“Afraid I can’t do that,” the gruff voice that’s become Mitch says.
I suppress a nasty “why, you jerk,” because the warden approaches and speaks to me. “If you need a ride to the bus station, get off the phone. Van’s leaving.”
The two guards presiding over inmate release titter and whisper to each other.
“I already have a ride,” I say to the warden. “You guys go ahead.”
He nods as if to say, suit yourself, I know you’re bluffing, but I don’t care, and waddles off with the other released inmates.
“Mitch, don’t be a bitch,” I say, using his Silicon Valley nickname. “I’d rather take my chances with a perjury charge than let you slide off scot-free again.”
“Okay, fine,” he says. “Give me the directions.”
I recite the address of the prison and ask, “When can you get here?”
Maybe I should have factored in traffic before calling him. It would be embarrassing to be found waiting here hours later.
“I’m actually not far,” he says.
“Great.” I give the guards a smug look. “Bring an extra helmet for me. You still have your Harley?”
“No Harley,” he says. “But I’m betting you won’t object to a Benz.”
“Why, Mitch, you surprise me. I can’t wait to see it.”
“You’ll be waiting a long time,” he says. “Because I’m not Mitch. New phone, who dis?”
He hangs up.
