this Bomber guy. Finally he succeeded, and was told that the evidence room had all the permission they needed. But he had to go back. By then the evidence room was closed again.
The day after that Ben and I tried again. This time we got it. That’s when we discoverd the pedal was missing. Ben wanted to sign the release but add a note about the pedal. They wouldn’t let him. They said it wasn’t listed so they weren’t responsible.
They sent us to Lieutenant Crosswald, a huge cop with a paunch that completely buried his belt. He was Bomber’s boss. He picked up the phone and dialed the pawnshop. “This is Leutenant Crosswald of the Santa Clara County Sheriff’s Department. You are under arrest. Turn around and you will see police coming in the door. Har! Har!” His paunch rolled like an earthquake. He told them he wanted to find out what had happened to the pedal. You could tell he knew this pawnshop well. They claimed they never opened the case. Gimme a break. They didn’t know what they were buying? But in the same breath they said they would replace anything missing. It dawned on me they’d sold the pedal. That’s why they changed their pawn fee. Of course they weren’t about to admit it.
Whoa, whoa! Sorry. I’m getting way ahead of myself. Let me start at the start.
First of all, you need to know about Mark. Ignoring his habit, He’s most notable for his tattoos, the stupid peanut butter jar on one arm and especially how the naked lady on the other arm wiggles when he flexes his fist. Mark’s been Ben’s buddy since kindergarten. Even his using didn’t quash the friendship. This keyboard thing started when Mark ripped off his own mother. He pawned her silverware, which was the last straw for her. She had him arrested and told the cops everything she could think of he might have stolen including the keyboard. Mark claimed he would have gone and got it from the pawn shop as soon as he had the money, but you know that would be never, ‘cause it all goes for heroin. Anyway now it was evidence, and Ben couldn’t have it back until after the trial.
There was my cute Rastafarian wanna-be, golden dreadlocks under that African beanie, blue eyes that turn me to mush, and he had no keyboard and couldn’t play his music.
Okay, so it took weeks, and Ben had to rent a keyboard he hated, but finally the trial was over with Mark in some halfway house drying out. You’d think now Ben could have his keyboard. So he went to Sergeant Bomber and asked for it. End of story, right? No way. Sergeant Bomber thought this was some new theft and filed charges against Mark for ripping off the keyboard, and it was evidence again. I’m not sure I understand this. What was Ben supposed to do?
Ben dragged himself to Mark’s public defender and asked what gives. The public defender talked to the DA and came back saying, yeah, everyone agreed the keyboard was covered the first time, so they’d drop this charge at the new arraignment. But there was a catch. The court needed a letter from the pawn shop to release the keyboard, and the pawn shop wouldn’t write the letter unless somebody gave them back the $150 they paid for it. Who was going to pay? Mark sure as hell had no money. And who wanted the keyboard? Right, Ben. So there was Ben buying a cashier’s check for $150 to pay off the fence Mark sold his keyboard to. This is justice? But Ben was getting desperate, and I kept my mouth shut.
Now comes the big day when Mark’s supposed to get the charges dropped and my boyfriend’s supposed to get his keyboard back. Ben and I are in court at nine on the dot, but when they call Mark’s name he’s not there. Why wouldn’t Mark get his tattooed butt to court when they’re going to drop his charges? The judge tells them to write a bench warrant and go on to the next case. Ben is beside himself. He needs that goddam keyboard. It’s like it’s fallen into a parallel universe, except this universe is called the evidence room, and it looks like it’s going to stay there until kingdom come.
Ben dashes out to phone somebody who can do something. While he’s gone Mark comes in with his dad. He pleads with some official, all apologies and everything, claiming they were stuck in traffic, and the official tells the judge. But I can see the judge eyeing the peanut butter jar on Mark’s arm and hardly listening. Mark’s arraigned on the new charge and given a new court date. I run to find Ben to tell him what’s happening.
We get back to see Mark filling out forms for a new public defender. Then a public defender shows up, not the old one, and certainly not the one Mark’s filling out the form for, unless the justice system works way faster than I think it does. This guy wears a Goodwill suit and scuffed wingtips, and looks more like a crook than the crooks. He has a deal where charges will be dropped as soon as the pawnshop gets its check. Mark starts arguing that the charges against him have nothing to do with this stupid check. He’s riled up, and the lady on his arm twitches. He’s trying to help Ben, but nobody’s listening. Ben stands up and waves the check and tries to give it to somebody, but there’s no one from the pawnshop. It turns out nobody invited them.
