Hours later, I am in the courthouse holding cell watching an bizarre argument. The news media has descended enforce on the courthouse. The curb out front is lined with television vans. Reporters and filming crews are prowling about in the lobby and the courtroom upstairs was so packed with reporters that they are moving the proceedings to a larger courtroom. All the media attention is electrifying the marshals, they are arguing about who gets to escort me up to the courtroom.
“I have been here over 20 years,” states a senior marshal, “I’ve never seen anything like this media circus.”
Abruptly, a beefy female marshal comes up with a simple solution. “Why don’t we all go?” she urges.
A general nodding of heads lends approval to the idea. The Sergeant volunteers two of the youngest marshals to stay and watch over the holding tank. Then he suggests, “Let’s dress him up in lots of chains, make him look like a serious bad guy.” He looks at me despondently realizing I do not look the part of the scary hardened criminal. He shrugs, “Just throw the chains on him, the more, the better, the press will love it, big time photo op, it might even get our picture on the front page.”
Three of them wrap a chain around my waist twice, and then they cuff my hands and lock them to the waist chain. Another marshal attaches leg irons to my ankles with a two-foot chain leash then they attach an unnecessary chain from the cuffs to the leg irons, which the female marshal calls a decorative touch. I now rattle when I move.
They frog march me to the door that leads up to the main floor. Seven burly men and one macho woman pack tightly about me, whispering excitedly to each other—federal marshals at play and I am their new toy inmate-action figure.
The Sergeant leers, “Ready, Hot Shots?”
There is a high-pitched giggle of anticipation, which is not coming from the female marshal.
The Sergeant slams open the security door. The heavy steel slamming against the wall commands everyone’s attention as a phalanx of marshals charges up the stairs and plows into the crowded lobby. My feet are only occasionally in contact with the floor. The marshals are carrying me like a trophy, a flying wedge of malignant glee shoving people out of the way.
Everyone stares excitedly at the chained super-criminal. There are shouted questions and even louder bogus answers. Most figure me to be a serial mass murderer or crazed sexual predator. We pass a gentle-looking, older lady, she glares at me with hate-filled eyes and mutters something foul.
I want to shout that I am not that bad of a person, but the chains and heavy marshal escort nullifies my unspoken words.
The marshals force their way into an elevator, the people inside are rousted out. A man protests as the female marshal sends him spinning into the crowded lobby.
After the elevator doors close, the marshals chuckle amongst themselves, a gang of playground bullies happily comparing the individual damage they have done in the packed lobby.
The doors open to a corridor full of more reporters. Seeing the phalanx of marshals, the reporters quickly clear a path as we jostle our way into the courtroom.
Two marshals hustle me to a long table, the other six stand at the back wall—apparently ready to take me down if I tried anything. Morgan sits at the table rubbernecking at the sea of press. He has two attorneys with him.
A frazzled man in a cheap, ill-fitting suit introduces himself as my temporary public defender. He is looking oddly at my stainless steel hardware. “Is he a problem?” he nervously asks the female marshal standing with one hand on my shoulder.
“No, just being careful,” she lies, “he’s been a bit feisty.”
I look at him and grin as he slides his chair further away.
At another table, I see a tall-distinguished man in a prison jumpsuit with a lantern chin and rumpled silver hair with two attorneys and three legal assistants.
“Who’s the man at the other table?” I ask the Sergeant to my right, even though I know he must be DeLorean.
“Are you kidding?” he laughs, “That is John Z. DeLorean the famous automaker. You should see his wife.” Abruptly, an idea occurs to him. “Hey, Marge, have you seen DeLorean’s wife?” he asks the female marshal. “Cristina Ferrare is the world’s top supermodel. I’m canceling my vacation plans.”
The court proceedings are short as this is just a bail hearing. On the request of DeLorean’s lead attorney, John DeLorean’s bail is reduced from $20,000,000 to $5,000,000.
I am stunned at the enormous numbers.
Hetrick’s bail is also dropped from $20,000,000 to $5,000,000.
The judge glares at me, but then reduces my bail to $250,000. It is more money than I have earned in my entire life.
The DeLorean case would be called The Drug Trial of the Century, and it became an international media blitz. The extensive media coverage would last for years with feature articles and leading stories on every major network and newspaper in the industrialized world. Playboy Magazine would run a feature article on the case, which would please Morgan to no end. The most surprising aspect of the media coverage was when I read my name with DeLorean’s and Hetrick’s in a Doonesbury cartoon strip that ran for months. Soon I would learn a new term, celebrity inmate, which was not good news.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish