Waylon was a loser. He took to a life of crime at an early age and never really deviated from it. He was not smart enough for fraud or anything that involved much thought which kept him away from any activities that involved thought or preparation. Nor was he big enough to rob or deal drugs. Petty theft was his metier. He was usually caught quickly and had been in and out of the local jail for years with occasional diversions to the prisons at Hobbs or Santa Fe. If he had put the same perseverance into a more conventional lifestyle his life might have been more successful. He had jobs, laboring, fast food, menial work was within his compass, but he never kept them for long. He would get fired for tardiness, absenteeism or petty pilfering. Also he was chronically lazy.
We knew him well at the PDO. Whenever he was arrested he would ask for his favorite attorney, Ruth, but on this occasion she was busy so he was assigned me.
"Where's Ruth" he demanded when I introduced myself.
"She's busy. I've been assigned to your case."
"She knows me. I want her. I know my rights."
"You have a right to a public defender. You do not have the right to choose one."
"Why not?"
"You could petition the state legislature and good luck. Meanwhile, what do they say you did?"
Small private communities in San Juan county have a bank of mailboxes outside the gates. Seems that Waylon had hit on the bright idea of opening these boxes and stealing the mail hoping to find a money order or something valuable he could sell. On this occasion, his third attempt, he had been apprehended lugging a duffel bag stuffed with mail addressed to everyone in the world apart from him.
"I had just found that bag and was taking it to the police. They didn't believe me."
"Do you know where the bag came from?"
"No. It was by the road."
"What were you doing out near Bloomfield. You live in Farmington."
"Visiting a friend."
"We will contact him to confirm that."
"He wasn't there."
"Oh."
There was a pause as he appeared to be taking stock of his situation. Stealing the mail is a serious business. Federal and all that.
"I want to talk to the cops and explain everything. I didn't do anything."
"I suggest you don't do that yet."
"Why? You're here. You'll see that I don't say anything dumb."
I thought that would be as easy as knitting snot but kept the thought to myself.
"Officer!" he yelled. Made me jump. "I want to say something."
A detective I didn't know came in and asked if he wanted to make a statement.
"A statement. Yeah."
The detective glanced at me. "Good. You OK with this Counselor?"
"My clients call."
"What do you want to say?"
Waylon looked up at the ceiling. "I wasn't near any mailboxes."
The detective looked at his file. "The tread pattern on your shoes is a perfect match for footprints found at the site."
"I wasn't wearing these shoes then."
Done.
We knew him well at the PDO. Whenever he was arrested he would ask for his favorite attorney, Ruth, but on this occasion she was busy so he was assigned me.
"Where's Ruth" he demanded when I introduced myself.
"She's busy. I've been assigned to your case."
"She knows me. I want her. I know my rights."
"You have a right to a public defender. You do not have the right to choose one."
"Why not?"
"You could petition the state legislature and good luck. Meanwhile, what do they say you did?"
Small private communities in San Juan county have a bank of mailboxes outside the gates. Seems that Waylon had hit on the bright idea of opening these boxes and stealing the mail hoping to find a money order or something valuable he could sell. On this occasion, his third attempt, he had been apprehended lugging a duffel bag stuffed with mail addressed to everyone in the world apart from him.
"I had just found that bag and was taking it to the police. They didn't believe me."
"Do you know where the bag came from?"
"No. It was by the road."
"What were you doing out near Bloomfield. You live in Farmington."
"Visiting a friend."
"We will contact him to confirm that."
"He wasn't there."
"Oh."
There was a pause as he appeared to be taking stock of his situation. Stealing the mail is a serious business. Federal and all that.
"I want to talk to the cops and explain everything. I didn't do anything."
"I suggest you don't do that yet."
"Why? You're here. You'll see that I don't say anything dumb."
I thought that would be as easy as knitting snot but kept the thought to myself.
"Officer!" he yelled. Made me jump. "I want to say something."
A detective I didn't know came in and asked if he wanted to make a statement.
"A statement. Yeah."
The detective glanced at me. "Good. You OK with this Counselor?"
"My clients call."
"What do you want to say?"
Waylon looked up at the ceiling. "I wasn't near any mailboxes."
The detective looked at his file. "The tread pattern on your shoes is a perfect match for footprints found at the site."
"I wasn't wearing these shoes then."
Done.