Now it’s Ben’s turn to argue that the check has nothing to do with the charges. The public defender looks extremely hassled. His eyes dart from Ben’s dreadlocks to my boobs, then glaze over. He says he doesn’t have time to answer questions. This guy has way too much to do. He isn’t hearing anything. Ben yells he isn’t asking, he’s telling, and finally the guy’s eyes start to focus, and maybe he understands. He’ll go to the bailiff and get Mark’s paperwork back. But too late, it’s already been processed. Ben’s told to talk to the DA.
There’s a break, and we find the DA. The DA looks like a pillar of the community, elegant blue suit and fancy, yellow silk tie. I’m amazed considering this madhouse, but he listens. He asks Ben if he really wants the charges dismissed. Ben says, hell yes, all he wants is his keyboard. Mark’s already been convicted.
The upshot is the DA says he’ll add this to the agenda for the afternoon. Mark and Ben have to be there. This is not how I planned to spend this day.
So now it’s one in the afternoon, and we’re in Department 38, Judge Delbert M. Rupert presiding. The calendar on the door says Mark is an add-on. The DA is discussing something with an aggressive bitch in a pressed gray suit, who thinks she’s something, but her legs are fat, and she’s got a run in her hose. She’s rocking on last year’s clunky three inch heels. A woman in a uniform sits at a desk. I think she’s the bailiff. A cop wanders around the courtroom. A slut in a tight skirt, huge gold-hoop earings, her boobs spilling over her frilly white blouse, and wearing too much lipstick is leaning over a white-haired, bearded guy saying how the cops twisted her words when they arrested her boyfriend, and what should she do? Six orange-shirted, manacled prisoners are brought in and set down well separated from each other. The judge is not yet here. Neither is Mark.
Ben is panicking, and gets up to look for Mark. The DA tells me, of all people, that he’s waiting for someone from the pawnshop. So here we sit.
The bitch turns out to be the public defender. She’s going through the prisoners, discussing their cases with them. The slut with the boobs continues her “ain’t it awful” conversation with the bearded one, how she and her boyfriend have been mistreated. “How long is one hundred and eighty days?” she asks. “Is that four months?”
An hour goes by. It’s really hot in here, and my bra strap digs into me. The DA has left. A couple of new lawyers are talking to the prisoners. One prisoner asks loudly and smugly, can he go to the restroom. Two cops discuss it and let him. He clanks out dragging chains with him. I hope this isn’t my restroom he’s headed for. The judge has not arrived.
The prisoner who went to the restroom is back. He’s hispanic, pock-marked, about thirty years old. I think he’s the slut’s boyfriend. Now a skinny, white punk ambles toward the restroom, a grin on his face. He adjusts his chains as he walks.
It’s heading toward three o’clock. The courtroom is beginning to quiet down. Somebody has come in from the pawnshop, a shifty looking fortyish guy with a gold chain around his neck. At ten after three the judge enters. Everyone has to stand. He’s supposed to be awe-inspiring, the personification of justice. He wears black robes and sits high behind a rail, like he’s on a throne looking down on his subjects But he wears a black patch over one eye and looks like a pirate in a nightgown. When we’re sitting again the DA says he wants Mark to be called first. I look around panicked, but there he is, over in the corner. The DA explains to the judge how Mark’s already been tried on a related charge and in the interests of justice charges ought to be dropped. He sounds very pompous, doling out justice and mercy to low-lifes. Then he adds that Ben is there to pay restitution to the pawnshop.
I see the color rise in Ben’s face. He’s going to go ballistic. The victim is paying restitution to the fence? He’s struggling to get to his feet. I yank on his sleeve and pull him down again. “Shut up,” I hiss. “You want your keyboard or what?” He shuts up, but I can see the effort it’s taking.
Now the judge is talking to Mark. “However,” the judge says, “you don’t have your attorney here. Are you willing to give up your right to a lawyer?” What’s this? A new wrench thrown in this soap opera? But Mark says yes, and the judge says, “Then the case is dismissed.”
Next Ben is supposed to give the ransom money to the fence, but it is the wrong amount. Yes, it is what he was asked to bring, but somehow the pawnshop got it wrong, and they only want $125. Something is rotten, but we we don’t figure out what until later. Ben can’t get a new cashier’s check while the court waits, and he is not about to let this guy get away. He says to take the goddam $150, and fork over the letter. He wants the goddam keyboard. Well, he doesn’t exactly say that, but he wants to, I know. They take the money.
In the end Ben got the keyboard, even though he never got back the original pedal but some cheap replacement. He finally got to return his hated rental. And Ben’s still friends with Mark, who’s doing fine in his halfway house. We visited him recently. He looked good, the personification of health. That comes from being clean. He made the lady on his arm wiggle for me. His new friends admired Ben’s dreadlocks and flirted with me.
Maybe all’s well that ends well. But I still think Ben got ripped off.
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